Chapter 2
King Alistair Theirin, Grey Warden, ex-Templar, and bastard (the fatherless kind, thank you very much) was unusually quiet as his travelling party left the towering cliff walls of Orzammar behind. His brows drew together in a thoughtful frown as he shifted the reins in his hand, directing his horse Salt down the winding road that lead through Gherlen's Pass.
"You're not still hung over from King Bhelen's royal sending off last night, are you?" Wynne asked, giving him a sidelong look as she continued in a bright, cheerful tone, "Because if you are, I have just the thing to make you feel better. My tried and true hangover cure." The grey-haired mage turned on the bench seat and reached for her herbal pouch.
It took a moment for her words to sink in and Alistair stiffened in his saddle before calling to one of the guards riding ahead. "Captain Lyndon—I demand that this mage be arrested. She's trying to poison me again," he stated indignantly, giving Wynne a stern look. It wasn't far from the truth. The last time he'd tried one of her 'cures' it'd ended up making him sicker than the hangover itself did.
"Of course, your Majesty," the guard captain said with droll humor, not even bothering to look back at them. "Just as soon as we make it through the Pass, if you don't mind?"
Alistair thought about that and agreed, "An excellent idea, Captain. That way in case we're waylaid—that's a rather funny sort of word isn't it? Way. Laid. Anyway—in case that happens, we'll have some extra magic as backup." His brown eyes brightened with mirth, "Oh! Or we could just have her toss her cure at our attackers! Then we'd never have to draw our weapons!"
A few of his royal guards sniggered.
Wynne gave a soft chuckle as she resettled on the bench, primly adjusting her robe to settle over her legs in an even blanket of fabric. "Then I shall keep it at the ready for just such an occasion," she informed them in a tone as regal as that of any queen. That smile still touched her lips as she glanced at the man driving the wagon at her side to see his reaction to their banter.
Bayard had only been appointed as Alistair's court mage a couple of months ago, and he still had not adjusted to the King's casual manner. He stared between the royal and Wynne the Senior Court Mage, his bushy black eyebrows arched upward into his hairline before he shook his head a bit and turned his attention back to driving the wagon.
The young Ferelden monarch grinned as his procession, if it could even be called that, continued down the road. Seven royal guards and their captain, two scouts, two mages (including Wynne) and a quartermaster driving a supply wagon made up his travelling companions. It was too large a group for his liking, though to be honest, he'd have been quite happy to be travelling with just Wynne. The one time he had suggested that to Arl Eamon, of course, his advisor had nearly had a heart attack. "A King does not travel all over the countryside with nothing but an old mage for protection," the Arl had told him in a firm tone that brokered no debate.
It was a good thing that 'old mage' had not been privy to the conversation, because he was pretty sure she'd have caned Eamon with her mage staff for calling her such. Maybe not, though. Wynne tended to be far more reserved when talking with others than she was when talking to Alistair himself. And Lyna, of course.
Five years as the King of Ferelden had taught Alistair something about hiding his emotions. His fingers tightened around the reins but his amiable smile stayed in place as he allowed himself to think about the woman who had been such an integral part of his life in those hectic weeks prior to the Archdemon's death and his acceptance of his fate as King.
The first decision he made as Ferelden's future monarch ended up being the one he regretted the most, when he chose duty over following his heart. He'd genuinely thought he was doing the right thing for the sake of the kingdom when he'd told Lyna that once he became King, they could no longer be together, that he needed to marry and sire an heir to the throne or really two, actually, an heir and a spare, as the saying went. The pain and betrayal in her eyes, even after all this time, it still made his chest hurt thinking about it. And then, looking back at his life, at his empty and loveless marriage to the Queen Chana, her death and the death of their daughter when she had been born—how could he not feel remorse for that decision above all others?
He and Lyna had crossed paths a few times over the years. Her rank as the Warden-Commander of Ferelden and Alistair's insistence that she keep the nobles (and himself) informed on the progress of the new Warden Keep in Amaranthine made it inevitable. But he had not really talked to her since, well, since that day, when duty took precedence over love—or when he sold his soul (his seed really) to the Witch so that neither of them would die by sacrificing themselves to kill the Archdemon.
It hadn't helped that the first few months after his coronation, he could hardly bear to look her in the eye. Lyna was a reminder of everything good that he was denying himself for the sake of royal obligations, and when they had been together, it had been beyond just good. Amazing was a much more accurate word. Or perhaps fantastic, even blissful? All of those, and so much, despite the darkspawn and the constant threat of death.
