Chapter 2
I Came, I Saw, Things Progressed Accordingly
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It was a parade like Alistair had never seen before. The generals and champion generals of Orlais were an army in and of themselves, from the farthest flung corners of Thedas. Mages floated by in flowing golden robes. Barbarians brandished spears, draped in furs ripped from the backs of their prey. Golden chevaliers moved in formation, displaying the crests of their houses proudly on their shields. Hounds, large like the Mabari and sleeker like wild wolves, barely contained by their master, moved throughout the generals. It was all the more impressive for being completely impromptu.
"Lord General Millier of Mont-de-Grace! Champion General Kashim of Val Foret!" An announcer rattled off the names of the returned at incredible pace.
People lined the streets, throwing papery white flowers in such volumes that it seemed to be raining petals. Musicians and dancers broke from the crowds to join the generals, praising them as though they had just floated down from heaven on a moonbeam.
"High Sorceress Cachet, High Sorceress Isabeau, High Sorcerer Guillame!"
Guillame, at the call of his name, conjured a ball of fire which he threw above the crowd. It exploded into the form of a dragon that swept along the streets, roaring and snapping at the people bellow, causing another great cheers from the gathered crowds. His accompanying sorceresses rolled their eyes at him and the young mage laughed.
"Champion Archer General Lilinette of Arlesans!"
Everything washed over Alistair. This was a spectacle he'd never witness again, and an impressive one, but he couldn't, wouldn't, distract himself for a moment in his search for the figure he was looking for. She was here, entering the city, ready to receive her praise for another Orlesian victory. Five years missing from Ferelden, she'd been here, helping their greatest enemy to grow in strength and size, expand to the point where Denerim stood no chance against them.
"Champion Cavalry General Aimes of Arlesans! Champion General Lamar of Jader! Lord General Julius of Lydes!"
It made sense. The sudden need for conquest, the expansion of territories. Anyone who could take an army of two hundred green men and defeat a Blight that already had a stronghold in the capital could do almost anything. She was a military genius not seen since Andraste. Orlais would have plied her with anything she wanted, they could give it to her. And then... taking lands to the north and east was just the logical step. If he had an army like this and a general like her, he might have done the same.
The crowds seemed to ripple with anticipation, he could see where the excitement was greatest, and knew she was coming.
"Lord General Gautier of Val Chevin, and honour guard! Champion Hound Master Ouberman of Halamshiral!
The golden procession parted, chevaliers and hounds moving past them, to a destination he couldn't tell or guess.
She was there.
Glorious and bloody, she was there.
The crowds roar seemed to dull, drowned out by the blood rushing in his veins. Like Andraste herself, she shone in the sun. Her armour glowed an unnatural white, her rich chocolate hair swung down to the small of her back in barbaric braids. She brandished her helm, crested with the royal colours, against her hip, her other arm all but invisible under the massive fur and dragonskin cloak.
She was a reaver queen, a dragon in human form, a figure that would not be ignored, on the battlefield or here. Massive dark eyes didn't even notice the crowd, didn't stray an inch from Celene. She was stonefaced, no smile of victory or acknowledgement of the people.
And she was so painfully, desperately frail. Like she hadn't eaten in weeks, her face was gaunt, her posture loose. Her armour was so closely fitted, in a way it couldn't have been a few years ago even if she had the luxuries of time and money. It snapped so tightly to her waist, banded around her ribcage, he could see that she was no more then bone and muscle underneath.
"Champion of Val Royeaux, Chevalier of The Order of Orlais' Glory, High General of the Vanguard, Champion General Cousland of Orlais!"
The explosion of noise snapped Alistair from his shock, it was deafening.
The general, to her credit, did not even flinch. She ascended the stairs and knelt in supplication to the Empress, taking her hand and kissing the ring that graced her index finger. She didn't stand, instead resting her forehead against Celene's hand.
"Your imperial majesty," she whispered.
"Arise, General Cousland, you've done your country proud today."
Your country. The words stung Alistair in a way they shouldn't have. This wasn't her country, Ferelden was her country.
She knelt for another beat, as if she was too tired to stand, then rose to her feet. "I will sleep soundly in that knowledge."
Alistair baulked. The words were so cold, so calculated. It was like when she had lost her rosy cheeks, her soft curves, her warm smile, so had all the laughter and light been sucked out of her. This wasn't the woman he loved, this was a parody of her.
"You know King Alistair." Celene gestured to him.
