The Rain in Val Royeaux [Part 2]
"So what was that about?" Alistair asked Sorcha that evening, pacing up and down his room.
"Ah…" said Sorcha putting her hands in the air and letting them drop.
"I'm the one who should be going 'Ah…'" he said imitating her gesture, "what is it that the royal princess called me in front of grannie? 'A sweetie pie', something like that…" he shook his head.
"Orlesians, Alistair, we always want to know what is going on in other people's bedchambers especially those of our allies. It is our way of getting into their heads... One way or another they would have gotten to you, a palace maid, a genuine courtesan; perhaps it was best that you lay with the princess in any event she seemed to enjoy it, as for you… You do realise you had a silly grin on your face the whole way back, don't you? If they are showing you their hand, it probably means you passed and they like you. There is little that Orlesians respect more than an amant accompli…"
Alistair sighed, "Sorcha, come here," Sorcha took a step towards him, "closer… closer…" he beckoned. Sorcha took a deep breath. Alistair grabbed the Grey Warden pendent around her neck and pulled her even closer so their noses virtually touched. She found herself looking into his deep hazel eyes. His features had hardened. She realised he was very angry, even though it did not alter his voice overmuch "Sorcha," he said, "you are very beautiful, very clever and very brave and extremely persuasive but… You betrayed me and please don't make out that it was for my own good…"
Sorcha abruptly realised that the only way forward was honesty, "They had me Alistair, that mess I got into here about two years back, they knew all about it, they threatened to turn me over to the Grey Wardens. I would be in the Anderfals or underground before you could say, 'Maker!' or do anything, I…"
"And I was the person who helped you two years ago when you fled to Ferelden. Against my better judgment I should add, because I felt sorry for you" he cut in, "and this is how you repay me? Couldn't you at least have tipped me off as to what was going on so I was wise to the game?"
"How would you have performed with the little princess if you knew your performance was being scrutinized by the Empress no less?" Sorcha replied almost scornfully.
He tugged the pendant again, "That is a very cheeky observation but it does not detract from my main point, Sorcha… I want you to think about how you are going to make this up to me." He released her pendent and she stepped back. "By tomorrow morning, or I cut you loose, here in the heart of Orlais…"
She turned towards the door and then stopped, "There is one thing, Alistair, and believe me, I did not hide this from you, I was waiting until I got further information. Your girl with the fever? There is something going around, some illness, there was at the same last year, apparently, quite a few people died, but it was all hushed up."
He had his back to her and his arms were crossed over his chest. He nodded. "Thank you, Sorcha, you can go."
The next morning Sorcha's walk to Alistair's room that usually took her no more than five minutes, seemed to take a lifetime as simply putting one foot in front of the other was an effort. Thankfully, one of the palace guardsmen, who had a dark, messy beard and who earlier she had suspected may have wanted to get into her knickers from the looks he had been throwing her, stepped up and assisted her. Virtually holding her up, although perhaps he was holding her a bit tighter than strictly necessary. He introduced himself as Raymond.
"Oh, c'est la grippe!" Raymond said, remarking rather cheerfully that they had all had it at sometime or another and that it would run its course in about a week. One of his hands was inching towards one of her breasts, she noticed in a detached sort of way, if she were fit…
Nevertheless he helped up to Alistair's door and she knocked "Sorcha?," he asked,
"Yes," she said.
"Come in…"
She entered, leaving the guardsman at the door. Alistair was sitting on the edge of the bed unshaven in just his small clothes looking exhausted. His eyes were red and his complexion was flushed. His short hair which he usually arranged so carefully, was stuck to his scalp.
Sorcha tottered towards him and he steadied her just before she fell as she gained the bed.
"Do I look as bad as you do?" he asked, before coughing hoarsely.
"No." she said, "Since you are a man, you look worse…"
He smiled covering his mouth, "I feel like crap…"
"Know that feeling," she replied.
