The Longest Memories
Chapter Ten / Burning World
Author's Note: Penultimate chapter! I think…
A letter from the Chantry arrives on embossed vellum, chastising and smug with its knowledge of the Kirkwall mages. Anora rolls her eyes. The mages venture into Denerim on occasion. As her daughter's newest tutors, they receive a small wage. To forbid them to journey beyond the palace gates would be nonsensical hypocrisy.
Anora never considered they would be so useful when she first met the grime-crusted runaways. The princess seeks them out when before she would hide from her older, sharper tutors. She talks about physic and alchemy, things Anora has skimmed in books but never learned from a teacher. The queen no longer needs to correct her when she confuses Tevinter and Orlesian monarchs.
The Chantry declares she harbors dangerous fugitives. They have informed the Grand Cleric, whose Templars will drag the apostates out if necessary. Anora sees insouciant bluster in every word, as if writing in Orlesian were not arrogant enough. Her small consolation comes with news of a new Ferelden Knight-Commander. He writes her with courtesy, making no mention of the apostates who never arrived. Anora returns words of felicity, asking if the Circle lacks for anything, and expressing her unending gratitude for their aid during the Blight. While she accepts either, she finds affection more useful than fear.
Let the Grand Cleric come. She warns Alistair of the forthcoming event. Her husband cannot help his boyish grin; he bears the woman no fondness. Times like these are why Anora has always allocated a small amount of gold for improvements to the Ferelden Chantry. For all the tending Val Royeaux gives the cathedral, they must think Ferelden Andrastians listen to the Chant around a campfire.
Grand Cleric Elemena huffs into court two days later, alone. Anora can tell from her expression this is not a time for affection and cajoling words. In truth, she welcomes it. Like some men enjoy a bar brawl, Anora appreciates a verbal spar. Alistair does not, but he lets her have her day. She ices her smile and looks the old woman in her wrinkle-wreathed eyes.
"Tell me your Grace, who informed the Chantry about the mages?"
The wizened cleric stares right back, undaunted in her senescence. She has a proud tilt to her jaw, a straight back, and no intention of explaining herself. "That is not important."
"I disagree. Was it a citizen? Have they disturbed anyone?" They have not, she knows. None wear robes or staves.
Her Grace does not take the bait, but Anora cares not. "The apostates are here regardless, your Majesty. They violate Chantry law."
The apostates in question are not in the hall. Anora has kept them out of the palace during court since she received word from the Chantry. She suggested they learn hawking. Chances are the Grand Cleric does not know their faces, and her visit today comes from Chantry correspondence and a Templar feeling a strange tingle as he walked through the market.
"Your Grace," she says coolly, "I understand your concern, but I will remind you these apostates saved me, my daughter, and the Hero of Ferelden from a band of Antivan Crows. The Knight-Commander has told me they will be imprisoned upon arrival at the Circle. I will not disregard my hospitality. They serve me—how does this contradict the Chant?"
The woman is old and long entwined with Denerim. Alistair shifts on his throne, glad she does the talking but dreading where this could spiral. Despite his dislike, the Grand Cleric makes him feel like a child. And yet, she is usually one to see reason.
"As good as they may seem," the Grand Cleric replies with tattered patience, "their magic corrupts. You place your daughter and entire household in danger, and you defy the Chantry itself."
Anora drops her smile, cold as it was. "I choose the laws of my land over Orlais. If Val Royeaux has censured me, why do you accept Crown gold to repair your stained glass windows? I would never force my munificence upon someone whom I offend." The woman glares now, mouth working for a response, appalled she would say such a thing in public. Anora feels a moment right for compromise. "Your Grace," She softens her tone. "I understand your concern, as much as I disagree. I would be amenable to one Templar of my choosing living in the palace, subject to my authority."