The general's eyes snapped to him, as if she had no idea he was standing just a foot away from her the entire time. He read genuine surprise in her eyes, which she quickly covered and offered him a bow. "Your majesty."
"General Cousland," he returned, the words sticking in his mouth so that he had to spit them out. Pup. Lovely. Queen Theirin. No. Clearly not any of those things.
"Please, general, don't let us keep you standing on ceremony. You've been away from home so long, you must be tired."
Home.
"I am. Thank you, your majesty."
A joyous bark sounded and Alistair didn't have time to locate it before he was nearly knocked off his feet. A Mabari happily licked at his face as he laughed, all heartbreak forgotten momentarily.
"Buttercup!" he greeted. The hound barked happily, jumping down off him to spin in delirious circles and roll on his back. Alistair knelt and scratched his belly, earning himself another delighted bark.
"Buttercup." This time the voice was ice cold. The terrifying high general looked down at her dog, causing the beast to whine. "Keep ranks. That's the king of Ferelden you're trying to topple."
The dog slunk off to the side, being met halfway by a giant man with a young face and a broad mouth that looked like it was used to smiling. He looked more bashful than anything as Buttercup rejoined the rest of the hounds. Alistair recognised him as Champion Hound Master Ouberman of Halamshiral, he had been introduced just minutes before.
"I'm so sorry, General Cousland, King Alistair."
He opened his mouth to insist that it was fine, but he was cut off.
"Is it so much to ask that you keep my dog from molesting foreign dignitaries, Cedric?"
Cedric, much more practical than that long title. Cedric looked like the kind of man Alistair could get along with, given half a chance.
"I'm sorry, General Cousland, it won't happen again." He bowed deeply and backed away, but Alistair could hear him as he made it back to the pack, hissing to Buttercup. "Are you trying to get me killed? Or just humiliated in front of all Orlais?"
Buttercup gave a conversational groan.
"Don't look at me like that, I don't care if you know him."
The king felt a curious numbness washing over him. It was too much. From being blissfully oblivious to having his lover walk back into his life in the space of half an hour, and then seeing his once wry, warm, sexy Pup was now a shell of her former self, dressing down her own hound in public. A traitor. Maybe not in any sense he could convict her of, she was a Grey Warden, unbound by national borders, but a traitor nonetheless.
A hand on his shoulder seemed to be holding him up, and he glanced back at Zevran, who gave him a bemused and sympathetic smile. She was gone after a final bow, meeting his eyes for just a split second. There was nothing there, grey like the ocean was now grey like stone.
The generals were announced and drifted away, one by one, the noise of the people was just waves against his ears, the names blurred together and so did the faces. Just a stream of golden armour and mousey brown hair, occasionally punctuated by bright red locks or green sashes, blue coronets and white plumes.
Your country. Home. Impossible.
She'd given up everything for Ferelden. Everything. Any home she ever knew, any normal life she could have lived. He didn't want to be vain enough to add himself to that list, but looking back on the sacrifices he'd made for Ferelden, she was definitely at the top of his list. Why would she abandon them to the wind now? Either one of them would have gladly given their life, had Morrigan not intervened.
A hundred nights camped on the damp ground, monsters at their backs, Loghain on their heels. Lava and snow. She'd managed to get frostbite in two of her toes in the Frostback Mountains, Wynne had only just prevented amputation. Together they'd stood on every parliament floor in Ferelden, mediated disputes between werewolves, mages. She'd tamed the entire templar army, just like she'd tamed him. Why was she throwing that away? What could Orlais offer her, aside from an extremely pretty dragonskin cloak?
Soon the fuss melted away and Zevran's hand squeezed his shoulder, like a signal that the time for contemplation was over.
"I understand that General Cousland was instrumental in your ascension to the throne, Alistair," Celene said. "I am glad to see you reunited."
Alistair searched desperately for words, but his tongue was too dry. He felt like his brain was shutting down, the sunlight was too bright, the crowd was too loud, his armour was too heavy.
"Yes," he managed to choke out.
"I hope you don't begrudge us using her services, as a Grey Warden she has no native home if my memory serves."
"No, no home."
"Ameline!" Celene snapped. "Can you not see that King Alistair is feeling unwell?"
Soft hands encased his own and Alistair felt himself pulled away, led back the thousand steps to his room, barely seeing the girl who led him save for her swaying chocolate hair. Just like his Pup when she was younger, when she still had light in her eyes, when she'd give him a mischievous grin and pull him close. Maker, his Pup was gone, as good as dead, only her body still walked and talked, worked against him. Grey eyes, full of concern, caught his as she lowered him down onto the bed. Gentle.