Grey Wardens from other kingdoms came to Ferelden and then there were the inevitable questions that followed. How had the Blight been stopped without either of them dying, if Riordan had not been the one to slay the Archdemon? Lyna had been the one to slice open the great Dragon from stem to stern, but Alistair himself had delivered the killing blow, burying Starfang in the horned head before she had the chance, not willing to risk losing her in the event that Morrigan's ritual magic had not worked. When that mighty blast had reverberated through his body and outward, he thought that was it. But he lived yet, and so did she.
"The tainted soul of the beast must have been drawn to a stronger beacon than Alistair's or mine." That's what Lyna told the other Grey Wardens, anyway. They didn't like it, but what could they say? The darkspawn had retreated back underground immediately after the Archdemon's death, ending the Blight, so the Archdemon's soul must have been destroyed along with that tainted beacon it had merged with.
That first year he was King, Alistair gained a measure of understanding what it was like to live in a Mage Tower, the constant pervasive sense of being watched and people judging every decision and move he made. Of course, his royal guards weren't going to skewer him if he made a bad decision (or at least he didn't think so—perhaps he should have double-checked that with the Arl?), but even so, it was a stifling atmosphere to live in, worse even than living in the Chantry had been. He felt the constant strain of others expectations on him, and they weighed him down like a millstone around his neck.
That was what had led to his first royal venture outside the castle, to see the progress that had been made on Soldier's Peak and view the damages that had been done to Amarantine by Arl Howe during that short time he had been Teyrn over the region. He just wanted some time away from the court and the nobles and the pressures of being King. When the bustling city of Denerim faded behind him, finally he felt the tension melt away from him and he could relax and be himself. And the commoners loved him for it, loved that he was willing to talk with them without talking down to them, to listen and at least pretend to understand what they were going through.
He'd have been perfectly content to spend his entire monarchy outside of Denerim, rubbing elbows with the Banns and commoners alike and sleeping on a bedroll instead of in the plush, soft, and ridiculously large bed at the castle. Unfortunately, that wasn't an option. He had commitments and obligations at the royal castle that forced him to return. That and he was reasonably sure that if he were gone too long, Wynne was liable to knock him over the head and drag him back by his ear. She was just wicked enough to do such a thing, if the notion took her.
Nobles didn't really know what to make of him, this bastard who'd been a commoner, Templar, and Grey Warden before becoming King. They tried to manipulate him but they also feared him, he knew that as well, because he could see it in their eyes. Besting Loghain, who was widely considered to be the preeminent warrior in all of Ferelden, in a duel proved to them that he would be a formidable foe. Beheading the man who had been like a brother to King Maric in front of the entire Landsmeet demonstrated his willingness to punish those who betrayed him.
Arl Eamon later confided to him that Maric had passed similar judgment down on the Banns who had betrayed his mother the Rebel Queen, a betrayal that had ultimately lead to her death. It was one of those things that people didn't talk publicly about, but the memory lingered among the nobles.
Alistair put up with the nobles' machinations as much as he could stand. If it got really bad, he just played dumb. He was good at that. On particularly tough decisions, he generally deferred to Eamon's wisdom. Wynne's support was invaluable as well, especially in matters regarding the Circle of Magi and the Templars. He knew he wasn't as involved as he could have been, but King Cailan had been even worse from what everyone said.
Arl Eamon was the one who continually reminded him of his duty to provide the throne with an heir. He had pushed Alistair at Chana and he followed his advisor's lead. He'd followed the lead of others all his life, what was one more time, even though he was now King? The South Reaches noblewoman was pretty enough, with green eyes that shied away from his. She didn't quite get his sense of humor at times, but that wasn't unusual, many did not.
After his marriage, his rare meetings with Lyna became even more awkward. What did they have to talk about? Not the past, certainly—and not the future either, since they would not be sharing it. The past couple of times he'd been to Amaranthine, she was 'away on Warden business', or so he was told. Alistair suddenly had a greater understanding of how Arl Eamon had felt those times he came to visit him at the Chantry only to be turned away.
Chana was a good queen and she wasn't nearly as controlling as Queen Anora in matters of state. There were a few sticking points for her—she did not approve of the new freedoms that Alistair had given the City Elves, for instance, especially when he granted them a place on the Royal Council. That was one of the things he refused to give an inch on. Arl Eamon didn't much approve of it either, but he never voiced that aloud.