Grand Cleric Elemena knows she can storm in with Templars, most of them Fereldens. She knows that Fereldens hold the old laws above anything civic or spiritual. There is no legislation pertaining to mages, just as the Chantry desires. Does she wish to test the ultimate loyalty of her Templars? Anora thinks not, though she believes in truth most would side with the Grand Cleric if no guards barred their way. Fortunately the Grand Cleric does not want to chance it.
"Which Templar would you choose?" she finally asks with a half-locked jaw.
"Ser Bryant. He is honorable beyond compare."
He is one of the few survivors of Lothering. The Templars stayed to the bitter end, but when darkspawn overran the town, the few still alive fought their way to Denerim. Anora awarded him for his valor. Later, he revealed in confidence that an apostate saved him by burning a path through the horde. The mage died of the Taint, but the act has given the Templar a pang of guilt and an ounce of empathy. Anora values him chiefly because he, unlike many of his righteous brothers, defended Denerim before the Chantry.
The Grand Cleric makes a small choking sound. "Ser Bryant is not a common Circle guardian."
"Indeed," Anora replies, smooth as silk, "and this is no common Circle."
"This is no Circle," she snaps. "Your Majesty, you cannot have him."
Anora offers a conciliatory smile. She knows from Alistair the woman fought the Wardens against his conscription. Her Grace does not give up her own. Had Anora persuaded her, Ser Bryant would have been a compromise. As it stands, the queen did not think the Grand Cleric would agree.
"A pity Ser Bryant cannot be spared. Very well. My husband the King was a Templar initiate, if you recall. I have utmost confidence in his abilities."
The Grand Cleric starts to say something she would regret and closes her mouth. Anora wonders if anyone has countered her since the Grey Wardens.
"I will be writing the Chantry, your Majesty. You will not be able to hide behind your husband." She leaves then, back straight as ever.
Anora has felt far sharper venom and almost laughs. With kindness in her voice and victory in her stomach, she calls for her next petitioner.
Alistair turns to her with a small, nervous smile. "That was a sight, but I really hope you did not just bring down an Exalted March on our heads."
Anora shoots him a coy, incredulous look. "Over three apostates? I think I am below Seheron and Kirkwall in priority."
"Your Majesty, may we speak?"
Anora looks up from a letter and sees Lir in the doorway of her study. She offers him the chair by her desk. He settles carefully, callused hands entwined in his lap. The escape from Kirkwall scraped away all fat and diffidence, and scribed lines into his face she doubts will fade. His wide jaw and pale eyes would give him an icy look, yet he still has the manner of a young fosterling.
"Is something the matter?"
He shakes his head. "Your generosity has meant more than I can ever express. But, if I may ask, what happens next?"
The queen considers. She is not obligated to answer; sharing plans is the first step to ruining them.
"I am not a seer. But I can tell you what will not happen. You will not be taken to the Circle unless you wish it—I hardly think you do. You will not be handed over to Templars, or Meredith, or anyone else who presumes to tell me how to rule my country. For saving my life, you and yours will always have a bed here."
Strange boy. For all his demure ways, he always meets her eyes. "You kindness undoes me, my queen."
"If you want to prove your gratitude, you will speak plainly." She lowers her voice on reflex, leaning closer to the mage. "Have you noticed anything unusual about the princess?" He tilts his head in confusion, but she sees a spark and bites down. "Has my daughter ever shown signs of being a mage?" The flash of panic in his eyes gives him away.
The princess teaches them too. For all their acumen, the mages' knowledge is caged by pages and experiments. Swords, hawks, horses—they have never sweated in a practice yard or felt the brush of feathers as a falcon launches into the air. Her daughter has dragged them to the stables and mews with all the imperiousness her future will require. Her future…the word settles in her stomach like a frozen stone.
Lir chooses his words more carefully than the day he knelt before her, caked in grime. "She has never performed magic, or mentioned anything about strange dreams or voices."
"But?" she prompts. "Speak your mind."
He does not look more assured. "I am not a spirit healer—they can truly sometimes tell. But when you come to the Circle, even as a child, you begin to feel an affinity for mages and Templars both, but mages more strongly. It's almost like a tune, from magic and lyrium."
