The Longest Memories

Chapter Nine / Power or Peace


If someone told her a decade ago she would be standing here, heart beating a pace too fast, waiting for the man whose only redeeming features were his physique and malleability, she would have banished the heathen from court. Now, she would offer pardon. Anora stands in the courtyard, listening as the trickling fountain plays against the approaching hoofbeats, until the horse stops before her.

Alistair jumps off his ember-maned stallion, armor glinting in the late-afternoon sun. Teagan follows from his own mount. Anora bows to the king. Some claim it insolence, but she kneels to no one. "Welcome home, husband."

She expects a kiss. Alistair is freer than her with his affections in public.

Anora does not expect him to wrap his hands around her waist and lift her like she weighs nothing. A yelping laugh escapes before she can stifle it, and he smiles more sweetly than she remembers. Setting her down, he pulls her close, mindful of his armor, chin grazing her cheek. His relief and contentment tinge his every breath.

"You are a better queen than all the rest combined," he murmurs. "Thank you."

For a moment she freezes, wondering if something has gone wrong. But no, his letters have all made her glad she sent him.

"You just now realize that?" she whispers.

Bann Teagan stands by his rangy gray horse, an eyebrow quirked. Doubtless surprised as anyone she and Alistair do not sleep in separate rooms and employ their daughter as a courier. Anora eases away and looks to her uncle-in-law.

"Welcome, Bann Teagan. You must stay for the feast honoring our king's return."

"My queen is too kind," he says with a bow.

There has been a tension between them ever since Arl Eamon supported her deposal. Still, she is happy she sent him. The bann adds polish to Alistair's rougher edges, and has a nose for games but less desire to play.

She hears the girl gamboling out behind her, yelling for her father. Laughing, Alistair throws the princess in the air, catching her and kissing her face.

He sets her down and kneels to get a good look, delighted she just came from sword practice.

"Maker, you've grown a foot!" He straightens and looks to his wife. "And you've had some adventures yourself, my love."

Alistair's endearment makes her pause, but only for a moment. "Only a touch more harrowing than usual," she says with a grin.

He smiles, but she can see the concern. Evidently her letter regarding the assassins caused him no small amount of upset—he even asked if he should track down the Antivan elf Zevran as a personal bodyguard. She, of course, could always use a handsome elf. But for now she has her mages.


The mages still remain a month after their arrival. The note rests on her desk. She had sent a letter to Knight-Commander Greagoir, detailing the circumstances with only slight tweaks to the truth. Three mages had fled Kirkwall, starving and weak, and were taken without resistance by a Denerim patrol. They would be coming to the Ferelden Circle but were not yet fit to travel. She pleasantly demanded assurance they would be accepted like any child mage.

The terse answer quells her reservations.

Your Majesty,

Because they are mages from Kirkwall, they have unquestionably had interaction with blood magic. Beyond the Knight-Commander's severity, the Kirkwall Templars are quick to discipline due in part to the large numbers of maleficarum, failed Harrowings, and abominations. Out of respect for your past contributions I will not immediately make them Tranquil, but they will remain in solitary confinement and questioned until it is deemed fit to integrate them into the Circle. I understand this sounds cruel, but I cannot risk another maleficarum incident, not with so many lives in my hands.

- Knight-Commander Greagoir

Anora is not sending them to the Circle. Magic aside, they have become the princess's favorite tutors—their forced occupation as students and scholars gives them an impressive breadth of knowledge. And too, they give her a feeling of security, despite their ascribed potential for turning into demons and slaughtering the palace. They do not wear robes or staves, and thus while their magic is an open secret, the court does not fly into hysterics. She knows Alistair will sense them the day he returns. For once, she wishes the Warden was here to echo her sentiment. But no, she has gone to Amaranthine and then the Korcari Wilds, claiming she has found an old friend.


The torchlight paints the hall in a calming glow. Anora sits beside her husband, letting him recount his adventures. Their daughter's cup of wine put her to sleep almost an hour ago, and so Alistair feels less guarded with his tongue.

"I swear, of all the lunatics I've met, that Knight-Commander nears the top. She smashed the bloody record time for emasculating me." Alistair swallows more wine. "At least I met the Champion."

Anora leans closer. "What was he like?"

"Only sane head in the city," Teagan quips.

Though their meal is a feast, the dining room has blessedly few people she must pretend to care about. The mages crowd together at the end of one table, the assorted grounds masters sit nearby. A few nobles are guests, namely the Arl of Denerim and his wife. The Arlessa looks peaked, likely from her child-swollen belly.