"Get back into bed, it's really not worth the attempt getting up… I'll get them to call a physician…" Sorcha managed to crawl to the door and when she got there propped herself up and opened it. "Le Roi…" she said and then had a coughing fit.
The physicians came, tut-tutted a little and recommended honey and lemon sweets or syrup for their throats and coughs, a light diet of broth and clear liquids and willow bark infusions for the fever. They told them that in the normal course of la grippe they would be bedridden for at least five days. At Alistair's insistence a camp bed for Sorcha fixed up in his room.
Anora came to visit about an hour later and stood for a while in the doorway before either of them realised she was there because they had both dropped off.
"Alistair, are you all right?" She said eventually.
"I've been better…" he croaked, his throat hurt.
"The palace is rife with rumours that you bedded that little princess…"
"Chan… tal…" he could only squeeze out a few syllables at a time.
"Yes, that… So you did?"
"Yes, but I… didn't know…" his voice rasped, "she was a prin… cess…"
"That's nonsense, how could you not know? This is not the plot of one of those ridiculous 'romance' things you've taken to reading lately… Speaking of which…" Anora handed a few volumes to one of the guardsmen, who went over and placed them on a cabinet at his bedside "The princesses did a collection, apparently these come highly recommended, but it's all sentimental rubbish if you ask me… When you are better we shall have words, you hear? Serious words."
The door closed before he could thank her. After about a minute Sorcha started laughing and then she had another bout of coughing.
"What's… so … fun… ny?"
"Anora tells you off like a child… You like romances…"
"Good for my Or…le…sian…"
"Yes, tell yourself that, Alistair…"
The first day they really could not do that much and barely stomached the thin soup, they kept on falling asleep and waking thirsty and then falling asleep again. The second day they tried to read and chat but kept dozing off again, although their appetites came back a bit.
By the third day, although a bit thinner, they were feeling much better. The honey and lemon sweets started to taste really good and the broth really foul. They began to throw the sweets at each other and read the most heated parts of the romances out loud, attempting to do the different voices. Alistair was impersonating a character called Bella, "Please valiant Ser! Have mercy on a poor serving wench…"
"Somebody seems to be improving, don't know about that voice though…" Lawler remarked from the door.
Alistair rolled onto his stomach and put the book aside. "Well, if it isn't…"
"I've been busy." Lawler interrupted him, "Ice Queen gives me no rest, I even have to fetch her bloody herbal tea…"
"Sorry about that," said Alistair, "I know you must miss me…"
"You have no idea." Said Lawler opening and closing his hands, "no idea…"
"It's nice to be loved," said Alistair in his Bella voice.
Lawler frowned "Just get better quickly and then let's get back to Denerim, this place is driving me nuts…" He was gone before Alistair could say anything else.
That evening, Alistair asked for some proper food.
As they supped on some very tasty baked fish, Alistair asked "What's up with this? I thought la grippe was meant to last a week, do you how many official functions I've missed? I need to miss a few more…"
Sorcha sighed, and turned a page, she found she was really getting in to the romances and entertaining Alistair was becoming tedious, "'the taint is a jealous mistress who assiduously drives off all other pretenders to our lives…'" she recited.
"Who said that?" asked Alistair.
"A Grey Warden mage I once knew…"
"Somebody should write that down…"
"I'm sure somebody already has." Sorcha set her book aside, "Are you still going to cut me loose, Alistair?"
"'In the heart of Orlais…'" he said quoting himself, "Um, no. Probably not. But…" He added, "It would be good if you could come up with an idea… To restore my lost, you know…"
"Honour?"
Alistair laughed, "No, that's long gone… Pride?"
"Hmm…" Sorcha replied, "What do Fereldans and Orlesians do best together?"
"Is that a trick question?"
"Not really, but I bet it's not the first thing that came into your head, though.. the second thing…"
"Ah! Fight…"
"I'll fight someone for you." Said Sorcha.