He couldn't help but give Ameline's fingers a soft squeeze as she let him go.
"Your majesty, please let me remove some of your armour, it is too heavy for you." The pleading note in her voice brought him back to reality a little. He must have looked awful if she was that worried. He nodded, swallowing thickly, and sat up to allow her access to the straps.
Ameline's fast fingers worked at his armour, freeing him from his pauldrons, vambraces and rerebraces quickly, allowing him to breathe a little better. She pressed a wet cloth against his forehead.
"It must be the heat," she muttered. "I've heard Ferelden is very cold."
"It is. Smells like wet dogs." That earned him a smile, and her colour improved a couple of shades. "General Cousland. How long has she been here?"
"Nearly four years, sire, since the start of the Nevarra campaign," she said. "She has mentioned plans to move on, but we have hopes she will stay. Cedric has been working on her since the day she walked into Val Royeaux, and I think he's made some headway. But listen to me, gossiping about the High General, please forgive me - "
"Cedric? The houndmaster? What kind of headway are we talking about, here?"
She talked as she worked, dabbing the cloth at his neck and shoulders, and his body temperature mercifully fell with each touch. Her ministrations were professional, her attentions purely therapeutic, but he felt like it wasn't the cold water that had the room slowly returning to its normal stability.
"Oh, General Cousland has turned many heads at court, but she's entirely devoted to her work. They say Fereldans are as loyal as hounds, and no one is more loyal or constant than Cedric. I think he must remind her of home. The soldiers say she is fierce, but I think she looks sad, she must miss her family."
She has no family. Well, that wasn't entirely true, she had a brother, but their paths separated many years ago. "The same Cedric she just tore apart in front of half the army? Actually, that does sound a lot like her brand of affection."
"I cannot speak on the nature of her affections, sire, for I do not know the woman. But if the courtiers are to be believed, he has some reason to hope she will extend her stay in Val Royeaux."
"That's..." What was that? Good? Bad? He had no idea. An Orlesian general with and Orlesian lover. Not really anything out of the ordinary, if she was anyone else in Thedas. Not something that would hurt if it was anyone else. He wasn't even sure if he wanted it to hurt. Traitors deserved no tears.
"Your colour is looking better, sire, how do you feel? Should I send for the physician?"
"No. No, you were right, it must have been the heat." He lay back against the bed, letting his eyes drift closed under Ameline's ministrations, visions of dark hair, dark eyes and pale skin swimming behind his eyelids. He needed to calm down, and hear no more about that confounding, infernal woman. "Would you tell me about your family, Ameline?"
"My family, sire?"
"Yes, Celene tells me that your father is the lord of Val Chevin. If you don't want to..."
"No, I am happy to tell you, sire, I have just... never been asked such a question. There isn't much to tell, however. I am the sixth daughter of the Lord General Gautier of Val Chevin and his wife, Elaine."
"Six daughters? Your mother must be a strong woman."
"She has eight daughters, I have two younger sisters, and four brothers as well, all older. I'm afraid after so many children I carry little of my father's prestige. To be asked to court by Empress Celene was a great honour."
"I've never seen a noblewoman serving as a maid before, things are very different in Denerim."
"That must be so glamorous, to have even your minor nobles considered in court. If I should marry high enough I may be invited as a lady, and my sisters have married highly. But truly I would prefer to be in court as a scholar, rather than the wife of one. Empress Celene is a great patron of the arts, but you must already know that."
"You study?" He honestly hadn't expected that, and cracked one eye open to reassess her. Pretty and smart, if a little naïve.
"Yes, sire. I study military history, the Tevinter Imperium fascinates me."
He smiled at her answer, studiously short. He had talked to scholars plenty, and once they began talking about their subject of study it was impossible to get them to stop. He could only imagine how quickly Celene had broken her of that habit.
"You'll have to tell me about your studies, sometime."
Ameline blushed. "At your leisure, of course, sire. You must be tired, I shall let you rest and have your armour polished for you."
Alistair almost stopped her, as listening to her natter about obscure Tevinter trivia sounded like the perfect way to pass the afternoon, her quiet, constant voice blocked out more troubling thoughts. But he let her go. The day had been so packed with unexpected excitement that it was easy to forget he had only arrived that morning, and his body still protested at the lack of rest.
