CHAPTER FOUR: War, Wagers, and Wagging Tongues
"You remember our bet?" I ask. We have gone up two flights of stairs now, passing quarters belonging to the head servants and their families on the keep's fourth and fifth floors. We've not yet reached the sixth floor, a commons of sorts that provides separate access to each of my family's private apartments. Already, my head is clearer.
"The bet we made ten minutes ago?" Aeron asks, amused. "Yes. Yes, I think I just might."
"Well, I only bring it up because your position seemed to be that there's no Blight coming, and all you'll find in the south is a handful of darkspawn?" Despite my best attempts, I can feel the corners of my lips tugging toward a smirk. Hopefully Aeron, who is behind me, can't hear it in my voice.
"Are you going somewhere with this?"
"Oh, I was just thinking," I say innocently. "Talking like that, you sound a lot like Arl Howe."
"Fuck Howe!" Aeron replies immediately, as I know he will.
I laugh anyway.
"And fuck you!" Aeron adds for good measure, indignant. "But – and, I hate to say this – but – he's not a fool. If Teyrn Loghain thinks this is a goose chase, I'd tend to believe him."
"Still. Seems like you two really saw eye to eye back there.
"Fuck you!" he repeats. "I take back what I said, you should turn Duncan down and stay here, if you know so much better than Loghain! You can stay up here and worry about missing out on the glory, for all I care, and while I'm wading through muck and grime, searching for monsters that aren't there and dreaming about all the ale and tits I haven't had in six months' time, at least I'll have the satisfaction of knowing you owe me a silver!"
...
Still laughing, we push open a door at the top of the stairs, into the commons, and find it already occupied. Mother and Lady Landra are seated on adjoining couches, with a low table between them bearing tea, fruit, and cutlery – apparently the remains of their lunch. A man wearing formal armor stands behind Landra, his back to the women, staring into a crackling fireplace. It takes me a moment to recognize the man as Ser Jory, Landra's nephew.
On her couch, Mother looks relaxed in spite of her formal attire: her feet are curled beneath her, hidden by her voluminous skirts, and she clasps a steaming cup with both hands, holding it just beneath her nose as she inhales deeply. Her graying hair, elaborately pinned up when she passed us earlier in the dining hall, hangs in a single braid down her back. Her eyes are closed, smoothing the few lines on her face, and a slight smile plays at the corner of her lips as she nods slowly at whatever Lady Landra is saying. When we enter, her eyes open and the smile grows, but other than these small changes, she doesn't stir.
The man by the fire shifts to look at us, however, and inclines his head respectfully when he recognizes me and Aeron. Lady Landra struggles to her feet as quickly as she can, beaming and discarding a half-eaten scone onto the table.
"Liam!" she exclaims, arms out for a hug from halfway across the room. "So good to see you again!"
Intentionally avoiding Aeron's sidelong glance, I walk over to Landra and politely accept her crushing hug. Thankfully, she does not appear to be into her wine yet today, and pecks me once on the cheek before letting me go.
"I trust your journey was pleasant, My Lady," I say, bowing slightly as she steps back.
"Oh, yes!" Landra exclaims, beaming. "My nephew, Dairren – you know him, I think? – he has been accepted into the Grey Warden Order – can you imagine?" She beckons urgently at Ser Jory to join us, and he turns stiffly away from the fire and begins to stride over. Meanwhile, I briefly debate telling Landra that she has crumbs on her lace-covered décolletage. "He was asked personally by the Commander of the Grey Wardens, a very handsome man named Duncan!"
"It is a great honor," Ser Jory says, having arrived beside his aunt. His armor is polished to a sheen, one that is matched by the sweat glistening on his freshly-shaven head. It has been at least a year since I saw him last, but I recall that he used to have quite a mop of hair, which he wore untied, and seemed quite proud of. Either the Wardens require their recruits to shave their heads, which seems unlikely, or Ser Jory is attempting to look more warlike in light of his new position.
"Anyhow," Landra continues breathlessly, "Commander Duncan and a number of his brethren rode with us all the way from Denerim! Quite the escort, don't you think?"
Behind her, mother sets her tea cup down and rises.
Landra has turned her attention to Aeron, and is making introductions between him and Ser Jory, although none are necessary; the two have crossed blades at several tournaments, and although Aeron has always emerged the victor, he spoke favorably of Ser Jory's skill with a blade after each encounter.
"My son," Mother says, smiling warmly at me. "I assume that since we have received refreshments from the kitchen, you were able to deal with that troublesome hound of yours?"