Their marriage had lacked passion. She lay with him because as a wife and queen, that was part of her duty—there was that blasted word again. The woman was so mired in Chantry tradition that the prospect of enjoying sex with another, even one she was married to, was practically sinful. She'd been a virgin until their marriage and had lay there limp, her nose turned up and aside as though she smelled something foul when he'd been with her that first time. Subsequent ventures to her bed were just as empty and unfulfilling as the first had been. He knew he wasn't all that experienced when it came to bedding women, but even so, he tried to persuade her to join in, to relax and enjoy the intimacy, to touch him and let him touch her, but she would have none of it. When he was spent, she would withdraw from him and pull her clothing back on. Talk about awkward.
It was testament to how pathetic things were when he got far more enjoyment out of 'polishing his weapon' than he did laying with a woman. Then again, he let his thoughts wander where they would on those occasions. He refused to let himself imagine he was with Lyna those times he lay with Chana. It felt too much like another betrayal.
He endured it for almost three years, until his tainted seed finally took root and she missed her monthlies. After that, she barred him from her bedroom, her obligation as queen done, for now anyway.
The Arl was thrilled when Chana had announced her pregnancy. In his mind, this was one matter in which Cailan had failed Ferelden, by neglecting to provide Anora with an heir. He immediately announced it at Landsmeet to the delight of the nobles. Alistair rolled his shoulder with a reflexive wince, remembering how many people had clapped him on the shoulder in congratulations the first months after the Queen's condition became public knowledge. It got so bad he took to wearing his ceremonial armor again at public occasions for protection.
Those first few months, Chana's pregnancy progressed normally. She was a bit more strident and tired, but everyone swore that she had the 'happy glow' that expecting mothers are said to have. After a time though, things began to change. Her skin turned sallow and bruised and she was stricken by terrible bouts of morning sickness, if it could even be called that, since she could be violently ill at any time of the day. Wynne tried to bolster her strength as best she could with her healing but despite her efforts, the queen was fading. She lost weight and became too weak to leave her bed.
Alistair could do nothing more than look on helplessly as the taint in his unborn child, for he knew was what it was, sapped the life from its mother. Where the castle had been filled with cheerful, excited chatter, now it was more like a mausoleum. Servants and nobles alike talked in hushed whispers and gave him sympathetic pitying looks when he passed.
In time the strain became too much. Chana started bleeding and it didn't stop, despite being tended by the healing magic of Wynne and Nesta, the other court mage. Alistair waited outside the queen's bedchamber with Arl Eamon while the baby came, two months early. Wynne wrapped the baby up in linens, hiding her from sight and thrusting her to Nesta's startled arms while she tended to the Queen, who was unconscious. Only after she was stable did Wynne call him into the room and let him know that the babe had never drawn a breath. He insisted on seeing his child and reluctantly, the mage delivered that tiny wrapped body into his arms, allowing his one and only view of his dead daughter, the wisps of blonde hair on her head all but obscured by the mottled dark patches of flesh that covered her skin.
He named the baby Mara. She was cremated the following day.
Chana regained consciousness two days after delivery but between her weakened body and her grief over the loss of her child, she slowly faded away. One morning she just fell asleep and did not waken. All of Ferelden went into mourning at the loss of both her Queen and heir.
Alistair kept himself apart from everyone else, even Wynne, brooding in silence and walking the long halls of the Castle late at night when no one was around to tell him for the hundredth time how sorry they were about his recent losses.
Wynne let him get away with it for a couple of months but then she had had enough of his moping and cornered him on the balcony of one of the royal guest suites where she knew he could not avoid her. He wouldn't even look at her as she came to stand beside him, both of them staring out over the stone railing at Dragon's Peak, the pointed tip jutting upward like a fang in the snow-capped mountains.
"It's not your fault," she finally said, rubbing her hands together to keep them warm with the icy breeze blowing from the west.
His jaw tightened at her words. "If not mine, then whose?" Alistair asked, his voice grim.
She pursed her lips. "You're wrong, you know. Grey Wardens can have children," she informed him, as though she were discussing little more than the weather.
Her nonchalant tone caught him off guard and Alistair looked over at her. He'd spent so much time wallowing in his own self pity that he had all but ignored her the past few weeks. Now that he studied her, he could see the lines of worry and strain etched in her wrinkled face and the weariness collected beneath her dark blue eyes. A surge of guilt filled him as he realized he was as much the cause for that as anything else—Wynne had been more of a mother to him than any other woman in his life and she'd confided on more than one occasion that she hoped her son would have grown up to be like him. "How do you know?" he asked, hating the uncertainty in his voice and how much he wanted to believe whatever she had to say.