He thought that over, "Tempting though that is, I've never had a woman fight for me, you understand, it's not going to help because… Well, you are a woman and Orlesian to boot… It's got to be a team effort, me, you and Lawler." He concluded. "I mean we could limit attendance just to Celene and her family, but do you think they'll enjoy it?"
Sorcha suddenly smiled, "I think they'll love it… Orlais hasn't had a decent war for nigh on twenty years," she picked up the book again, "and look at the things they are reading, the basic plot is always the same, first there's some kissing then there's some fighting, and then there's more kissing… and… 'Fin'. They've already had the kissing…"
"Actually, it was a bit more than kissing…" he remarked.
"Well, now we will give them a fight…"
Early the following day Alistair went to pitch the idea to Lawler. He found him hanging around Anora's room although, apparently, Anora was in one of the salons playing cards with Celene and the princesses.
"A fight?" said Lawler
"Well, a tourney… Weapons blunted, a ten-second count out once someone hits the ground..." clarified Alistair.
"Against Orlesians?"
"Yes," replied Alistair. Lawler was not usually slow on the uptake, but he seemed to be… twitchy today, "Well?" he prompted.
Lawler, who was about a head shorter than Alistair, leaned his forehead against Alistair's chest. "Yes, by the Maker, please, of course… Yes."
"All right then." Said Alistair, slightly taken aback by his intensity.
Sorcha and Alistair had speculated over who would be assigned to fight against them in the tourney. If Celene agreed, the prize would be a reasonable boon from the Empress. They were both of the view that the Captain of the royal household guard, Berenguer, was almost certain to be put forward, in fact, his position would allow him to do no less.
Berenguer was actually a bit of a hero, a rather dashing, handsome man from the town of Val Firmin who had made his name fighting and capturing bandits in the nearby Gamordan Peaks and liberating the people they had taken hostage.
It had been agreed that they would take on three opponents, however, by the time the Empress had given her assent to their proposal, both Lawler and Anora had la grippe. Sorcha and Alistair had agreed that they would still take three opponents.
When Alistair went to see how Lawler was faring, he found him lying on a poor cot in a communal bedroom so narrow that it was almost a corridor, with people rushing past him and occasionally bumping into him. He was barely conscious. Alistair lost his temper with the result that Lawler was very quickly moved to the camp bed in his room previously occupied by Sorcha.
"I wonder what they are saying about me now…" he said to Sorcha that evening while they were dining.
"They say Fereldans always stick together and that's why we lost the war… Why? Were you hoping that it would be something kinky?"
Alistair was also slightly worried about Anora, she seemed to be fairly ill. When he tried to joke that she could stop pretending to be sick since Celene had agreed to the new credit line, she just shook her head and said, "I have never understood your sense of humour, Alistair, and it grates…" He had placed some of the romances in her room wondering if he could ever catch her reading or at least leafing through one.
He spent some time by her bedside and then at Lawler's sitting quietly, reading and generally making sure the physicians were doing their job.
After two days of that, he was really looking forward to the fight.
He had not told Anora about the tourney, because as he said to Sorcha, if she heard about that she would probably have "tiny, little, cats and lots of them…" and he didn't want to make her more unwell than she already was.
He and Sorcha sat in the stands watching groups of people fighting for l'honneur to fight them.
"When did you last have a real fight, Alistair?" Sorcha asked.
"Last year," he said grinning at the memory, "there were some darkspawn and then a few things that needed sorting out and… I really don't think I should tell you any more..." Sorcha looked surprised so he added, "Sometimes I do things..."
They were interested to see that one of the early contenders was Jerome who fared badly simply because he seemed to fall for every feint, Alistair did note, by the by, that Orlesians were pretty good at feinting. He wondered idly whether they had a 'feinting school' or a 'feinting academy' somewhere in the country.
After an hour or so Sorcha had to keep digging her elbows into Alistair's ribs to get to pay attention to what was going on in the field because he wasn't very interested… that was until a few mages took part. Then he was leaning forward looking on fascinated as fire, ice, electricity and other more subtle forces, some only known to mages born, and not normal run of the mill humans, played out on the field.