"Yes, ma'am," I say. "Nan's head exploded, and Madra ate a number of the kitchen staff, but otherwise, yes, definitely."
Mother laughs. Even when Aeron and I were at the peak of our hooliganism, in our early teens, she always had trouble keeping a straight face when dealing with us. She rules the home with a firm hand, but also a ready smile, and as a result we both adore her.
"Well," she says, "I suppose that's no worse a result than Nan quitting on us."
It's my turn to laugh. "She did threaten to quit a few times, but we dealt with Madra, and also with another...issue, I guess you could call it, and Madra was actually a help for once. If anything, I'd say Nan was grateful to her by the end of it."
In another setting, I'd not hesitate to tell Mother about the rats; she would probably want a full recounting, in fact. Something very few people know about my mother is that her taste for stories is decidedly bloodthirsty, and that she herself is quite an adept hunter.
"Fergus did mention there was some trouble," Mother says, winking at me, which leads me to believe she did know about the rats – and that she appreciates me leaving that detail out in the presence of her guest. "Thank you both for handling the issue."
Aeron breaks away from Landra and Dairren to bow. "Anything for you, My Lady," he says, with a flourish, and takes my mother's hand to kiss her knuckles.
Mother snaps her hand away, but with a smile, and Landra falls into a fit of giggles. "Oh, what a charmer! Oh, Eleanor, how can you resist!"
"The charm wears off, I assure you," Mother says, not without affection. "The both of them are often more trouble than they're worth. Speaking of which, what brings you two ruffians upstairs?"
"Looking for Fergus," I say. "You've heard Arl Howe's men are delayed?"
"Fergus told us Howe's men are several days behind." She shakes her head irritably. "You'd think they are all walking backwards."
"Arl Howe said something about rains washing out some of the roads,"
"Not the roads we travelled," Landra says indignantly. "The old goat is just making excuses, I'm sure."
"Aunt!" Dairren chides. "Our road was much further south than the road from Amaranthine. Coastal weather can be very…"
"Pish-posh!" Landra says, waving him off. "The Wardens want you for your sword arm, not your meteorological observations. Howe is a doddering old ass."
Aeron chuckles at this, earning an adoring smile from Landra.
"Your father wants Fergus to leave early, then, I suppose?" Mother guesses. "He's in his apartments, with Oriana and Oren, taking their lunch."
"We invited them to eat with us, of course," Lady Landra interjects, "but of course, one understands he'll want as much time with his darling little family as he can find, before marching. Do you suppose they'll stay for tonight's feast?"
"Tonight's feast?" I repeat.
"I doubt it very much," Mother answers, before explaining.
Evidently Nan's temper has continued to boil over due to the tardiness of the Amaranthine soldiers, and more particularly the wasted time spent cooking for them this morning. When Lady Landra heard of the commotion, she cleverly – if predictably – suggested salvaging the food for a feast this evening, and volunteered her retinue of servants to assist Nan in the efforts. The feast is ostensibly to bid farewell to Father, Arl Howe, and the other assorted nobility who will ride south in the morning, with or without the host from Amaranthine. It's noble of Lady Landra to have thought of such a solution, although I'm sure the prospect of food, wine, song, and dance may also have played a role.
I can't help wondering what Nan makes of all this – whether she is pleased or furious, or perhaps both. With her, it can be hard to tell the difference. I also can't help wondering if Iona is in the kitchens now, and if by running to the library earlier, I missed her by only a few minutes.
No sooner has the latter thought crossed my mind than she appears around a corner, carrying an empty silver platter as she walks toward the table at which Mother and Landra dined. She is across the room, unseen by everyone but Aeron and I; she walks around the fireplace, focused on the plates that still need to be cleared, and both Aeron's body and Ser Jory's disguise me from her view. I'm afforded a few seconds to watch her while she remains unaware.
Human women often walk with a distinctive sway to their hips, and it is a question of no small interest to Aeron as to whether this is a natural phenomenon or a practiced technique. Elves move completely differently, and yet with no less allure. As Iona walks, you could be forgiven for thinking she is gliding, no part of her beside her feet moving at all; but you could also be forgiven for thinking she is a dancer, flowing gracefully across the room with all her being.
Her blond hair is cut to shoulder-length and is loose except for several thin braids pulled back from her forehead; one hangs on each side of her face, framing her cheekbones, and the others are pulled back behind pointed ears and gathered together at the back of her neck, where they are woven together with beads or jewelry. Her shoulders are bared by her dress, and she wears a silver choker, inset with amber-colored stones that match others embroidered into her long, smooth dress. She is the picture of fashion, and I have no doubt that every aspect of her current appearance was meticulously selected by Lady Landra – and fervently hated by Iona herself.