One of Wynne's slim shoulders lifted in a shrug. "I asked around. Not all of the mages in the Tower are Ferelden, you know. We have gained a number of foreign mages, ranging from Orlais to places as far away as Seheron since Uldred's uprising. Children born from Grey Warden parents are not common, by any means, but it can happen. If the mother is strong of will and body, it's far more likely to be a successful pregnancy, but that's true regardless of who or what the parents are."
Alistair exhaled a slow steady breath and closed his eyes. "You could have told me, you know," he muttered.
Her thin grey eyebrows arched upwards as she faced him. "To what end? Alistair, few things in life are as uncertain as birth and death. What happened with Chana and Mara—would you have felt any better if I told you that it was a possibility? Or given you false hopes by telling you everything would be fine and that your daughter would be born free of the taint only to have her born as she was?"
He hesitated before answering, "Yes… No. Maker's breath, I don't know. I just, I don't know. I tried to hope for the best and prepare for the worst, but nothing could have prepared me for …." The image of his daughter's tiny body appeared in his mind's eye and he shook his head to dispel it from his thoughts.
Wynne rested her hand on his forearm with gentle pressure and he turned to face her, placing his own larger one over hers. "Nothing can prepare you for the loss of a child," she said simply, her blue eyes beyond sad with regret as they met his own.
His breath caught in his throat at her words, remembering back to the day she told him that she'd had a son who had been taken from her immediately after being born. Without even thinking about it, he drew her into his arms and rested his cheek on her smooth, grey hair as they both drew some measure of comfort from the other's presence.
Alistair was brought back to the present by the return of the Dalish elf scout Ithlayn. The party's other scout, a human named Rorick, was nowhere to be seen. Guard Captain Lyndon raised his fist, signaling the others to draw wagons and horses to a stop as the elf trotted up to his mount. The two conferred in low voices and after a few moments, the King gave Salt a quiet tongue click and walked up to join them. "Do I need to tell Wynne to ready her hangover cure?" he asked, looking between the two.
Ithlayn looked blankly at him and Lyndon coughed to stifle a laugh before answering. "Not just yet, your Majesty, though perhaps it would be best if she kept it within arm's reach." His expression more serious, he explained, "There's a rockslide blocking the road about two miles ahead. It's big enough that there's no way we'll be able to get the wagons past it without moving some of it out of the way."
"A rockslide?" Alistair echoed, his brows drawing together in a frown. "It wasn't there when we came through last week. You think there's a chance of an ambush?" he asked in a lowered voice, his gaze flicking into the craggy forest on either side of the road. A quick warning glance behind him at Wynne had the mage picking up her staff and holding it at the ready. Of those travelling in the party, she and Bayard would be the most vulnerable to attack, since they were wearing nothing more than robes. The rest of the men, himself included, wore chain and scale armor—light enough to travel in while still providing a good measure of protection.
A group of bandits would have to be pretty desperate to attack a well-armed group like this one, or pretty crazy. It'd never happened before in the previous times his royal procession had travelled around Ferelden, but that didn't mean that it couldn't happen now.
"Rorick is scouting the area to search for any signs of an attack," Ithlayn said and cautiously added, "However, if I were to hazard a guess, I would say the roadblock is more about delaying trade to and from Orzammar than it is about attacking unwary travelers. We shall know one way or the other soon enough."
The young monarch nodded, grimacing. "King Bhelen's decision to open Orzammar to more trade with the surfacers is not sitting too well with the nobles and warrior castes, especially following so soon after his decision to grant the casteless more privileges in exchange for fighting the darkspawn. It would not surprise me to learn that the more stone-bound among them are doing what they can to prevent that, or at least slow it down."
The Dalish elf tilted his chin upwards with a hint of challenge and stated, "They seek only to preserve their history and their traditions, such as they are."
A frown touched Lyndon's face as he looked between the scout and King. "Ithlayn," he growled in warning.
The grey stallion shifted beneath him at the sudden tension in the air as Alistair met the clear grey eyes of the elf and said mildly, "Some traditions seem more about holding people back than letting them move forward, though, wouldn't you say? Would you be content to live your life casteless among the dregs of your people, with no brighter future to look forward to than being a thief or a beggar? Or would you strive for something more?"
Ithlayn looked troubled and lowered his head in acknowledgement, admitting, "No. I could not live like that. Not even for the sake of tradition."
"Nor could I," Alistair replied.
Lyndon muttered something under his breath and was on the verge of saying something when a bird trilled in the distance.
Ithlayn gave a three-note whistle in answer and then looked at the captain. "Rorick says the woods are safe. It'll take some time for us to clear the road enough to pass. Perhaps one of the mages has a spell that can help?" he suggested before bobbing his head at the King in respect. Then he turned on his leather boot heel and trotted down the road with that steady ground-eating pace that Dalish traveled with.