"And you feel this affinity?"
"I believe so," he says hesitantly. He knows the price of false conjecture.
A suspicion almost confirmed is better than a sudden discovery. Anora's eyes close. She hates Alistair's mother then, and his father, for his part in the affair. She feels a twinge of discomfort at having sympathy for mages while dreading her daughter will become one. Blinking, she forces it down. The throne matters; her heir matters. Could she send the princess to the Circle, knowing it was a stone cage? Knowing her throne would pass to strange blood. She thinks of Isolde, the arlessa who almost destroyed Redcliffe. I am not that fool woman.
Anora draws a breath that makes her chest ache. "You will tell me if anything changes—I do not know all the signs."
His large eyes are sad, sympathetic, and expecting her to confirm his fears. "Of course, your Majesty."
"If I have not sent you there, I hope you assume I will not send her." She can see in his face he assumed the opposite. Anora would scoff, were the decision not such a bitter one.
Sometimes, by curse or luck, sides are decided for you.
"A messenger has arrived, my lady," Erlina says in a perplexed tone. "One of your agents in Kirkwall."
Anora sits up in her bath, steam wafting around her face as her exposed skin grows cold. Erlina never brings her messages unless it is important. Straightening, she gropes for a towel to dry her hands. If only she could slide back in.
"What's wrong?"
"A mishap in Kirkwall."
Anora breaks the seal. Erlina no doubt made out a few words as the light came through the paper. She has an intuition for legitimate trouble.
Her sucked-in breath makes the confidante squirm. "A mage…" her heart bites on the word, "obliterated the Kirkwall Chantry. The Grand Cleric perished."
Erlina whispers an Orlesian epithet. Anora reads the rest and her confidante grows paler.
If only the Chantry were the worst of it. Anders—she feels a cold clenching in her belly as she remembers that cracked, mirthful façade. He made her aware of the mages. In his own way, he made her more ready for her daughter's possible future. Her agent has noted 'abomination? maleficar? rumor at this point' by his name.
In response, Knight-Commander Meredith called for the Circle's slaughter. The Champion intervened, snarling at her to withdraw. He had his companions at his back, apart from the terrorist. Instead, Meredith ordered the Champion to assist in her self-declared Right of Annulment. Hawke chose the mages and the bloodbath erupted.
Templars raged throughout the city, painting the walls in gory memories. Terrified mages surrendered to the dark side of their gift until the Veil was a ragged wound.
In her fervor to save Kirkwall, the Knight-Commander destroyed it. Templars, citizens, and magi perished in steel and fire. When the madwoman fought the Champion, she died too. The Knight-Captain knew well enough an arrest would end with his bloody death, and so Hawke and his companions fled into the night. No one knows where.
Anora hands back the letter and sinks deeper into the still-warm tub, wreathed in the smell of rose petals. She has a feeling this will be the her last moment to relax for a long time. The storm is coming.
Alistair considers sending the mages to the Circle. Anora demands he consider no such thing. General word reached Denerim yesterday, the day after she received the letter. More news spills in from traders, merchants, and courier birds.
It takes scant few days before Templars arrive in Kirkwall to find a blood-soaked city but not a single mage. To the Templars, Hawke is demon incarnate. So drowns the story of the Champion, hero turned anathema.
Anora can see what will happen as clear as any book. The mages will be furious the Knight-Commander attempted the Right of Annulment for a single apostate. Fury bleeds into actions. Templars will push back with sword and censure. And Thedas draws a breath for what happens next.
A horse clatters over cobbles and Anora looks down from her balcony. Of course the Warden arrives when action and inaction will balance the world on a precipice.
"Warden!" she calls down.
The Warden looks up and Anora sees a roiling storm. Jumping off her horse, the elf storms into the palace. Anora groans and hurries to head her off. Alistair is in the training yard and her daughter is in the garden with her tutors.
And yet, the elf must have been running pell-mell, for she reaches her bedchamber before Anora.