"Ah, there you are, dear Iona!" Landra calls out just as Iona sets the platter down and reaches for the nearest empty plate.
Iona looks up at our group and sees me for the first time. She keeps her face neutral as she rises and curtsies, but – oh so briefly – she allows her enormous green eyes to meet my gaze.
"You remember Ser Cousland and Ser Gilmore, of course?" Landra asks. "Iona used to live in Highever, you know," she adds, addressing us now. "Her mother was one of Eleanor's ladies in waiting, wasn't she, my dear?"
It can truly appalling, this woman's ignorance. Over the years, it's become clear that Mother never told Landra about my relationship with Iona, but even with that in mind, Landra cannot truly believe we would fail to recognize Iona. The reason Landra took Iona on – the reason Iona's family left Highever, and Iona's mother left my mother's service – is well known to Landra, or ought to be. Then again, if Landra had any sense, she'd have left Iona in Denerim, at Bann Loren's family estate, rather than bringing her back here. So, in this case, I suppose I can be grateful for Landra's ignorance.
"My lady," Aeron says to Iona, bowing politely.
"Iona," I say softly, and smile as I follow Aeron's example. I've done my best to keep the depth of emotion out of my voice, but I noticed Ser Jory glances at me questioningly and watch my mother's shoulder's tense, and know I haven't exactly succeeded.
"Ah, yes," Landra blunders on, still oblivious, "Iona asked about you both. You must have known each other as children?"
"My lords," Iona says, her eyes only on me now. "It is an honor to see you both again. I understand you are to be a Grey Warden, Ser Gilmore?"
Aeron nods. "So I'm told."
"And you, my lord?" Iona asks, the tiniest hint of hesitation in her voice.
That question – I had thought I left it below, in the great hall. If anyone else were asking, I'm sure I could find a diplomatic answer that gave nothing away. Failing that, I could lie. But not to Iona – not knowing that the question is weighing on her mind.
"Don't look now, Eleanor," Landra blurts, "but I think your boy may be smitten with my maid!"
If mother could drop her face into her hands, I think she might.
"My lady!" Iona protests, indignant but also amused. Even the blind can blunder close to the truth.
"I was merely surprised by the question, Lady Landra," I explain. I'm rather proud of my sudden bout of diplomacy.
"Of course, of course," Landra says, before breaking into a giggle. "Oh, but no one blames you, Liam – she's quite lovely!"
"Hush, Landra," Mother says, a slight edge in her voice that cuts the giggling short. "You'll turn the poor girl scarlet, talking about her like this."
Iona curtsies to my mother before turning back to the table and platter, but not without casting me a sidelong glance – not one of amusement at Landra's babbling, but one that contains a question. I'm painfully aware that I did not answer her question about the Wardens, and my own conflict at Aeron's recruitment is a painful reminder of Iona's position.
Before I can offer an answer to Iona, I'll have to find one for myself. If we can manage to find time together tonight, she may even be able to help me find an answer – even more than Aeron, Iona was always my closest confidant, and even now, separated as we are by duties and distance, she can still offer clarity and perspective when I need them most.
Mother is soothing Landra now, as Iona finishes clearing off the table. I watch as she walks away, not an unpleasant view, and am dimly aware that mother is excusing herself. She wants to come with me, to bid farewell to Fergus.
"I understand, of course, Eleanor," Landra is saying. "Go on, go on. I think perhaps I could use a rest, anyhow, my dear."
"I will walk you back to the suite, Aunt," Dairren says, and turns to Aeron. "Could I persuade you to accompany me, Ser?"
"Uh," Aeron says, and glances to me, then Mother, who gives a nod.
Dairren seems genuinely pleased. "Since I heard we would take the Grey together, I have been hoping to speak with you," he says. "There can be no greater honor, I think, than to serve the Wardens, especially in times such as these. What have you heard about the testing? I expect it will be quite rigorous…"
As they depart, Aeron turns and makes a face. Never one for earnestness, he is no doubt quailing in the face of Ser Jory's intense sincerity. Still, he's gracious enough to recognize his place is elsewhere as Mother and I bid Fergus farewell. Besides, Aeron being Aeron, I'm sure he and Dairren will be great friends by the end of their solemn discussion of righteous glory.
...
The family apartments are accessed by private stairways at each corner of the commons, and together make up the keep's seventh floor. Fergus' apartment is on the southwestern corner, and the army encampment is easily visible from many of the windows. Oren is perched on a cushioned window-seat, his nose pressed against the glass, staring down at formations of soldiers.