He stared at the ceiling, trying to stave off broken thoughts of betrayal and heartache, intertwining them with soft hands and soft words.
Terrorised thoughts led to terrorised dreams. Dark eyes hovered close to him, words of Tevinter and Orlais drifted through him, the voice alternating between frozen Ferelden and tender Orlesian. He dreamed of great green flowers and oysters that held pearls the size of his fist, of hounds with dusty blonde fur and wide smiles.
He dreamed of the statue in front of Fort Drakon, once golden and triumphant, now white and gaunt, her swords no longer defensively crossed, but raised at the city in accusation.
When Alistair awoke he was covered in sweat, disoriented in a strange room. It took a moment for him to realise where he was, then the last day came back to him in a rush, sending a wave of nausea through his gut. He held back a gag. He couldn't let this undo him, his people were counting on him. It wouldn't come to war.
He realised that it was a knock on the door that had awoken him, and he called for the person to enter. Unsurprisingly it was Ameline, bearing his polished armour.
"Thank you," he said as she lay it down next to him. She blushed in a way he was beginning to get used to. "No, really, whenever my manservant takes my armour away I don't see it for another week. Once he lost it completely."
She hid a giggle behind her hand. "The welcoming banquet won't be for another hour, if you'd like to get some more sleep, I can leave."
"No, no, thank you for waking me early. You'll be with me tonight, won't you?"
"Of course, sire, I'll be attending you through your entire stay."
"Good, good."
"Is something worrying you, sire? If you have any need, you only have to ask."
He chuckled. "I don't suppose you know everyone's names?"
A radiant smile spread across her face, but she almost immediately stifled into into a little quirk of her lips. Her voice was a little strained. "Of course I do, sire."
"Good, then I'll expect you to not leave my side for a second. Not even to sleep or bathe. This might get messy, but it's a risk I'm willing to take." At Ameline's startled look he gave a sly smile, which had her examining her toes and trying not to smile. "It's alright, you can laugh at me. Everyone else does."
"My lord!" she exclaimed through giggles, looking more than a little scandalised. She waved off his silliness, but he claimed an earnest smile for his troubles. "Please, let me help you with your armour."
"No, I can handle the armour, I have another request for you." He began strapping himself into the armour, and paused to look up at her bewildered face. "I wish to know everything there is to know about Tevinter Imperium military history."
The rest of the afternoon passed quickly, her voice a constant ambient noise as he prepared, rising excitedly now and then, which prompted him to ask a polite question. Alistair barely heard most of what she said, just letting her voice keep away any important thoughts that threatened to break his composure. Occasionally she would stop talking to fuss over him, straightening a piece of armour or smoothing back his hair, all shyness gone while she spoke on her subject of study.
It was nice. Nothing to write home over, but a lot better than he had expected his afternoon to be.
At the tolling of a bell, she gave him a nod, it was time to go. "Straight down the stairs. The grand banquet hall is at the bottom and to the left."
He knew that, the massive hall acted as a thoroughfare to the rest of the castle, but the words calmed his nerves, she wasn't going to let him screw up tonight.
The antechamber was filled with people, some drifting through to the banquet, others who had stopped to talk, all of such finery that he almost felt shabby by comparison. Men wore the armour polished so brightly that it was difficult to look at, house colours in sashes and plumes, but their blinding brilliance was nothing compared to the women. Celene's style of dress was obviously the latest fashion, all the ladies of court wore their own outsized flower, all in pale silk. There were fake eyelashes that made their eyes look like strange butterflies, adorned with tiny gems that glittered in the light, and laquered fingernails that made plastic sounds when they touched something hard. All the fooferah of their gowns was overwhelming, some wore pearls and others feathers, their hair piled on top of their heads in elaborate fashions that must have taken hours to complete.
Unfortunately, he had little time to be enchanted or horrified by the frivolity, because a few things were becoming glaringly clear. First, that he had only seen the tip of the Orlesian court iceberg. Second, that he was drastically out of his league. And third and most importantly, that his private life was nowhere near as private as he would have liked it to be.
"We've all heard the talk before," he heard one lady trill to a group of tittering onlookers. "A man beds a woman and then it's; 'I love you but things are just too complicated.' And then three weeks later you meet Nanette or Janelle, who is not, by any definition of the word, complicated."
The gaggle of ladies broke into scandalised laughter and several butterfly eyes flicked his way, their grins hidden behind glittering false nails.
