"No, Alistair, you mustn't leave the stable today."
"Please?" the boy cried, standing up. "I just want to go to the feast—I can get all my chores done beforehand, I promise!"
"I'm sure you can, Alistair," Arl Eamon said gravely. He was dressed in a splendid gold tunic—through his arm, Alistair could see a small army of servants carry mountains of food and decorations into the castle. "But the truth is that it's just impossible for you to go tonight."
"Why?" Alistair asked angrily. "All the other stable boys get to go—I should be able to too!"
"You'll still have a small feast in here," Eamon said gently, stooping down. "You'll get your presents, and a whole roast to yourself, and—"
"But I don't want to have it to myself!" the boy shouted. "I want to go to the feast!"
The arl gave his ward a scrutinizing look, as if trying to see inside his mind. Alistair quickly tried to cloud over his eyes, worried that Eamon would see through his façade—if the man did, however, he ignored what he saw.
The arl drew himself up. "Alistair, do not raise your voice to me," he said sternly. "I'm sorry that you can't join us at the feast—I really am—but if this is how you're going to act, it might be a good thing that you can't go tonight. Now, get started with your work—if you aren't finished by sundown then you won't be able to celebrate Satinalia at all."
Alistair waited until the arl had stepped outside of the stable to unleash his pent-up rage. With a cry of anger, he kicked the nearest chest and instantly regretted it. Clutching his throbbing toe, he sat down on a bench in defeat.
This Satinalia feast was going to be one of the largest parties of the past few years. Everyone was going to be there—the Howes, the Couslands, the Mac Tirs…and the Theirins themselves. King Maric himself was going to preside over this feast, and Alistair desperately wanted to be a part of it.
Very few people knew that Alistair was the king's bastard son—so few that even the arlessa was unaware. Alistair, however, had always known, and for the past ten years he had wanted nothing more than to see his father for the first time. Now, here was the perfect opportunity, and he couldn't even get into the castle.
"It's not fair," he said to no one in particular. His father was one of the greatest heroes in Ferelden, and it seemed like everyone else in the kingdom had at least caught a glimpse of him. Shouldn't he, his son, have the same luck?
"What's that'?" someone said behind him—he shot out of his seat to see a lanky young man standing in the door.
"Er—nothing, Abe," Alistair said quickly.
"My arse, nothin'," the young man said, scratching his head. "What ain't fair, lil' man? Upset 'cause you can't get to the party?"
"Shut up, Abe," Alistair mumbled, flushing.
"Poor lil' Alistair, can't go out to dine," Abe sang nastily, picking up a broom and mock-dancing with it. "He'll be eatin' slop and soup while I'll be drinkin' wine."
Alistair felt his teeth grit. "Abe, I told you to shut up," he snarled.
"Temper, temper," Abe said annoyingly, wagging a finger in the younger boy's face. "You wouldn't want to lose your feast, now, would you?"
"What do you mean?" the boy said suspiciously.
"Well, I'm the giving you the food, ain't I?" Abe said smugly. "So if I decide you ain't been good enough, I reckon I'll just keep it all to meself." He licked his lips. "Maker, a whole duck to meself sounds good right about now…"
Alistair chucked a brush at his head; he ducked and with a laugh popped back out of the stable.
Frustrated, Alistair snatched the brush up off the ground and began to vigorously comb the mane of the nearest horse. Not paying attention, he accidently poked it in the eye; the animal whinnied in protest and started to rear up.
"Hey!" someone cried from the doorway. Alistair spun around to see a girl of around his age standing angrily in the courtyard. "You should be more careful!"
"It was an accident," he said sheepishly. "I didn't mean to."
"Try telling that to the horse," she said bluntly. She stepped out of the light and into the stables, giving Alistair a better glimpse as to who she was. She was dressed in a very expensive suit of armor and her dark red hair was pulled back into a ponytail.
Alistair frowned. "Where do you think you're going dressed like that?" he asked confusedly.
The girl's eyes narrowed. "To the training ground," she said tersely. "I wanted to get some practice in today."