"Will there really be a war, Papa?" he asks without turning. "Will you bring me back a sword?"
"I'll get you the mightiest one I can find, I promise," Fergus says, winking at me as I pass. He answered our knock at the door, and has held it open as we enter.
"When?" Oren asks.
"I'll be back as soon as I can," Fergus says. "Probably before you know it."
"I wish victory were indeed so certain." Fergus' wife, Oriana, is seated at the edge of a sofa near Oren's window. "My heart is…disquiet, my love."
Fergus moves toward her. "Stop it," he says with a smile, "you'll frighten the boy, and me besides."
Oriana turns her full lips into a pout and reaches out to take his hand, rising from the sofa.
"It is my prerogative to worry," she says.
Although she is about my age, and in fact quite beautiful, Oriana has always seemed much older to me. She carries herself with practiced grace, and somehow her soft voice and gentle words carry the weight of authority. Unlike the rest of our family, she wears her nobility proudly, preferring formality and finery to traditional Ferelden utilitarianism, but without a shred of ostentation. Her purple and gold dress is Orlesian, and she wears her long hair up, pinned in place with golden ornaments, but all of her jewelry today is blue and green, the Cousland colors.
"And mine to reassure you," Fergus says, turning her with one hand to face mother, almost as though he is twirling her in a dance. "I speak the truth. I will be back before any of you can even miss me."
"Who said we'll miss you," I say, and at that, Oren turns and jumps off the window seat.
"Uncle!" You'd think it had been weeks since we saw each other last, rather than hours. Not for the first time today, Oren sprints at me and I pick him up in an enormous hug. Seated comfortably on my hip, Oren whispers quite loudly in my ear: "Nan gave me cookies!"
"To our eternal dismay," Oriana says. "He's only just now stopped moving to look out at the troops."
"I want to go with Papa," Oren announces.
"Me too," I say, and set him down on the ground.
"I'd love to have you both," Fergus says, ruffling Oren's hair. "It'll be tiring, killing all those darkspawn by myself."
We have gathered in a loose circle at the center of the room now, Oren on my left and Mother on my right. Fergus and Oriana are still holding hands.
"Your father and mother would be foolish to put both their heirs in danger," Oriana tells me. Maybe I'm reading too deeply into her words, but there seems to be an implication that I ought to be riding south, not Fergus. If that's her intent, I certainly don't disagree.
"Indeed we would," Mother says, "and Fergus lobbied hard for the honor." It's a gentle rebuke to Oriana. She may not prefer to dress for the part, but mother can play the game of words as well as any noble.
"Well, if it's any consolation," Fergus interjects, completely oblivious to the subtext, "I'm sure the moment the battle is over, I'll regret my decision. No doubt I'll freeze in the southern rain and be completely jealous of all of you, up here, warm and safe."
"I am positively thrilled that you plan to be so miserable, my husband," Oriana remarks dryly.
"You really think this will be over so quickly?" I ask. "Aeron thinks the same."
Fergus shrugs. "Word from the south is that the battles have gone well, is it not? Grey Wardens or no, there's no evidence this is a true Blight. My money says this is just a large raid, nothing more."
"I've a bet going with Aeron about that," I say. "I hope you're both right; I wouldn't mind giving up my coin, this time."
"Speaking of Aeron–" Fergus glances sideways at Mother, then continues. "Did the Warden talk to you?"
Before I can answer, Oren butts in excitedly. "Is a Grey Warden here? Here right now!?"
"Uh, yes," Fergus says distractedly.
For everyone else present, the air is thick with implications and with my unanswered question. For Oren, there is nothing but awe and delight. My nephew is literally hopping up and down as he barrages us with questions: "Is he a mage? How many darkspawn has he killed? Did he ride in on a griffon? Can I see the griffons!? Where is he? How many are there!?"
"Oren!" Oriana's exclamation silences him, at least momentarily. "Take a breath, my son. And you know griffons only exist in stories."
"Oh," Oren says, crestfallen. "Why?"
Mother, likely possessing more experience answering the unanswerable questions of little boys, takes point. "No one knows," she says simply.
"But what happened to them?" he presses.
"Perhaps they flew away to join the Maker," Oriana suggests, which seems to placate Oren.
"Well," Fergus says to me, "have you decided?"
"Actually," I say, evading the question, "I'm here with word from Father. He asks that you make ready to leave as soon as possible, without him. He and Arl Howe will follow tomorrow, with the supply wagons and the other nobles."