Oh, fantastic. This was going to be a really relaxing night.
"Alistair."
The king let out a sigh of relief. "Teagan."
"How are you holding up?" His uncle looked harried, his hair slightly out of place, his eyes darting around the room. Alistair knew that look, it only ever meant one thing. Disaster.
"I..." Well he didn't really have a way to finish that sentence.
"We were all surprised to see her." Teagan said. "Let's keep it together."
"No turning into a blubbering mess in Orlesian court, got... it..."
His joke petered out as he caught sight of the houndmaster loping into the room, and somehow he knew who would be trailing behind him. It wasn't jealousy. He hoped. He just hadn't seen any indication of Ameline's assertions that Cedric was romancing his general.
They stopped in the hall, several eyes turning their way, words muttered behind feather fans. Alistair watched them, assessing. They stood an appropriate distance apart, or as appropriate as two people could get in this mess and still hear each other. They didn't touch, their body language was all formality, and the way she gestured as she spoke didn't indicate anything but a military conversation. She was still in her armour, her cloak abandoned in favour of a blue sash, weighed down with medals. Nothing but two generals talking war, there was nothing unusual about that.
At least, until Cedric reached out and tucked one of her braids behind her ear. Their movement seemed to slow with the intimacy of the touch. She bit her bottom lip and cast her eyes down shyly. Alistair recognised that look, the exact same look he had seen when he gave her a rose from Lothering. Less a warrior, more a woman. A chill of jealousy shot through his chest.
"Alistair," Teagan hissed. He was tugged around and saw that Celene was approaching.
"Celene," he bowed and offered his arm, hoping that his voice had come out charming, rather than strangled.
"Alistair, it is so good to see you are well again." She took his arm and gracefully swayed beside him as he led her into the banquet hall.
"Yes, it seems that Orlesian heat does not agree with me. I'm sorry if it had you worried."
"It is not an uncommon reaction for Fereldans. King Cailan was bedridden for two days on his first visit to Jader."
The Empress' arrival seemed to signal the idlers into the banquet hall, and Alistair found them being followed by a cloud of pale silk and glowing armour. Celene had changed her dress into a violently bright gold arrangement, which he had to admit might have been heinous on another woman, but seemed only to enhance her already formidable presence.
He led her to the head seat and then glanced desperately at Ameline.
"You will sit to Empress Celene's left," the girl murmured. "To her right will be General Cousland, to your left will be Lady Vivian of the Ladies Diplomatic Association."
Ladies Diplomatic Association. Right. He could only begin to guess what that meant.
Celene waited while the lords, ladies and champions took up their places, a serene smile gracing her face and her hand resting in Alistair's. Everyone stood until the Empress was seated, then a legion of servants helped the ladies with their chairs, then Alistair sat, followed by the lords and then champions. It didn't escape his notice that General Cousland was the only woman, lady or champion, to be wearing armour, and she sat with the champions.
Celene raised her glass and began speaking in a high, clear voice. A speech. In Orlesian.
"Today we have two reasons to celebrate." Alistair nearly jumped out of his seat in surprise, then he realised the whisper was Ameline translating for him. "We are graced with the presence of the High King Alistair of Ferelden."
At this there was a smattering of applause and he bowed his head in acknowledgement.
"But we also celebrate the return of our generals from another successful campaign. Soon the Anderfels shall be part of the glory of Orlais, and everyone else can politely refrain from commenting."
"What?" Alistair hissed, turning to look at Ameline.
She shrugged. "I'm paraphrasing. Are you feeling well, sire? You look pale again."
"I'm fine." He tried to pretend he wasn't having a conversation with the girl behind his chair, keeping his eyes straight ahead and occasionally nodding in deference to Celene. "Does anyone here speak anything but Orlesian?"
"Most speak a variety of languages. You will be well again after the speeches. Empress Celene is now mentioning names of honour among the generals."
He had guessed that by the way Cousland was alternating between waving graciously to the court and looking like she was trying to become part of the chair she was sitting on. Cousland. Was he really thinking of her that way, now? Yes, he guessed he was, it was what she was now.
The speech seemed to go on and on and on. ("There were few casualties in the last battle, and none of name.") The Empress wasn't much of a talker outside court, but it seemed she had been saving up everything she didn't say during the day just to hit them all with it now. ("The Lords of the captured cities have come peaceably.") The court seemed happy enough with the arrangement, her speech often being punctuated by cheers of agreement. ("General Cousland and three others will receive medals of honour.")