Alistair watched him head off, clicking his tongue to get his grey horse moving. He glanced over at the sour-faced guard captain and commented lightly, "I'd offer you a sovereign for your thoughts but I made the mistake of giving Wynne my coin purse when we got to Orzammar and she's as tightfisted as an Orlesian tax collector."
"I heard that," the grey-haired mage said from behind them.
"You wouldn't have if you hadn't been eavesdropping again," he called back to her before looking at Lyndon.
The Captain shook his head and grimaced. "I apologize on Ithlayn's behalf. It's unseemly for him to openly challenge your opinion in such a way, your Majesty. The Dalish have no King but that does not give him the right to talk to you like you were no better than a…"
"No better than a…bastard son of a scullery maid?" Alistair said with sly humor, a wicked grin curving his lips.
Lyndon turned bright red with mortification and bowed in his saddle, pressing his gauntleted fist to his chest. "Forgive me, Sire. I meant no disrespect."
"Nor did Ithlayn." He shifted his gaze ahead to where the elf walked far in front of them. "I think we're rather fortunate to have him along. The Keeper Lanaya told me he was, how did she put it? One of the winds? One with the wind? Something to do with wind, at any rate," he said with a dismissive gesture.
"He is quite possibly the best scout I've ever seen," the guard captain admitted in a choked voice.
"Really? Then we're better off having him along then, don't you think? Even if he's got about as much tact as I do." Without waiting for a response, he announced, "I'm going to make sure Wynne and Bayard know we may be held up for a bit clearing the road," and drew back on the reins, slowing his horse long enough for the wagon to catch up.
He had just nudged Salt back into motion when Wynne said nonchalantly, "So? Did I hear something about a rockslide up ahead?" The mage pointedly ignored the fact that that the only way she could have known was by listening in on their conversation.
"Indeed you did." Alistair's broad grin faded a bit when he spoke again, "I think Ithlayn had the right of it. It seems that some of Orzammar's residents have decided to take matters into their own hands when it comes to slowing down trade with the surfacers."
Bayard frowned at that. "So what, they're setting traps along the roadsides for unsuspecting traders and the like?"
Shaking her head, Wynne sighed, "I doubt they're trying to hurt anyone—not yet, anyway. Most likely they're just trying to block the roads and discourage travelers. That's generally how blockades start, anyway."
It didn't them long to reach the rockslide. Alistair wasn't really sure what he had expected to see, but it seemed as though half of the cliff face had slid down the craggy mountain wall and crumbled to fist-sized rocks that were now strewn in a heap across the road. There was no way the wagons could be drawn safely over the obstruction, and forcing a horse over the broken rubble wouldn't be much better. Of course, Ithlayn scampered across the rockslide to the opposite side as nimbly as any cat.
"Wynne, I don't suppose there's any way you or Bayard could…" Alistair wiggled his fingers in demonstration and quirked his eyebrows at them. "That'd make this go a lot quicker."
"Truly. It'd take us days to clear this by hand, and we'd have to travel all the way back to Orzammar to get the tools to do it," Captain Lyndon said, scowling at the slide.
The grey-haired magewoman regarded the cliff face and rockslide before she shook her head. "It'll have to be Bayard. My primal magic is earth-based, yes, but the last thing I'd want to do here is cast my earthquake spell. The mountainside may still be unstable." Wynne quirked her slim eyebrows up as she looked at the other Mage. "Perhaps the blizzard spell? The wind should be sufficient to blow the worst of it out of the way, if you could maintain it for long enough."
Bayard nodded, drawing in a deep breath and raising his hands. He paused and then over his shoulder at them, warning, "You probably want to stand back a bit…"
They all beat a hasty retreat well out of the spells range, keeping a firm grip on the horses' reins as the spell was cast.
It built up slowly, starting with a thin tendril of fog that gradually spread outward, growing in strength and force to become a massive swirling cloud of mist and snow. The blizzard's winds roared like a raving beast as the storm settled right over the landslide. Crumbled rocks and dust began to shift from the gale force winds to slide the only direction they could go—off the road and down the rocky mountainside.
"By the Maker," one of Alistair's guardsmen gasped at the raw display of power and despite the many displays of magic he had seen during his time as a Grey Warden and Templar, he could not help but nod silent agreement as the rockslide was cleared away by the blustering winds. The horses snorted and stamped, their eyes white and rolling with fear at the unnatural storm system.