"Then the Arl's men are delayed," Fergus says, nodding. "I should get under way, then – so many darkspawn to decapitate, so little time! I guess you've both come to say goodbye, as well?"
I nod. "Father will meet you at the camp. He wants to say words to the men before you march."
"Be well, my son," Mother says, her voice uncharacteristically husky. "We'll take our leave, so that you can be with your beautiful family, but…" Abruptly, she pulls Fergus into a tight hug. "I will pray for your safety every day that you are gone."
Looking a bit startled, Fergus puts his arms around my mother. She is tiny in his embrace.
"Fergus will be fine, Mother," I say, stepping forward and putting a hand on her shoulder. Our circle closes, as Oriana also puts an arm around her husband, and Oren moves close as well.
"I keep telling you all," Fergus chuckles, "no filthy darkspawn will ever best me! Liam is right, I'll be fine!"
"All the same," Oriana says softly, "I'll be praying too."
"We should pray now," Mother says, releasing Fergus.
We join hands and bow heads, Oren fidgeting almost immediately, as Mother speaks a brief benediction. "Maker, sustain and preserve us all. Watch over these sons, these husbands, and these fathers, and bring them safely back to us, those who love them."
"Amen," we all say, and hands are squeezed before they are released.
"And, Maker, bring us victory, ale, and wenches!" Fergus adds, forcing levity. "For the men, of course."
"Fergus!" Oriana exclaims. "You'd say this in front of your own mother!"
"What's a wench?" Oren wants to know. "Is that what you pull on to get the bucket out of the well?"
"Uh," Fergus says, looking down at his son with a bemused expression. He looks at Oriana for help, and she regards him stonily.
"A wench is a woman who pours ale in cheap taverns," Mother says, surprising us all. "Or a woman who drinks too much ale."
"Huh," Fergus says, smiling. "In that case, I guess most of the women I was friends with before I met your mother were wenches, Oren."
"Maker's breath, Fergus!" Oriana looks at my mother helplessly. "It's like we're surrounded by a pack of small boys!"
Fergus laughs. "And this small boy will miss you all." He pecks Mother on the cheek, then looks at me. "You'll take care of her, Brother, won't you?"
I clap him on the shoulder. "Since when has she ever needed taking care of?"
He laughs again. "True. Really, we should be sending Mother, not me. You'd scold those darkspawn right back into the Deep Roads."
"Send Nan, too," I suggest.
"That's just unfair to the darkspawn."
"Why do they get to go, but I can't?" Oren demands.
"Well," Mother says, exasperated, "I'm glad you all find this so funny!"
Fergus hugs her again, kissing her forehead this time. "And I'm glad we have you to worry for us." Again, he addresses me. "And not just her, you'll look after Oriana and my son, won't you?"
He's really asking: You won't run off with Aeron and the Wardens, will you?
When he asks that way, I suppose I already know the answer. "Of course I'll look after them. Although I expect Oren will protect us all well enough."
This please Oren immensely. "What if the castle is attacked?" he asks, hopefully. "There could be dragons!"
"Dragons are horrible, Oren," his mother chides. "They eat people."
"Yes!" he exclaims, as though nothing could be better. "I can't wait to see one! It'll be so big…"
"This is your influence, Fergus," Oriana says, exasperated.
"What? I didn't say anything!"
"Are you going to teach me to use a sword, Uncle? I'll need one if there are dragons – or evil things!" Oren again strikes a dueling stance, hacking and stabbing now with an imaginary blade. "Take thaty! All darkspawn, fear my sword of truthiness!" Abruptly, he pauses, arm cocked mid-slash. "You will teach me, right Uncle?"
"I'm not very good with a sword," I admit.
"Arrows?" he suggests.
I smile. "I'm better with those. Not as good as your grandma, though." It's true – Mother, like her entire family, is a superb archer.
"Teach me that, then!"
"No," Oriana says.
"Your arms might be a little weak yet," Fergus adds, conciliatorily. "Once you can draw the bow, your uncle will teach you."
Disappointed, Oren's brows crunch inward as he thinks. "Then…poison?"
"I'm thinking, 'no,'" Oriana says, but she appears to be holding back laughter now.
"Don't worry, son, there's time aplenty for all that," Fergus says.
He steps to me, and we clasp each other's shoulders. Much passes between us in a moment of silence, and his hands tighten.
"I know you'll look after them," he says quietly. "Thank you."
The thanks are for more than watching out for Oren – they are for the choice I have not yet spoken, but have clearly made.