Alistair shook his head. "You can't go there."
"Why?" the girl challenged, taking an aggressive step forward. "Is it because I'm a girl? Is it because I'm supposed to sit and curtsy and play with dolls?"
"Er…no," Alistair said warily, taking a step back. "It's just that the training grounds are always closed on Satinalia."
The girl froze, and then let out a defeated breath. "Oh. Well, then, never mind." She looked up at Alistair. "Wait, so you really don't care that I'm a girl?"
"No," Alistair said simply. "Should I?"
"No!" the girl said quickly. "It's just, most people think it's weird that I'd rather fight than have a tea party or something. I had to give my own nurse the slip an hour ago to try and get out here." She grinned faintly. "One of the squires back home used to complain about having to train with me all the time…until I beat him about a month ago. Oh, good times…"
"You have squires?" Alistair asked curiously. "And a nurse? Who are you? Where are you from?"
She blushed brilliantly and looked away. "That doesn't matter," she said hurriedly. "And to be honest, if I can't get to the fields, I really should be getting back. Nan'll be really mad, and I have to get ready for the feast…" She wrinkled her nose, indicating that to her, putting on a dress was akin to cleaning a lavatory.
Alistair's shoulders slumped. "You get to go to the feast too?" he moaned, trying his best to not sound whiny. "Maker, this really isn't fair!"
"Wait, you don't get to go to the feast?" the girl cried, standing up straight. "But Arl Eamon told Father and me this morning that everyone in the castle was invited! Why can't you go? Did you do something wrong?"
He shook his head. "At least, not that I know of."
"Hmph. Well, you're right, that isn't fair. Are you at least getting some food?"
"That's not the point, really," he said quickly. "To be honest, I just want to see it."
She stared at him blankly. "To see it? What could you possibly want to see? It'll just be a bunch of people eating."
"Well, I mean, a lot of really important people are going to be there," Alistair said quickly, floundering. "You know, uh, the k-king, and the Mac Tirs, and the Couslands…" He trailed off, hoping he had successfully masked what he truly wanted.
She rolled her eyes. "The Couslands aren't anything special," she muttered, looking away again. "But if you just want to see everything…" She looked at him brightly, a gleam in her eye. "I have an idea—follow me!" She grabbed his hand and dragged him out of the stables.
"What are you doing?" he hissed, looking nervously over his shoulder. "I'm not supposed to leave the stables!"
"Oh, whatever," she said breezily, directing him towards where the back of the stables met the castle wall. "We're already here." She pointed to a window at the top of the Great Hall some forty feet up. "There. All you have to do is get to that window."
Alistair snorted in disbelief. "Oh, is that all? Why don't I just kill a dragon as well?"
"Look, I asked a maid about this, okay?" she said, annoyed. "Apparently the bricks make a lot of footholds on the way up, so it won't be that hard. The window's missing a lot of panes, and it leads right onto some rafters—you should be able to just crawl in and watch."
Alistair stared up at the huge climb and saw that several bricks were indeed jutting out of the wall, forming a ladder of sorts. A faint glimmer of hope stirred inside him. Perhaps he would see his father after all…
"Thanks," he said, grinning broadly. "I'm definitely going to try that." He furrowed his eyebrows. "Wait, why'd you need to ask a maid about this?"
"Oh, no reason, really," she said. "I just wanted to know where some good hiding places were, just in case I needed to—"
"MILADY!" someone shouted from above—the two of them jumped back and looked up to see an elderly woman march furiously down the castle steps. "Where in the name of the Maker have you been? I've searched this entire castle up and down three times!" She squinted forward. "What are you wearing? Is that your armor? Young lady, get up here at once!"
The girl sighed resignedly. "Well, this was fun while it lasted. Good luck!"
"You too," Alistair said slowly; the old woman was giving him the evil eye from where she stood in front of the castle steps. The girl stepped forward meekly and grabbed her hand. As they disappeared into the castle, Alistair turned his gaze once more to the tall walls. Grinning even more broadly, he began to go back into the stables to finish his chores as fast as possible.