"It is not fair," he said, "how can the Chantry allow Celene to employ so many mages and I am, begrudgingly, at that, allowed to have just one and then only a healer?"
One of the mages, a male with short red hair who mainly seemed to deal with fire was eventually selected to be one of the three challengers. Sorcha glanced at Alistair ""When in doubt…"
"… go for the mage." Alistair said.
"Well, that's a definite weakness," said Alistair, "if they are not accustomed to fighting with a mage, especially an offensive one, or even with this particular mage…"
Alistair cast his eye over to Berenguer who was seated a few rows down to his left, his arms were crossed over his chest and his chin lowered. His whole posture seemed to radiate displeasure. Oh good.
He looked to Sorcha to confirm this intuition only to find she was paying even more rapt attention to the proving ground than before. One of the contenders, he noticed, was a household guardsman with a black, shaggy beard.
"I want Raymond," said Sorcha the next day as they were changing for the tourney. She had made some discreet enquiries into his background and discovered that not so long ago he had been a Captain of the Imperial Guard but had then suddenly been demoted for abusing the young daughter of a fellow guardsman.
Sorcha, who was born ambidextrous, tossed one of her swords from her right hand to her left and back with an ease and speed that Alistair knew he would never be able to accomplish.
Alistair noticed that her pale blue eyes had started to blaze with pre-battle excitement and her face was flushed, he was fairly sure his own face was flushed, too. His hands were certainly shaking as they armoured up.
They had been told their opponents were Raymond, Juncal and, of course, Berenguer.
"Keep it simple, mage first." He replied looking down and adjusting his vambrances, trying to sound calmer that he felt, he was suddenly realising he had a lot to lose.
"… then Raymond." To Alistair Sorcha seemed fixated.
"Sorcha…" he turned to her and kissed her quickly on the cheek, she looked at him, surprised. "Now I have your attention… We've spoken, we're in agreement. First Juncal and then you can have Raymond, and then I will probably need your assistance with Berenguer who I suspect is very good, but stick to the plan, Sorcha, okay? Be here with me. I cannot do this without you."
At Alistair's insistence, they double-checked the fastenings on each other's armour and only once they had done that, did they go out.
As they enter the proving ground the crowd cheers, jeers and whistles. Alistair holds up his arm attempting to smile despite his clenched teeth. Sorcha runs ahead of him and performs a fast pirouette that brings even more cheers, many of them deeper.
"Flowers," he mutters as they come to a halt in front of Celene's box, "they're throwing flowers… Why?"
"Alistair… This is Orlais…" says Sorcha stopping beside him.
Something a bit more substantial drops at his feet, "And what's that?" he asks strongly resisting the urge to kick it, instead bowing with his hand on his chest.
Sorcha glances at it as she too bows, "I think it's a garter…"
Alistair sighs and straightens. "No doubt it will be smallclothes next…" he says.
"It has been known…" Sorcha replies, straightening in her turn.
"Okay, let's do this…" He looks at her, smiling quickly, and then puts his helmet on. She does likewise.
Their opponents are already waiting for them and have adopted a fairly classic triangular positioning with the mage standing between the two fighters. As they agreed, Alistair and Sorcha begin to circle them, Alistair slowly pacing clockwise, Sorcha anticlockwise. He is rather rigid, rather formal, she, laid-back nonchalantly swinging her swords so they glint in the afternoon sun. Is she whistling? Alistair cannot be sure from under his helmet.
Juncal's head is bowed as if prayer but Alistair is quite familiar with his stance, the mage is gathering power, he can feel it gently riffling over his skin. An offensive mage's defence is also his greatest impediment, so long as Raymond and Berenger stand between Alistair and Sorcha, Juncal will not be able to strike them without hitting his own fighters.