The blizzard began to fade and when it was gone, Bayard swayed, lowering his shaking arms and gasping with exertion. Wynne hurried over to him and murmured soft words, bathing him in rejuvenating glow. The King and his guards approached at a much slower pace, coaxing their nervous horses along.
Only a few large boulders that had been too heavy for even the blizzard winds to shift remained in the road.
Bayard recovered his strength, Wynne remaining at his side to keep an eye on him in his weakened condition. The black-haired mage watched, his mouth somewhat agape as the King with the help of two other guards began to push one of massive rocks off of the roadside. "Why is he helping them?" the man asked, sounding almost scandalized. He had only joined her as a Court Mage about a month before the royal party left Denerim, when Nesta stepped down from her position soon after Chana had died and returned to the Circle of Magi.
Wynne could only smile at his question, watching Alistair count to three before the men gave a final shove that sent the boulder crashing down over the edge of the road. "Should he not? You would rather him help hold the horses? Or perhaps stand around and look important?"
The mage's face flushed at her words and he straightened, stating, "I'm just saying that the King should not have to do manual labor, not when he's got eight royal guards who could do it just as easily. He is the King, after all."
"Hrm. Perhaps you are right. Well then, do you want to go tell him he should stop?" she asked, her blue eyes twinkling.
"I…" Bayard seemed at a loss for words as he considered the outcome of that and shook his head. "No, actually. For some reason I don't think he'd take well to that."
Laughing, Wynne shifted her staff from one hand to the other before reminding her cohort, "Keep in mind, before Alistair became Ferelden's King, he was a commoner, a Templar in training, and a Grey Warden. He's used to getting his hands dirty when the need arises and being made the King hasn't changed that. If anything, I think his men respect him more because he does not set himself apart from them at times like this."
He shuddered, grimacing at her words. "I can not imagine him as a Templar. He just isn't…." The mage raised one hand helplessly, unable to put his thought to words.
"I can't imagine it either," she agreed, resting her eyes on Alistair. "He's definitely not cut from the same mold as those dour Templars at the Circle Tower, is he? Believe me when I say, he may not have the temperament of a Templar but he has all of the training. Against even the most skilled opponents, he would be a formidable foe, his duel with Loghain certainly proved that. Against a mage, he is nigh unstoppable. He was very close to taking his vows when Duncan invoked the Right of Conscription to recruit him into the Grey Wardens. Thank the Maker for that."
"I'm still finding it difficult to comprehend that someone with Templar training could even like mages," Bayard admitted. "And the way he treats you, you have to admit it's unusual."
Wynne could not deny that given his Chantry background, her relationship with Alistair would have been unusual even if he had not been the King. "Don't let him fool you, he is very suspicious of blood mages and apostates, rightfully so. Still, I have known him for more than five years and during that time, well, we've been through and seen a lot together. He is kind and compassionate, despite his admittedly odd sense of humor. I have to confess, he's been one of the things that's kept this old, grey-haired mage going well past her prime." She raised her hand, muffling a quiet laugh, "Mostly just to see what he does next to irritate the nobles."
The black-haired mage guffawed at that. "Yes, I haven't been at the castle for long but His Majesty does have bit of a knack when it comes to tweaking the nobles' beards, doesn't he?"
"It drives Arl Eamon right up the wall when he does that, but Alistair doesn't care. He delights in making people underestimate him." She looked over her mage companion. His face was still pale but he was no longer shaking like a leaf at least. "Feeling better now? It looks like they're nearly done clearing the road, so I imagine we'll be underway soon. It's been a while since I drove a wagon, but I think I could manage. Or perhaps one of the guardsmen could do so."
Bayard levered himself to his feet carefully, using his staff for support as he stood. "Nonsense, I'm as right as rain, or will be soon enough. Whew, I remember why I use that spell so rarely—it really takes a lot out of me. I shouldn't have maintained it for so long without a rest. I apologize, Wynne."
"It's quite all right," she said with a kind smile. "Even the smallest spells can cause fatigue. Just know your limitations."
When the last of the rocks had been pushed off of the road they got underway again. The roadblock had made what was typically a half-day trip from Orzammar to Gherlen's Pass into an all-day affair. They'd be lucky to reach the river by nightfall, but at least the ground started to level off the closer they got to it. Alistair settled his horse at a steady walk in front of the mage's wagon while his guardsmen resumed their usual flanking positions around him.
In truth, the holdup was not nearly as irritating for Alistair as it had been for Lyndon. He was both looking forward to and dreading arriving in Redcliffe. On the one hand, it'd be good to see Bann Teagan and his lovely new wife Kaitlyn again, but at the same time, he was not looking forward to all the expressions of sympathy that would undoubtedly be forthcoming, since this would be his first visit to the town since the Queen had passed away more than six months ago. He was so tired of hearing people say, "I'm sorry for your loss," or "I'm so sorry about what happened." Sorry—as though it was their fault, or they could have done something to prevent it.