Finally the speech ended in thunderous applause and the room broke out into excited chatter. Alistair breathed a quiet sigh of relief and gave Celene an impressed smile. He would never have been able to keep an audience entertained for that long.
"Alistair, have you met Lady Vivian?" Celene asked.
"No, I have...n't..." Alistair glanced to his left and was pulled up short. Ladies Diplomatic Association. Right.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, sire." Vivian gave him a dazzling smile. He was momentarily struck dumb by her beauty. She was artfully made up, her lips pouty and red, voluminous blonde curls cascaded down her back, and there was plenty of back to see. She was extraordinarily proportioned, with a waist so tiny he felt he could fit both hands around it so his fingertips met, and breasts and hips so comically bountiful that he felt his cheeks turn scarlet just from looking at her.
"And... and you, Lady Vivian." Alistair cleared his throat and heard a whimpering giggle from Ameline.
So this was to be the wine and women portion of his bedazzlement. He gently shifted his wine cup a little further from him. He hadn't really expected Celene to hit him this hard and fast. Or quite so obviously. Not that he had anything specific against buxom blonde courtesans, but it was hardly subtle.
Vivian was completely enchanting, charming and gracious, and she carried the conversation easily, seeming to know the exact questions to get him talking and when to let him set back in his chair and listen. She was well versed on a wide range of subjects, from parts of Orlesian culture he wanted to learn about to trade arrangements and principality issues. He wondered how thoroughly she had been briefed and how long it had taken her to learn all his mannerisms.
It might have been an incredibly pleasant conversation if his eyes didn't keep wandering without his permission. The general picked at her food, pushed it around her plate before giving the pretence and reaching for a fig. She spoke in muted tones to Celene. She broke into the only smile of the evening when Cedric waggled his eyebrows at her suggestively across the room, and quickly schooled her eyes back on her plate.
Part of him had hoped that her sickly condition might have been attributed to the travelling conditions, but he had known in his heart that wasn't the case. The High General of Orlais may have done as much riding and fighting as her men, but her accommodations would put theirs to shame. She wasn't sleeping on damp ground or forced to go weeks without bathing.
No, she wasn't well. He watched her take delicate bites of the fruit in her gloved hand, the hollows of her cheeks arching into each bite sharply. Her skin and hair had been scrubbed clean, her armour polished, her eyebrows shaped and lips sweetly reddened, and if anything she looked more macabre than she had on first arrival. The comforts of the city only made her discomfort more extreme by contrast. She fidgeted, eyes darting, like she expected to see danger in every shadow. It seemed like the tension was the only thing holding her together.
"Alistair, you must not have seen our General Cousland in many years," Celene said, starting him out of staring.
"Uh, no, I haven't."
The general slowly brought her gaze around as the topic of conversation turned to her. Her hollow stare sent a chill down his spine. Was she even in the room with them?
"She has made vast strides in her art," Celene cooed, clearly proud of her champion. "We haven't a swordsman in the court who can beat her."
Terrifying. "I don't doubt that."
"General, would you consent to a demonstration?"
The general looked for all the world like she was about to refuse and damn the consequences. She licked her lower lip, her mouth pursed. "Of course, your majesty."
A demonstration. This should be hilarious.
General Cousland rose to her feet, a bell chimed that made a hush fall over the hall. All eyes turned to the royal table.
"Empress Celene has requested a demonstration of swordsmanship for the pleasure of the High King Alistair. Who will challenge?"
There was a flutter of excitement at the tables, and for a moment it looked like no one would challenge her. Ladies laughed behind their fans, and several men were given good natured shoves, each recipient immediately offering up their hands in surrender to their aggressor. Finally a middle aged man stood.
"Lord General Millier of Mont-de-Grace challenges."
There was a round of polite applause and the lord made his way to the empty floor in front of the royal table. Cousland drew from her hips two weapons. Alistair was surprised to see that her slim longswords were gone, instead she wielded what appeared to be a pair of roasting forks, two pronged and barely the length of his hand. The spikes looked wickedly sharp and the design was sturdy.
The duellists bowed to each other and Celene announced the start of the match.
It was a simple display, sportsmanlike. The Orlesian thrust and swung, a textbook example of swordsmanship, and each blow was parried by the short forks, singing close to the Ferelden's body but never touching her.