Suddenly Sorcha lunges towards Raymond, one of her swords high, the other low. Alistair makes to rush Juncal. Raymond deftly dodges the low sword and blocks the high with his own blade. Berenguer obstructs Alistair, shield meeting shield with a clang.
Raymond says something to Sorcha that Alistair cannot make out and with a graceful whirl and a laugh Sorcha, draws away from him. Berenguer and Alistair stare wordlessly at one another for a few beats, blue on hazel, and then break apart, but Juncal is slightly unnerved, and Alistair senses his power gathering falter.
Sorcha begins to monkey around, jumping from side to side. Raymond laughs and then Sorcha calls him a limp dick and he goes for her.
Berenguer cannot help but look behind him giving Alistair the opportunity he is seeking to sidestep him and rush Juncal. Juncal is knocked off his feet by Alistair's shield but Berenguer is coming at him from behind so Alistair has to turn to confront him, aware his back is now exposed to the mage.
Alistair manoeuvres around the fallen mage and takes a precious few seconds to recite the necessary words and the appropriate gesture for cleanse area, he hears Juncal groan as his mana drops. Juncal just about manages to gain his feet before the count of ten, but suddenly Sorcha bursts past Raymond and quickly hits the mage in the back. Juncal is out before he has even had a chance to cast once and crawls and then limps from the arena.
As a result of having to attend to the mage Alistair is now having some difficulty with Berenguer who is driving him backwards. As a kind of afterthought, Sorcha knocks Berenguer on the side not inflicting any significant damage but giving Alistair a precious few moments in which to recover his posture and composure and launch a savage counterattack with a flurry of blows from his shield and sword that has Berenguer retreating.
Sorcha then turns her full attention to Raymond whose very conventional fighting skills cannot cope overly well with Sorcha's unique style, especially, when she tugs down her splint armour exposing the tops of her breasts, and bends forward… Alistair has seen her do this before, surely… but Raymond does fall for it and is soon on the ground as a result. Sorcha takes her sweet time with him…
Sorcha is straddles Raymond and buffets his face a bit, then she jumps up and gives him a smart kick under his armour between his legs. There is a loud yelp and both Berenguer and Alistair flinch. Finally, she comes to support Alistair.
Berenguer is good, but he cannot really cope with both Alistair and Sorcha. He tests Sorcha but she is faster and lighter and simply parries and dodges while Alistair finds a new momentum in attack. Berenguer then turns his attention back to Alistair having identified him as the weakest in the circumstances, but in doing so has to contend with Sorcha's harrying. It is an impossible situation.
After a few minutes he says, "I yield," Sorcha hits him and he adds, "Not to that wretched woman but to you," he says addressing Alistair.
"Sorcha…" says Alistair. She hangs back.
Berenguer removes his helm and Alistair removes his and they embrace.
"Did you really have to kick Raymond while he was down, Sorcha?" Alistair murmurs to her as they head towards the imperial box, "I don't know, wasn't that a bit… Over the top?"
"The ladies liked it though, Alistair, did you not hear them squeal?" she says swiping the back of her hand over her damp forehead.
"As my prize in this tourney today I would ask for a kiss… Someone recently asked me what I though of Orlais and I replied that it was full of beautiful things and so it is; good food, wonderful wine, gallant gentlemen, and especially, charming ladies…" He paused, glanced at Sorcha as he said this and then picked out Chantal, from the crowd. She grinned, he saw the glint in her mouth.
He almost forgot the next part of his carefully memorized speech… "But none of this would be possible without peace between our two nations and that peace was forged by Empress Celene with my father. Anora and myself can only aspire to maintain it. I therefore request a kiss from the illustrious Empress as and expression of the enduring peace between our two nations."
"Pretty speech, good fight, excellent mage takedown." Remarks the Empress. A very dry summing up, Alistair thinks.
Celene's kiss on his forehead is cool as he expected, but then, in a slight breach of etiquette she runs one of her hands over his hair. It is not that she is not beautiful, quite to the contrary, but she is formidable, as they say, a bit like Anora, but more so. Alistair suspects she was much more to Cailan's taste than his, truth be told, he finds her positively scary.