Taking me by surprise, I feel tears welling in my eyes – out of fear for my brother, or due to the enormity of the decision I've unwittingly made, I don't know. I pull Fergus into a hug, one that he returns fiercely.
"Be safe, big brother," I tell him. "Maker watch over you."
...
"Walk with me," Mother says after we've left Fergus's apartment.
Dutifully, I follow, through the commons and then a hall, a set of stairs, another hall, and more stairs, until we emerge directly onto the curtain wall where it joins the keep's northeastern corner. A guardsman salutes my mother as we step out onto the ramparts and then continues past us, following the catwalk around the keep's sides to the courtyard landing, a crossbow slung over his shoulder.
Mother walks slowly, her arm in mine, the wind pulling at loose strands of her hair, her eyes forward as though in a trance. I pace beside her, and not for the first time today, I take in the views of the city below and the Waking Sea beyond, glittering even more brightly now beneath the noon sunshine. We go silently, turning once to follow the curtain wall, then again, until we are above the gatehouse, opposite the keep. Here, at last, mother stops, and leans on the stone battlements.
There is a commotion beneath us, a grinding noise as locks are undone and the gates swing open. We hear hooves, and then Fergus passes through the gate with several guardsmen, riding down into the castle's outer wards. He turns back once to look at the keep, but in the sun's glare he does not appear to see us.
A long sigh escapes Mother's lips, and she leans hard against my shoulder.
"It's difficult, isn't it?" she says. "To stay in the castle, and watch those we love ride off into danger? It sits poorly with me, and I know it must with you as well."
I nod slowly. "I…I don't feel peace about any of this," I admit.
"Nor do I," she agrees. "Your father and brother are marching off to fight…Maker knows what. All the assurance from you and Fergus and Bryce, all the promises in the world, they don't comfort me one bit. But as much as we both might like it, it would do no good for us to take up arms and follow them. They have their duties, and we have ours. You understand that, don't you?"
I shift, so I can look her in the eyes, and nod. "Of course, Mother."
"I know you do," she says, smiling soberly. "I know you do. Lady Landra is a bit foolish, but she isn't wrong, Liam: you've grown into a fine young man. I'm proud to call you my son."
Not sure what else to say, I put my arm around her and squeeze her shoulders.
"You never answered Fergus," she continues, when we have stood silent for another minute, watching Fergus disappear among thatched rooves, heading toward one of the gates in the outer curtain wall. "About the Wardens."
"It didn't seem the right time to…to talk about that."
"I know they've offered you a place," she says quietly. "Your father told me last night. I gather you've told them no?"
"Not yet. When Commander Duncan first asked me to join, it took me by surprise. I just – I just didn't know what to say."
"I'm surprised you didn't take it into your head to join immediately." She pauses, then corrects herself. "Actually, I suppose I'm not surprised. You've never been the type to jump headlong into anything."
"I'm not always sure that's such a good thing."
"Then trust me," she says. "It is most certainly a good thing. Too many men act without considering the consequences. Your friend Aeron is one. Your brother is probably another."
Again, we are quiet for some time, staring out over the city, staring at nothing and everything.
"And have you decided now?" she asks at last.
I nod slowly. "I think so. There's a part of me that would like nothing better than to join the Wardens – I think mostly so I don't have to sit here while everyone else fights, but also just to follow Aeron. That's what I've always done, you know? It feels like it would be so much easier to keep doing that, and probably braver too. It's hard to see how I can stay here, inside the walls, safe and sound – warm in my own bed, like Fergus said – with a good conscience."
I sigh and turn away, looking out over the city once more. Mother is quiet, listening expectantly.
"But, it's like you said – we all have our own duties. If Father wants me to stay here, then I couldn't join the Wardens in good conscience, either. And besides all that…" I stop talking, wrestling with myself, trying to find the right words. Eventually, I turn back to mother and smile ruefully. "I think I knew my answer right away, I just didn't realize I knew, not until Fergus asked me to watch after his family. He said that, and I just…" I trail off again. It seems I'm having difficulty finishing my own sentences at the moment.
Again, Mother remains silent, waiting me out.
At last, I have the words. "I think, as exciting as an adventure sounds, we all know that's not really what I'm meant for. Aeron's always dreamed about it, Fergus too – even Oren, I guess. But…that's just not in my blood. I don't want to be anywhere but here. Maybe that makes me a coward? I don't know."
"You are no coward," Mother says firmly. "I've no doubt you would ride to war if we gave you the chance, whether you want adventure or not."