Alistair relishes his venison, the meat dripping in sweet and tart Cumberland sauce. Anora informed him long ago she despises people who talk with their mouths full. He is careful to chew and swallow before answering.

"Very glib in some ways. Caustic in others—he and the Knight-Commander eye each other like stags during rut. Funny thing, he's met Teagan, at Chateau Haine."

Anora has heard a rumor the Champion murdered the duke of that chateau, with the help of Qunari assassins. Even after he killed their Arishok.

"No one asked me if I knew him," Teagan says. "He seemed a decent if guileful sort—the Duke was a right bastard."

The queen eyes them both. "I hope you offered him a place in Ferelden, should he wish to return?"

Alistair hesitates. "You forget, he is a lifelong apostate. I…suspect he used blood magic in his duel with the Arishok. Several people gave me the same story—they were there," he adds at her cocked eyebrow. "The way they tell it, his pirate lover tried to return a stolen priceless Qunari artifact. The Arishok was obviously not the smile-and-part-ways type, so the Champion challenged him. Hawke apparently does fight with a real weapon, but this is a hulking Qunari so, to hear it, the Arishok impaled him and threw the sod halfway across the room. He was too injured to properly cast. Then, as the Arishok approached to end it, a spell melted his insides." He smiles wryly. "A hero, but I have never heard of a regular spell that could cause one's lungs to spew from their mouth."

His wife weighs the story, reminded of the Warden's own…unconventional stratagems. "The Knight-Commander has not freed the mages, declared Hawke the new Viscount, or danced naked in front of the Chantry. I have heard he hunts blood mages."

"True, but…anyway, as interesting as he was to meet, he has no political influence. I did see two familiar faces though. I met the pirate Isabela during the Blight—the Warden knew her, if you get my meaning—and, strangely, Anders. Remember him?"

"Anders?" The cruel coincidence that the Warden travelled so close to Kirkwall is not lost on her.

"Yes, small world. Anyway, Starkhaven was a joke despite its size—" Alistair stops suddenly, glancing around with puzzlement. "Perhaps I'm just excited to be back, but I swear there's magic here."

Teagan pauses in between bites of potato. The queen gives her husband her kindest smile.

"Husband, remember the people who saved me from the assassins?"

His eyes grow quiet. Suspicious. "You said the Warden."

"I said people, including the Warden. She was ill at the time—we both would have died had the mages not intervened."

"You—oh Maker," he groans. "Are these the mages that psychotic Knight-Commander was castrating me for?"

The mages look up at that, caught somewhere between curiosity and fear.

She takes his hand, a rare event for her. "Yes, but I did not realize at the time. They came to beg protection, fearing execution at the Ferelden Circle for fleeing Meredith's madness. As it stands, they were right. Greagoir told me himself he would imprison them." The mages flinch at that—the woman looks ready to flee, and Lir has gently taken her wrist. Anora will not spoil his trust.

"Thank the Maker they came," she continues. "That same night, the Crows attacked. Two assassins and four expensive mercenaries." She holds his gaze, using every elocution and tonal trick her tutors ever taught. "The guards were trapped behind a barricaded door, utterly useless. I was trapped, praying they did not care about our daughter." She lets her eyes widen the slightest—to look too traumatized would seem false. "The Warden came to my rescue, but she was weak and ill at the time. I thought we were both dead when the mages appeared, freezing and shattering the fools. Ask the Warden when she returns if I am telling tales."

Alistair is deadly silent. Then he pushes away from the table in a rattle of silverware, stalking toward the mages and brandishing is sword. Lir's eyes go wide, then wider when the king grabs his shirt and hauls him up, sword poised at his throat. Even after trading his plate armor for a doublet, he is a large man.

Rena jumps up, feral despite her summery gown, words a snarl. "Leave him alone!"

"Alistair!"

Alistair turns just enough to regard Rena and the elven mage. Lir's legs fight for purchase but his arms remain—deliberately—outstretched and limp-handed. Rena looks taut as a wary fox but she does not attack.

The king lets go a moment later, steadying him with a hand. His face softens. "All right then. You have my gratitude for saving my wife, daughter, and dearest friend."

Lir is too shocked to smile back but mumbles out a few proper courtesies. Rena still looks like he's a rampaging Templar.

"My apologies for the…theatrics," Alistair says, almost sheepish. "The only way I can tell a blood mage is to make them think they're about to die. For you three, I defer to my wife."