Night fell with the snow on Redcliffe Castle. In the courtyard, the sole man not in the great hall was the guard outside the stable doors, who was desperately trying to keep warm by the large flame blazing by his post.
Inside the barn, Alistair stood gingerly on a barrel of oats, carefully watching to see what the guard posted outside was doing. As if on cue, the man began to cough loudly; Alistair quickly jumped up and grabbed onto one of the rafters. His flailing legs accidently hit a horse in the head—it neighed loudly in protest. Alistair froze, waiting for the guard to come bursting in to see what was the matter. However, the man didn't seem to have heard it; he merely scooted forward and put his hands closer towards the flame.
Letting out a deep breath, Alistair swung his legs up and around the rafter. Sweating in concentration, he swung around and balanced himself on top of the beam. Catching his breath, he quickly clawed a hole through the thatch roof and clambered on top of the building.
He felt himself tremble with excitement as he stood precariously on the thatch. This part of the courtyard was shrouded in darkness—there was no way anyone would be able to see him.
He walked carefully over to the castle wall at the far end and wrapped his hand around one of the bricks—it was very cold and covered in snow. Gritting his teeth, he pulled himself up and reached for the next brick, ignoring the snowflakes and howling wind.
The girl had been right—the bricks did make a clear path right up to the top of the building. However, what she hadn't known how long and difficult it would be. It only took a few minutes for Alistair to lose feeling in his hands, and the wind seemed determined to blow him off to his death. Soon, it was all he could do to force himself to keep reaching for the next foothold, to keep struggling to reach the top.
I wonder if I look like him, he thought resolutely as he continued on. Maybe I'll be able to recognize him right away out of all those people. He then remembered that the king would be easily identifiable, as he would be wearing his crown and seated in a place of honor. Well, maybe not that then.
Maybe he'll look up and see me, he thought a few minutes later as a cold burst of wind tore through his body. He could just glance up to the rafters and see me sitting there. Then he'd know that I was his son, that I'm just as brave and as bold and strong as he is. The thought warmed him, and he continued climbing.
Alistair tried not to look down as he began to reach nearer the window. He was very high up—higher than he'd even been before—and already he had nearly fallen twice. Teeth clenched together so hard he thought they would shatter, he reached far up for the next brick, which was farther apart than the others had been…
Suddenly, to his horror, one of the bricks he had been standing on gave way, throwing his entire body off-balance. Reeling desperately, he was left dangling off of the one brick his idle hand had been resting on. He frantically tried to regain his position; yet his feet could not find anything to grab onto. He was going to fall and die unnoticed, the unwanted son of the great King of Ferelden…
Something snapped inside Alistair's mind. With a great cry that was lost in the wind, he thrust his free hand up towards the top of the wall, clinging desperately to the crevasse he found there. As he regained his balance, he found that what he was clutching was not a regular foothold but the wide space of a windowsill. Channeling all his strength, he flung himself upwards and onto the ledge, lying in silence in the few inches of snow. Taking a deep breath, he crawled through the empty panes and moved onto one of the rafters.
The wood was old and moldy, and smelled as though several woodland animals had used it as a latrine. Ignoring the stench, he grabbed the beam in a bearhug and shimmied out to look down on the feast below.
It was like he was looking down on another world. In front of the large U-shaped table, a large crowd of entertainers and jesters all wearing bright costumes juggled, told jokes, held staged fights and did elaborate dances. Huge garlands littered the hall, and magical balls of light bobbed to the time of the song played by the Antivan musicians stationed in one corner of the hall. Teams of elven servants were marching in with whole cartloads of food: Antivan pastas, Anders cheeses, Nevarran roasts, Fereldan stews, Orlesian pastries…Alistair's mouth watered just looking at all of it.