Then the Empress surprises him
"I have something more for you. King Alistair give me your hand" She says, he does, "Your father, King Maric, gave me this when I visited Ferelden in 9:20," She slips a large ring on one of his fingers, "I remember it as if it were yesterday. At the time, it was necessary for me to sue for peace with Ferelden in order that I could consolidate my position in Orlais. I was determined not to like him and he was considerably older than me, but… Until fairly recently I was not aware Maric had two sons, I am glad he did, you both do him credit. You never knew him, did you? You take after him more than you know, your looks, the charm…"
Alistair is touched, the ring is a chunky, ugly thing but no doubt antique. As an adult, he had always made a conscious effort not to allow the stigma of his illegitimacy to trouble him too much, but that was far from saying that sometimes it did not rankle. An acknowledgement of his heritage, especially unsolicited and especially coming from one of the most powerful women in Thedas, is something he knows he will savour for the rest of his days.
A few days later Chantal caught up with Alistair as he was going from sitting with Lawler, who was much recovered, to paying a visit to Anora.
"Grandmère really likes you…" she told him.
"That's good…" Alistair replied.
She hesitated. Chantal was wearing a very pretty pink gown today, he noticed. "Sometimes I advise my clients…"
Alistair was amused, "Hmm…"
"I would have two pieces of advice for you…"
"Okay, let's hear it…" He leaned against the wall crossing his arms in front of him.
"You would make a good Mabari salesman …"
"Oh yes, I always knew I missed my true calling in life…"
"No, I mean you are persuasive when you are convinced about what you are saying. As for me, I would truly have liked to have been a simple bard…"
"Is this the bit were we start feeling sorry for ourselves and each other because our blood has prevented us from developing our true talents?" He said recalling Lawler ailing on his cot and the crowds of young people walking west from the Trevinter quartier, "Because if it is, I'm not playing today. At least we get comfortable beds and good food. That counts for a lot… And you work for your family, anyway."
"So cynical…"
He smiled sweetly, "Got up on the cynical side of my comfortable bed today. The second piece of advice?"
"You need a maîtresse…"
"No, really? You offering?" he said, his smile getting even wider.
Chantal blushed. "Are you still angry with me?"
"Well… to spring it on me like that in front of granny and Anora… Tad cruel, I say…"
He paused, looking at her up and down, they will be saying goodbye soon, he realised. As was his wont, he made light of it, "Anyways, if you said 'yes', we'd only have the joint armies of Ferelden and Orlais to contend with… Piece of cake after the Blight."
"I mean someone for you to love and who would love you, and only you, in return..." said Chantal very earnestly.
"A mistress, eh? That would be a definite step up," he replied twirling the ring, a new habit. Suddenly, he was back in the Trevinter quartier slowly making love to her, listening to the patter of rain on the roof. Well, at least he would always have that memory, he guessed. "I don't even have a bloody horse…" he finished rather lamely.
"No horse?"
"There are no horses in Ferelden… Unless they are living at the bottom of some very deep caves… They were all killed off by our native weeds… "
"This is one of your stories, I think…"
Dear Chantal
Since you insist on being a bard rather than a princess, please find attached to this note something I hope will give you a little more protection and a lot of love. I am sure he will look very good on a velvet cushion with a big bow round his neck.
Love
AT
PS Thank you for a wonderful evening in Val Royeaux
The note was attached to the collar of a tiny black Mabari pup, so ugly, he was utterly adorable. Chantal called him "Sandro" and took him everywhere with her.
Dear Sandro
I never heard of a knight without a horse, let alone a King until I met you. Ferelden, as they say, is different. I am sure you will treat her gently but she is stronger than she looks, so I am told.
Chantal
PS Pas du tout…
This note came with a beautiful grey filly with large lustrous eyes who, with a little encouragement, could run like the wind. Alistair called her "Princess".
FIN