Despite what Wynne had told him, he still felt responsible for her death. After all, if he had not married her or bedded her, she'd still be alive. Then again, if things had gone differently, he might have kept Lyna at his side, or at least not pushed her away. If Chana's pregnancy had gone easily, he might even be a father.
Of course, theoretically you may already be a father, Alistair reminded himself with a pained grimace. As bad as setting the woman he loved aside for the sake of duty had been, in retrospect, laying with Morrigan to save both himself and Lyna from dying to the Archdemon had to rank right there at the top of his 'Worst Decisions Ever' list.
"In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death, sacrifice," or so the Grey Wardens' motto went.
Well, two out of three isn't bad, Alistair thought to himself with grim amusement. Unless missing out on the third results in an Old God being reborn, with the potential to cause even more problems than a Blight. Oh—now there's a cheery thought. But hey, on the bright side, I will have provided Ferelden with another bastard heir!
While Chana had been alive and especially when she was pregnant, it had been far easier not to think about that night spent with Morrigan and the child resulting from that union, if a being born with the soul of an Old God could even be called that. But now that his wife was dead, it centered in his thoughts more and more. Now he knew the child might be the one and only offspring he ever had. If he were born as human in appearance as his parents, what would he look like? Blonde hair, Alistair supposed, since both he and Cailan had their father's hair. Perhaps brown eyes like his own? Both Cailan and Maric had blue eyes, but Morrigan's were a pale golden color, like a wolf's. Now that'd be a strange combination, wouldn't it, if he had golden hair and golden eyes.
He wasn't really sure why, but he always thought of the child as a boy, likely because the thought of the Witch bearing a son as irreverent, mischievous and talkative as Alistair himself had been as a child was its own brand of revenge. Sometimes he wondered if he'd even born human at all. The Archdemons had all been Old Gods and dragons as well, so really, who knew? Or perhaps he was human but with the mottled, scaly patterned skin that Mara had had. He shuddered at that notion.
Either way, the end result of those wandering thoughts was the same—he wanted answers. He wanted to know where Morrigan had been for the past five years, and what had happened with the child she had borne, what the child could do, and what it had become.
Naturally the first place his procession had stopped after leaving Denerim was the Warden Keep at Amaranthine. For the first time in years, Alistair had been determined to take Lyna aside and talk, for Andraste's sake, not just about the child but about everything, his regrets and stupidity above all else. But of course, she wasn't there, just as she had not been there the previous two times.
"Warden-Commander Lyna was called to Weisshaupt Fortress. She has been gone for nearly six months now," her second-in-command Jaral had told him, looking surprised that the monarch was not privy to that information.
After spending the better part of a day arranging in his head exactly what he would say to her, the young King suddenly found himself at a loss now that he realized he wasn't even going to be given the chance. "Will you give her a message?" he asked after a long moment.
Jaral bowed his head with respect, "Of course, your Majesty. What would you have me tell her?"
Carefully considering his words, he said, "Tell her that Alistair wants to speak to her when she returns." When the other man cocked an curious eyebrow, he clarified, "Not King Alistair, or His Majesty, or even that royal dimwit who doubles as a hat rack for the crown, but just that… Alistair wants to talk to her."
"I understand, Sire, and will take extra precaution to omit the part about you being a dimwitted royal hat rack," Warden Jaral responded, his eyes twinkling with good mirth though his expression remained carefully solemn.
"Good man," Alistair murmured with a lopsided smile.
That had been more than a month ago, and so far as he knew, Lyna still had not returned. The traditional Headquarters of the Grey Wardens was in the Anderfels, more than a thousand miles away. Even if she'd already been gone more than six months, there was no telling how long it'd be before she returned to Ferelden.
Alistair rolled his shoulders as he rode along and started to whistle a bawdy tune he'd heard Leliana play before. He'd have sung it but he couldn't remember any of the words, only that it had something to do with plowing and planting seed, though not in the ground of course.
"Bayard, you need to pull up on the horses a bit, they're starting to speed up," Wynne warned sharply from behind him. "Bayard? Are you all right?…Alistair, look out!"
He had just turned his head around to look and his jaw dropped the sight of the wagon heading right for him and picking up even more speed by the moment, the horses wild-eyed and quite obviously completely out of control. Bayard was slumped over on the bench seat and Wynne grabbed at his robes in desperation, trying to keep him from falling out. "Maker's breath!" he gasped, jerking the reins just enough to move Salt out of the way before it barreled past.