Then came the guests. There was proud Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, who didn't take his armor off even at banquets. Next to him sat his daughter, the beautiful Lady Anora, wearing a bright blue dress that probably cost more than most Fereldens made in a year. Alistair felt his heart race as he saw a blond haired man whisper something in the lady's ear; however, he quickly realized that he had to be Maric's son, Cailan, as he was about twenty years old. Alistair stared curiously down at his older brother. He looked a little like him, only more pampered, and perhaps slightly lazier. He looked very pleased with himself as Anora laughed at what he had said; Alistair wasn't sure if he liked him.
Not wanting to look at the center of the table just yet, he glanced down at the other end, and to his surprise saw the girl from earlier sullenly playing with her fork. Her armor had been exchanged for a dress, and she looked all the more miserable for it.
He felt bad for her—he'd hate to have to wear a dress too.
And finally, there was nowhere left but to look at the king. Holding his breath, he switched his gaze to the central throne…to find no one sitting there. Horrified he quickly scanned the guests once more—there! A tall blond man was bent over the arl and arlessa, who had respectfully given their seats next to the king to Teyrn Bryce Cousland and his wife, Eleanor. Suddenly, one of the doors leading into the great hall burst open, and Abe shuffled in looking for Arl Eamon. Bowing respectfully to the king, the stable boy bent over and whispered frantically into Eamon's ear. The arl instantly stood up and began searching through the crowd, no doubt looking for his missing ward.
Alistair's heart sank. He had forgotten that someone was going to check on him during the celebrations. I'll probably have to go back soon if I want to make it look like I was there the whole time, he thought grimly. He was not relishing the long trip back down.
Determined to get one last look of his father before he had to go, he learned far out from the beam. Eamon was blocking the king's face; frustrated, Alistair leaned out even further, craning his neck for just one glimpse of the king…
It was then that he heard it.
CRACK! CRACK!
Terrified, Alistair looked back to see long, jagged fractures forming in the wood. Panicking slightly, he began to shimmy his way back to the wall; however, his shifting weight seemed to cause more trouble than it was meant to prevent. He felt the beam give way, and all of a sudden he was falling, free-falling to what would certainly be his death, listening in horror as people below began to scream at what they saw…
It was like he had fallen into a vast body of water. His movement, and the movement of the falling wood around him, all had instantly become sluggish and smooth. Confused, he looked down to see a mage pointing his staff directly at him, a light-blue aura emanating from the wood.
Gently, softly, Alistair floated to the ground, landing lightly on the warm stone floor—the crowd has largely been dispersed. Stunned with shame and humiliation, he looked up laboriously at the many alarmed faces surrounding him. He caught many, many different emotions: concern from Lady Anora, contempt from Teyrn Loghain, amusement from Cailan, wrath from Arl Eamon, and horror from the red-haired girl. However, nothing could match the look on the tall blond man's face standing behind the arl and arlessa.
Alistair stared wondrously at it. It did look very much like his own—the same blond hair, the same light blue eyes, the same half-smile. Alistair couldn't tell if he was amazed, horrified, or confused—it didn't look like the man knew either. He jerked forward, as if to reach out and grab the boy in his arms. However, Arl Eamon beat him to it.
"Get back in the stables," he snarled, his teeth bared in Alistair's face. "Now."
Alistair nodded dumbly and let himself be pulled to his feet by two guards who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. Just as he was about to be whisked away from the party, he craned his neck towards his father, the King of all Ferelden, who looked just as hopeless as he did.
The cloaked man slid unseen into the stable, barely making a sound. He snuck past a lanky boy of about 17, stifling the urge to pummel him for betraying his son. He then walked right into a barrel.
"OU—" He shoved a fist into his mouth, praying to whoever would hear him that the boy would not wake up. He didn't—Alistair, however, did.
"W-who's there?" he heard the boy whisper fearfully. "W-who are you?"
Maric smiled sadly. "You're very brave, Alistair," he said softly, sitting down next to his cot.
He could see the boy freeze in shock. "F-father?"
"Yes," Maric whispered. "Yes, it's me."
They sat in silence for a few moments, neither sure of what to say to the other. Then, the king heard a timid voice ask, "So…how…are you?"