He returns to the table and bids everyone to continue. The mages settle too, their conversation low.

Anora glares venom. "Was a public demonstration necessary?" she hisses so only he can hear. "By that logic, they could have endangered most of the household." It was a very Warden thing to do.

The king looks contrite as he takes her hand and kisses her knuckles. "Don't be cross. I trust you, but you were not in the Circle tower at its worst. How did you get them past the Grand Cleric?"

Anora grins despite herself. "The Grand Cleric has not deigned to ask me…doubtless she will hear soon. If the she truly creates a fuss, I will consent to handpicking one Templar to stay in the castle. Do not think me going soft and sentimental though. Later, we will speak."

Eventually, Alistair washes down his meal with a final swig of wine. The Warden has remarked he eats as much as two Grey Wardens. Luckily for the king he has an enviable ability to retain a defined stomach.

Later, they discuss diplomacy in Anora's study. Nevarra loathes Orlais and respects Ferelden for trouncing them. They have agreed to send aid if, and only if, the Orlesians attack first. If Ferelden makes a preemptive strike, they will harry Orlais' eastern border. A more binding agreement would be reassuring, the Nevarran king suggests. Anora deflects talk of a marriage, knowing Alistair will agree without asking questions. That, and she has no heir to spare. Even a matrilineal marriage to a Nevarran prince seems too likely to imply they have some claim.

Alistair is far from the canniest diplomat, but as Anora predicted, his charm won a few lords over. Tantervale and Ostwick have written up more favorable trade agreements, the latter also agreeing to the cheap sale of several frigates if the need arises. Once foreign matters have been discussed, she reveals her own plans of nudging a civil war. Alistair is wary.

"Could the Grand Duke have sent assassins because he knows?"

"No, the mages arrived the same day. Not even a messenger bird could travel that fast." She sips her dessert wine. "If I were to guess, he wanted me dead to prove our weakness or provoke you into attacking first."

He sighs in exasperation. "Couldn't your meddling give the Empress reason to side with him?"

They sit on either side of an end table, their leather chairs angled toward each other. Anora has explained many points of politics to him from this seat.

"I doubt it," she replies. "I am not sending spies to murder couriers and plant incriminating forgeries. I am merely an insolent dog-lord queen who defies the Chantry."

"Why else are you doing this? You can't assume it will work, and you're giving the mages run of the place. We'll have Templars on our door soon."

Anora does not look away, but she softens in pensiveness. "You have to sense something else is coming. Did Kirkwall seem stable?" His eyes tell her no, but he listens without comment. "I hear dissent in Val Royeaux between Templar, mage, and Chantry. I am not the only one to see the Chantry's entanglement with Orlais. What makes it implode is anyone's guess."

"And you would side with the mages?" He carries no accusation, if only because she will never take the bait. He does trust her though. A far cry from their conversations before marriage. She remembers a particular phrase about trusting her less than the Witch of the Wilds.

Anora shakes her head. "I side with ending it before it worsens. Of letting other countries bloody themselves and keeping Ferelden at peace. But I will not have anyone think the Crown is in thrall to the Chantry. There is a difference between freeing the Circle and ridding it of its abuses. That boy you tested earlier—did you notice he was missing two fingers? "

He smiles with a trace of sadness. "When you have people that bent on freedom, they don't want compromise."

"There is not a hive mind," she counters "Some mages, rightfully, realize the Circle can offer protection. As it stands now, the Circles offer protection with a side of rape and beatings. I have tried to purge ours of the same cruelties."

"And if they prefer their queen to their jailor, you will have a cadre of mages at your command." His eyes are canny.

Sometimes, she forgets she taught him well. He does not know her other, more personal reason. Sometimes, she considers telling him now instead of letting him sense it. Years ago she did not think he would connect her years of mage sympathy with her protectiveness of their daughter. Despite his kindness, he is a wiser man now. Yet tonight he suspends her quandary.

With a quickness she has forgotten, he stands and sweeps her into his arms. Anora yelps and curses. He laughs as he holds her, one arm at her back and the other under her knees. He has learned, though he will not admit it, her counsel should be heeded.

"My love, I've discussed nothing but politics for the last ten months. Can we please do anything else? You can even braid my hair if you want, I'm that desperate."

"You have odd ideas," she snaps. But her glare melts as she speaks, and her arm relaxes around his shoulder.

He is quiet as he carries her to their room. Anora would be aghast if a guard walked by, given her recent unintended exhibition. A short time later, they are anything but quiet, but Anora no longer cares.