If the man couldn't hit her and she was incapable of returning any serious blow, he couldn't see how this match would ever end. They circled, thrust and parried, she never made any move to injure her opponent.
"I'm not familiar with those weapons, what are they?" Alistair asked Celene.
The empress opened her mouth to answer but was cut off by a screech of steel. Lord Millier's sword slid between the prongs of one fork, the sound of blade in crook excruciating. With a flick of her wrist, Cousland snapped the blade from the hilt, sending it clattering to the ground. Before the lord could react to this turn of events, she landed a high kick on his sternum.
He fell backwards, hitting the floor with a clash of armour, and held up his hands in submission.
"Sword breakers." Vivian answered for Celene, a note of admiration in her voice. She sat back, resting her wine glass against her breast. "Breaking swords and breaking hearts. Would that I had a fraction of her way with generals."
The court applauded the pair as Cousland helped Millier to his feet.
"Well fought, Lord Millier," she said, then turned back to the seated lords. "Who challenges?"
Champion General Stephan was the next to lose his sword, and before Cousland could ask for challengers again, Celene flicked her wrist and her handmaiden ran to the floor to whisper in the general's ear.
Cousland looked like she had just bitten into a lemon. She threw a pleading glance at the empress who simply smiled back at her serenely.
"I challenge..." Her mouth quirked in a scowl. "I challenge Champion Hound Master Ouberman."
Most of the attending nobles were too polite to comment on Celene's choice, but there was more than one guffaw and some outright laughter. This was cruel. Alistair frowned, watching her eyes light with anger.
Cedric stood up, a good foot taller than the general, and bowed deeply. His broad mouth was set. He, at least, did not appreciate Celene's sense of humour. He drew two shortswords and Cousland tossed aside one of her swordbreakers, folding her right arm behind her back. Hound masters were no swordsmen. Fighting at her full ability, even with defensive weapons, was likely to see him injured.
The start of the match was announced.
Neither moved. Cedric, his reach so much longer, his stance so much wider, dwarfed his opponent. She looked willowy and frail next to him, as though his first strike would break her. She took no stance, simply holding her regal posture, arm behind her back, swordbreaker hanging loosely by her side. They held each other's eyes, waiting, ignoring the titters of the people watching them.
Cousland's brow furrowed, Cedric worried his lip with his teeth. There was a silent conversation, Alistair realised. The hound master didn't want to strike her, the general didn't want to hurt him. Each was trying to assure the other of their innocence in this situation.
Alistair wanted to admonish Celene, to call off the match, but he held his tongue.
Finally Cedric lashed out, his strike shaky. Cousland leaned aside, not moving her feet, not even bringing her weapon to bear.
With more confidence, the hound master lashed out, one sword, then the other. Cousland leaned away from one, her swordbreaker parrying the other. She stepped back, taking a firmer stance. They began to circle, steel singing off steel, he tested her defenses. He'd find no hole, Alistair knew her speed.
"Like we practised." The words were just a whisper, barely audible even at the royal table. Cedric jerked his head in a nod, and lunged forward.
She was trying not to humiliate him. Celene had trained her to embarrass men at court, then forced her to go against her barely trained lover. Alistair couldn't believe the sadism of this, thinly veiled as culture. Cousland slowed her movements, allowing each thrust to follow through before striking it down, trying to let him save face. Every report said that Orlais had the best kennels in the Thedas outside Ferelden, they had nothing to complain about with their hound master, least of all his skills with a sword.
Things sped up on the floor as Cedric found his footing, the strikes came faster, a steady rhythm of steel on steel, a dance of practised footwork. Both were doing well, movements smooth, blows steady.
He struck out with the pommel of one sword, surprising her with a blow to the sternum. She stumbled back and the watchers gasped collectively. It was the first time that night she'd been struck, and it had been clearly unintentional. Cousland's right hand flew to her chest reflexively, and her lover stood back while she regained her breath.
They circled again, but it was apparent that Cousland was satisfied that the court had received its show. As Cedric lashed out, she caught his left blade and snapped it. He barely flinched, dropping the hilt to the ground and continuing his assault. Thrust, parry, swipe, fall back, push forward. He was giving her a run for her money, that much was obvious, and it was a far better showing than anyone had expected.
He swung high and she ducked, a trail of braids flying out behind her. There was a tiny stutter in the sing of his sword and one of her braids fell to the ground.
The whole room seemed to freeze. Cousland stared at the braid lying lifeless on the ground. Cedric watched her with terrified eyes, clearly aware that he was now in extremely serious trouble.