"I do wonder," I tell her, hesitantly. "I don't mean to question you and Father, but…" She nods encouragingly. "Well, I just can't understand why Father doesn't leave Fergus here instead of me? He has a family. Wouldn't it be better for him to stay behind? He could govern Highever at least as well as I can, especially with your help."
"You really think so?"
"Of course," I say. "I mean, I guess so."
Mother studies me for some time, her face inscrutable, before finally asking: "You really don't know, then?"
"Know?" I ask.
"Fergus is a good man," she says, slowly. "He has a kind heart, and a brave spirit, and he loves his family. But for all his strength and all his goodness, he is no leader. Neither I nor your father are confident he could adequately govern the city, let alone the teyrnir, were he to remain in your stead."
She watches me intently as her meaning begins to sink in.
"Your brother," she continues, "will not be the next Teyrn of Highever."
Among the nobility of Ferelden, order of birth does not always determine the succession of titles, but such is the presumption. If I've understood Mother correctly, she and Father plan to pass Fergus over. Their intent is that I will be the next Teyrn of Highever, when Father passes or surrenders his title.
"Does Fergus know?" I ask, my voice so low it is almost a whisper.
"He agrees, in fact," Mother says. "He brought the matter to your father and I some months ago."
"Why…why didn't you tell me?"
"There's been no need until now," she says, almost wistfully. "We discussed it with Fergus, and your father and I have spoken of it often between ourselves, before and since – but there's been no pressing need to make a decision, let alone an announcement. But now, with all that's happened – all that is happening – such things become more important."
Perhaps I should have seen this coming. It certainly hasn't escaped my notice that Fergus' duties are different than mine, tied less directly to the governance of the teyrnir, nor that his assignments have been less frequent and less taxing than mine. However, I'd assumed this was because he had already proved himself in the more monotonous tasks, and needed more time to fulfill his responsibilities as a husband and father.
"I imagine your father would have liked to be there when we told you," Mother says, "but…now just the seemed the right time." She smiles at me affectionately. "And, perhaps this puts you more at ease with your decision?"
I manage a choked laugh. "Maybe," I say. "Or maybe I'm rethinking things. Darkspawn suddenly don't seem so overwhelming."
"Oh, nonsense," she replies, smiling. "I know Highever will be in good hands."
"Aren't you staying?"
"For a few days," she says, "just to see if you've any questions you need answered. Then I'll travel with Landra to her estate in Denerim. Your father thinks my presence here might undermine your authority if I remained."
"So – is this a test, then?" I ask, the possibility only just now dawning on me.
"That's not how I'd thought of it," she says. "If it's anything, I suppose it's just another lesson for you. Think of it as preparation, before the full weight of the teyrnir is passed on to you."
"Hopefully not too soon," I say, without thinking about the implications.
Titles are most often relinquished voluntarily, when the nobles who hold them have reached an appropriate age for retirement and selected a suitable heir. That's all I meant, but with Father and Fergus riding the war, it would be easy to interpret my words in a grimmer fashion.
"We can only pray," Mother says, taking my words in the darker context. "But your father is a skilled warrior, and Fergus too – and they will have the Wardens with them. There's no reason to fear."
Rather than try to explain myself, I only nod. She sounds like she is trying to convince herself as much as reassure me.
"I know," I say. "So, Denerim with Lady Landra, eh?"
Mother glances sideways at me, arching an eyebrow in question.
I make a face. "Better you than me," I tell her. "Even if everything goes well, it'll be a month at least before we can expect Father back. A month or more with Landra." I shake my head, pityingly. "Now that I think of it, you might have the most difficult trial of us all."
"Landra has a good heart," Mother says, but she is chuckling. "When I married your father, she was the only woman in all the nobility who showed me any kindness. She took me under her wing, you know – she taught me what it meant to be nobility, and she's never once judged me for my common birth."
"I've heard the story," I say. "A few times, actually."
Mother smacks my shoulder.
"I know, I know," I say. "Still, I don't know how you put up with her."
After a moment, Mother gives in and nods. "I'm not sure either, sometimes. For all her kindness, she is completely incapable of holding her tongue."
"Or her wine."
Mother nods agreement, but her expression sobers. "Even so, she is a good friend. I would think you owe her no small debt of gratitude yourself, Liam."
I nod. I wondered if Iona would come up. Now she has.
"For all Landra's blundering earlier, she is not a fool," Mother says. "It's obvious you still have eyes for the girl."
I look down, not sure how to respond.
"The two of you are not so discrete as you think, either," she continues. "Even if she has not guessed the truth, she has heard rumors."
"Rumors?"