He laughed gently. "I'm good, thank you," he chuckled. He then frowned. "But what about you? I told Eamon not to punish you for tonight." He instantly regretted saying it—he didn't want the boy to think he was trying to buy his love.
"He just yelled at me, really," Alistair said with a shrug. "Which is weird, because normally he never yells." He sighed. "Nothing's ever normal anymore."
"What do you mean?" Maric asked, confused.
The boy sat up. "Well, it's just, normally I'm allowed to go to the feasts, and normally I'm allowed to meet people, and I'm allowed to leave the stables. Plus, most people get to see you," (he paused, as if embarrassed), "and I can't, and I don't know why, and it really, really, really stinks!"
Maric let out a long breath. "I see. That sort of abnormal." He ran a hand through his hair and blinked tightly, trying to think. "You're right. It does stink. A lot. But Alistair, what I want you to know is that it's not your fault."
"It's not?"
"No, not at all. Actually, it's mine."
The boy jerked his head back. "Yours?"
He nodded somberly. "I was stupid, Alistair. I loved your mother very much, but still, being who we were, we should have known better. If I hadn't been so careless, you wouldn't be in this situation, having to pretend you're someone you're not. It's not fair, not fair at all and it's all my fault, Alistair—I'm so sorry…"
Silence hung through the air like a blanket. Then, with a meekness more terrible than any battlecry Maric had ever heard:
"So I shouldn't have been born?"
Maric felt his face blanche. "No, no, no, no, Maker no!" he said rapidly, his head jerking back towards his son. "Don't think that for a second, Alistair. Don't even let it cross your mind. What I meant was…" He struggled to come up with the words. "Well, I don't know what I meant. Just know this—I'm proud of you."
"You are?'
"Yes. You're so brave, and so determined. I took a look at that climb you made earlier—not many people could do that and walk away uninjured." The king put an arm on the boy's shoulder. "You're going to be a great man someday, mark my words."
The boy seemed frozen, unable to do anything under his father's touch. Almost instinctively, the king reached over and embraced him.
Alistair buried his face into his chest. "I missed you…Dad," he muttered through a thick sniffle.
Maric's head jerked up. Dad. Not even Cailan had called him that. It was always "Father" back at the palace. He hugged Alistair even tighter. "You too, son," he murmured, struggling to remain composed.
Father and son remained together for a few more moments, and then reluctantly split apart. In front of them, Abe shifted restlessly in his sleep, muttering something about acorns.
"I have to go," Maric whispered gently. "People will be wondering where I am."
"Wait!" Alistair said frantically. "I just met you! You can't just leave!"
"But I have to, Alistair," he said quietly. "I'm the king—I need to help people."
"I thought kings could do whatever they wanted," the boy muttered, looking down at his hands.
Maric shook his head gravely. "Don't I wish," he laughed wearily. "But no, a good king—a truly good one—that's a man who is willing to put everything down for his people. It's the public that controls the king, not the other way around."
"That's stupid," Alistair grumbled.
Maric chuckled. "You're telling me."
"Well," Alistair said slowly, looking back up at him, "will I at least see you again?"
Maric gave him a hesitant look. "I…I can't make any promises," he said sadly. "I…I don't know, Alistair. I really don't."
Alistair's shoulders sagged. However, he took a deep breath and nodded resignedly, not saying another word.
Reluctantly, Maric rose to his feet. He bent over and gently kissed his son's forehead. "Goodbye, Alistair," he said softly.
"Bye, Dad," the boy whispered back.
Maric shuffled out of the stables, feeling some ten years older. He began to walk morosely up the castle steps, unwilling to return to his life of constant service. Suddenly, he heard frantic footsteps running up behind him. He spun around to see Alistair standing in front of him.
"I forgot to tell you," the boy said quickly, catching his breath. "Happy Satinalia."
Maric laughed in disbelief. "Happy Satinalia to you too, Alistair," he said warmly.
The king watched as the boy clambered back into the stables, the falling snow quickly filling in his footprints. As he entered the castle doors, he knew with a heavy heart that he would likely never see his son again.