She looked from the braid to her lover, her face a mask of indignation.
As fast as lightning one of her feet hooked behind Cedric's knees and her swordbreaker slid over his sword. The falling man's own weight broke off his sword in his hand and he hit the ground with a resounding thud. Cedric shook his head, clearing stars from his eyes, then grinned.
He held up in his closed fist, presenting to the court the severed braid.
Celene was the first to lead the applause, soon growing to thunderous proportions. Cousland helped him to his feet, and after a quick glance at the crowd and the tiniest quirk of her lips, kissed his cheek.
The hound master touched the tender spot on his cheek, looking a little stunned, and watched the general resume her seat, before holding up his trophy one last time and loping back to his own place.
Cousland took up her seat again and gave Celene a scathing look. "I hope that was to your satisfaction, your majesty."
"You are too serious, general," Celene laughed. "And look how happy your lover is."
While she was completely right, if Cedric was any happier there'd be two of him, her comment certainly sucked any of the humour out of the situation. The general looked, if it was possible, even more stonefaced.
"As much as you enjoy the rumours surrounding myself and Hound Master Ouberman, my lady, I consider my generals' safety neither an opportunity for romantic hijinx, nor a joke."
Really? Alistair raised an eyebrow. When Wynne had given him the talk about where babies come from, she'd laughed so hard she couldn't stand up, despite the fact that they were in the deep roads and likely to be murdered at any second. And when Oghren had started talking about her legs. Pretty much any time that ended in someone being mortified, usually him.
The conversation in the hall was suspiciously active all of a sudden, looks being cast at the general and the hound master, barely concealed by courtesy. Even a few were being cast Alistair's way, and he made a point of re-engaging Vivian, partly to stop the gossip, partly to block out the image of Cedric's delighted grin as soft pink lips pressed against his cheek, the general's body stretching alarmingly thin as she stood on tiptoes to reach him.
The night became slowly less rigid in formality, soon people rose from their seats to converse or dance, and servants quietly remove any evidence that it had ever been anything but a ball. There was music, interspersed with acts for the Empress' enjoyment, from acrobats to firebreathers, each as impressive as the last.
Lady Vivian stayed by Alistair's side for most of the festivities, keeping a discrete distance when he broke off to talk to someone, but somehow always being in easy reach of him. Celene was going to be very disappointed when he didn't bed her, she'd obviously been given some quite specific instructions with regards to him.
It wasn't until quite late in the night that he spotted General Cousland, alone, sipping at her wine and trying to blend in with the wall. It wasn't easy for her. She stood out among the Orlesians. An opal among diamonds, she shone with a different light. None of them had hair quite as dark and most women were half a foot shorter than her, even her posture practically screamed 'foreigner'.
"General... Cousland," Alistair said awkwardly.
"Sire." She bowed, spilling her wine a little. There was a rosy sheen to her cheeks, she'd been hitting the drink harder than the food, that much was certain. He wasn't entirely eager for her to address him like that, but he supposed he'd started the formality.
"I'm surprised to see you here."
"Yes, I'm afraid I've neglected to write to Fergus recently, sire, so he had no news to pass on to you."
"Had he told me, I wouldn't have believed him."
She rose one judgemental eyebrow. "You are surprised to see a general at the head of an army?"
"I'm surprised to see a Fereldan in Orlais. Especially a Fereldan I considered loyal." He couldn't keep a note of anger out of his voice.
"I'm a Grey Warden, not a Fereldan. I have no nationality."
"You wouldn't do it, would you?" he asked, surprising himself with the question. He had enough questions to last all evening even if her answers were brief, but this one was burning him.
She looked genuinely confused and swayed a little as she gestured with her cup. "Do what, sire?"
"March on Ferelden."
"Doing so by myself would seem ill-advised."
"Don't joke about this," he warned.
"I will do as Empress Celene commands, sire. It isn't the providence of Grey Wardens to decide the fate of nations." Her words were regal, gracious, and so audacious that they left him speechless. She was willing to disappear for five years, turn up at the head of the Orlesian army, and then look him in the eye and claim that as a completely reasonable sequence of events.
"How could you? You gave up everything to defend Ferelden, and now you have no problem conquering it?"
She stared at him blankly for a moment, then something over his shoulder caught her eye. "Please excuse me, sire, Empress Celene is calling me."
With a gentle bow she walked away, disappearing into clouds of Orlesian silk.