This time, Mother chuckles at my expense. "You boys play your drinking games and make wagers about war," she says. "Women like Landra drink wine and wag their tongues. She knows the girl has feelings for you as well, and it is only a matter of time before she hears more, from another noble friend or from her own staff."
"Her name is Iona, Mother," I say, careful to keep my tone respectful.
"I know her name," Mother snaps. "I choose not to say, not to offend you, but to protect you from prying ears." She glances around meaningfully, and I see the guard from earlier has looped all the way around the battlements; he is trudging toward us, only a few yards away. After the guard passes, her tone softens slightly. "I suppose it's comforting to know you still need your mother to look after you, if only when it comes to courtly intrigue. If you refuse to give up this affair, you must at least be discrete."
"I thought we were."
"Then you have much to learn about discretion," Mother says, before relenting. "Word will spread among the nobility. If it hasn't already, it is only because you are not yet seen as a particularly important player in this game we all play. Once it becomes known that you will succeed your father, you will be watched more closely, and rumors will spread more rapidly."
Old frustrations and resentments begin to grow inside me. "What would you have me do, then?" I demand, trying to keep my voice quiet and my emotions in check.
"Oh, Liam." She closes her eyes and shakes her head slowly, her lips pursed. I can't tell if she's shoring up her patience, or biting back laughter. When she looks up, her expression is amused and resigned at the same time. "Even if I could tell you what to feel, I am hardly in a position to lecture you about propriety and marriage. The heart does as it will, your father and I are proof of that. But you must know you are playing with fire, son."
"Iona is not-"
"I don't mean her," Mother interrupts, and in her voice I hear the same pain that was in Fergus's this morning, in the kitchen. Mother takes my hands. "Iona is a dear girl," she says, so quiet it is almost a whisper, "and I love her almost as though she were my own daughter. And if she is the sort of woman you admire, then at least I know I raised you well. If I could take back what happened to her, I would."
She looks down briefly, then back up, and suddenly her eyes are as sad as I've ever seen them, but steely too. Maybe for the first time in my life, she looks old; I can see the weight of the years she's spent behind the throne, and I immediately regret my bitterness.
"Liam, if you love her, then you love her. I gave up hoping this was just a youth's dalliance years ago, not that there was much hope of that, and if you two still care for each other after so much time apart, then I wish you only happiness. But." She squeezes my hands and pulls them up, so they are between our chests, and stares at me with peculiar intensity. "But. You must know that there are still too many of our subjects who remember your father's justice and resent it. They would spill her blood if they could; Landra should never have brought her here."
I look away, blinking back tears of frustration and rage. Even now, years later – I still don't understand why things are the way they are. No part of it makes sense to me. Elves are different from humans, I understand that, I suppose. But so many hold so dearly to the belief – not even a belief, but conviction – that those differences mark them as necessarily beneath us.
Some, like Nan, only look down on elves, but some see them as sub-human, barely better than animals. I've stared those men in the face during petty court as they sputter out explanations for why they shouldn't have to pay an elven merchant for his goods, and I've sat in on my father's judgments of unrepentant slavers who insist their elven merchandise are not people at all, but cattle or simple profit.
"Maker knows, I've tried to change things," Mother is saying. "Your father, too. But people are stubborn. They might accept it if you kept an elven mistress – half the nobility do - but if our people knew it was her?" Mother shakes her head. "There would be blood, and maybe worse besides, and as much as I wish you happiness – and happiness for her, too – you owe our people your protection, even from themselves."
Blinking back tears, I nod. "Yes, ma'am," I say automatically.
She is right, of course. None of this is news to me. But even an hour ago, before I knew I would be Teyrn, it didn't matter. With Fergus on the throne, I could slip away, perhaps manage my own bannorn; out of the public eye, I might not be able to marry Iona, but she could be my wife all the same.
"What should I do?"
"What should you do?" Mother repeats. "You should cut yourself off from her, never see her again. But I doubt you can, even if I could bring myself to ask you to. So…for the time being, keep trying to be discrete. Once this filthy little war in the south is over, we'll figure out the next steps." She releases my hands after one last squeeze and smiles encouragingly. "You know," she adds, "It's an odd position to put your mother in, helping her son with an illicit affair."
Maybe because of all conflicts and questions rattling around inside my head, this strikes me as enormously funny. I nod wordless thanks through my laughter, and Mother takes my hand again and squeezes it again.
"I love you, my darling boy," she says. "You know that, don't you?"
I continue nodding, choking on the laughter and tears. I wrap her in a hug.
"I know," I manage.
Then, with wordless agreement, we resume our circuit around the curtain wall, Mother's arm back in mine.