The guardsman in front of him was not so lucky. With a curse, he shifted his horse to the side but the frame of the wagon caught his leg as it passed and he screamed in pain.
Alistair kicked his horse into a run without even thinking about it, chasing after the runaway coach.
"Your Majesty, wait!" Captain Lyndon shouted as he thundered past but he ignored the cry, leaning down over his grey stallion's neck as he gave the horse its head. One of the advantages of being the King was that the royal stable was one of the best in all of Ferelden and Alistair felt Salt surge eagerly forward between his legs. The horse charged after the wagon and though it seemed to take forever they drew inexorably closer until it was only half a length in front of them.
A shift of the reins to the left directed his mount up and around to the side of the vehicle, sandwiching Alistair and Salt between the coach and the steep cliff wall rising above the road. If the frightened horses shifted the wagon a bit more to the side, they'd be squeezed between the two—it was preferable to the alternative though, as the opposite side of the road had nothing more than a steep drop off to the valley below.
Wynne was clutching Bayard to her, still doing well to hang on while keeping the large man from being flung out of the wagon, her face pale and strained with the effort. The elderly mage wasn't going to be able to hold on for much longer.
I guess the Circle has no spells for stopping runaway horses, Alistair thought and grinned with feral amusement. "Yaaah," he yelled to coax just a little more out of Salt and the stallion shuddered, flicking his ears back before he put on a burst of speed that sent him past the front spinning wheel of the wagon. Now he could see that the reins had fallen down into the traces, and there was no way he was going to be able to grab them from there without jumping off of Salt and taking a chance on landing on the shaft. Not even he was that crazy.
Bayard was listing now, the jarring motion of the hurtling wagon and Wynne's waning strength bringing him precariously close to falling out—and down the side of the mountain. Way, way down. A dark shape in green leather leapt from the cliff face and over Alistair's head to land in the back of wagon. Ithlayn rolled to his feet in one stupidly graceful motion and lunged forward, grabbing Bayard's collar and jerking him back just as he was on the verge of slipping out of Wynne's grip.
The pair of chestnut horses were lathered with sweat and Alistair could tell the animals were wanting to slow, but fear and downhill momentum made them reluctant to do so. He shifted Salt's reins to his left hand as the grey stallion drew alongside the wagon horses and reached out with his right, grabbing at the leathers. They just brushed his fingertips before shifting out of range as the wagon careened around a bend in the road.
"Alistair," Wynne cried out, sounding even more panicked. He turned his head, sparing a glance over his shoulder at her but she wasn't looking at him at all. Her wide-eyed gaze was on the road ahead—or more specifically on the small child playing in the road a short distance ahead.
For the love of… He lunged at the reins again and this time, caught them up in his fingers and pulled back on both Salt and the coach horses reins at the same time.
Wynne held onto the bench seat, her knuckles white with fear. "Alistair," she called again, frantic.
"I know," he gritted between clenched teeth. They were slowing, but not fast enough, and the child was utterly oblivious to their approach as he lifted his hands up as though trying to catch something. "Ithlayn, help me!" he shouted desperately.
The Dalish elf yanked Bayard over the seat rail, slinging him into the back of the wagon. Then he hopped over the bench seat and down onto the rocking wagon shaft with inhuman agility and snatched up the reins off of the traces, adding his own strength to stopping the horses.
The child must have either sensed or heard their approach because he crouched down with his back turned to them, ducking his dark head down toward his hands.
Alistair hauled back on the reins with all of his strength and for a moment he thought they had succeeded—until one of horses stumbled as its hooves tracked over the child's body with soft thuds. Wynne made a choked sound of despair and Ithlayn hissed a curse as finally, they were able to bring the horses and wagon to a halt.
His stomach roiling, Alistair flung himself off of Salt and ran around behind the coach. The boy was sprawled out in the road on his belly, his hands tucked beneath his chest and—thank the Maker—alive and moving despite the clear imprint of at least two large hoof prints on his dirty smock. "Stay still, Wynne will be right here," he said, dropping down to his knees as the boy—or at least he thought it was a boy though it was hard to tell with that snarl of dark matted hair—drew himself up onto his elbows and knees without a single whimper of pain.
The child rocked back onto his haunches, keeping his hands cupped together as he grinned impishly up at the dumbfounded King, his hazel eyes bright with excitement. "Butterfly," he said and opened his hands.
A large butterfly with shimmering blue and black wings clung to one small palm, fanning its wings back and forth.