The queen hears a scream of rage, the sound of boots cracking wood. Anora opens the door and slides inside, closing it behind her.
"Have you lost all dignity?"
The Warden has already wheeled from the pulverized remains of a wooden chest. Her eyes remain dry; Anora has not seen tears since Anders vanished. Only anger remains.
"I walked right past fucking Kirkwall!"
"You did not know," the queen says with fraying patience.
The Warden is a striking she-wolf, even in the midst of a rage. Or perhaps especially so. The elf's spindly hollows have filled back in and muscle once more covers her bones. She wears her hair in a way Anora has not seen since she slew the Archdemon—pressed away from her face with white grease, pale streaks running through red. Her kohl-smeared eyes pierce and cut.
"I'll be gone in the morning."
The Warden has regained most of her former vigor. A few lines have etched their way onto her face but she looks much the same as before her mad quest for Corypheus. She wears thick leather now, and two daggers at her hips.
"I cannot command you Warden, but I ask you do not go."
She lets out a scoffing laugh, breath rasping. "Anders just made himself a crazed revolutionary. I need to grab him, hurt him, and see if any of it's true."
"Indeed, but he is long gone from Kirkwall—if he is even alive. If you go racing across the sea, the Chantry will look at Ferelden and invent a connection." Especially given our recent quarrels.
The Warden cocks an eyebrow. "Didn't you want to start a war?"
Anora sighs to herself. The Warden can be subtle on the spot, but she is a gangly strategist.
"There is a difference between influencing a civil war and provoking an outright attack. The latter we cannot repel. The Chantry is foundering. In wake of Kirkwall, the Divine could unite Orlais." She reaches for any card she can play. "Have I ever asked anything of you?"
Her eyes lower, shifting. "Anora, I've spent too long chasing after stupid things. I will find Anders."
"Then let me suggest this: wait one month for the dust to settle. Please, give me your word. Then you can tear across all of Thedas should you choose."
She never gives her word lightly. The Warden is like a horse that avoids the bit, knowing once it is there she cannot spit it out until the end. Her trail will be a month old yet she managed to track down Corypheus, tracing a path from a thousand years ago.
"I can't." A heavy breath goes out of her. "I'm sorry."
The Warden ducks around her, fleeing the room. Anora scrabbles for a way to convince the stupid girl to stay. The elf heads for the back, out into the training yard and stables. The queen follows her into the afternoon sun, shading her eyes as the Warden goes to find her horse.
"My dear?"
Alistair has stopped mid-swing and his sparring partner freezes. Glancing at Anora, then back to the Warden, he walks to the elf as fast as propriety allows. Reaching her a few strides short of the stables, he grabs her wrist.
The Warden jerks away but he has her, though Anora can see his grip is soft.
Her daughter sits in the nearby garden with the mage Rena. Both are on their knees on a stone tile, the mage positioning a piece of glass over a pile of leaves. The princess had looked up as the Warden fled past. Rena eyes the elf and Warden. Giving the girl's wrist a small tug, she returns her attention to the glass.
Alistair and the Warden speak with words and looks. She has no softness in her gaze, but Anora senses her steam guttering. Finally, the king pulls her into the stables.
A squeal severs attention—the princess is on her haunches, mouth slack that the small pile of leaves is now on fire. The mage laughs and puts out the flames with ice, handing her the piece of glass. For the first time, Anora sees her smile. Rena is pretty, with a fox face and amber eyes—but her lips are always thin in a frown, her eyes wary with distrust. Any close gesture makes her shrink back, hands barely holding magic at bay. Lir is not the only one to escape Kirkwall with scars.
Her husband and the Warden have not emerged but grooms still meander in and out. One leads the Warden's horse, her swarthy back gleaming from a bath and her tail wrapping around her hocks. Feeling purposeless, Anora returns to the palace.
Awhile later they return, the king's arm around her shoulders, companionable rather than romantic. Perhaps he thinks she will still bolt.
She never knows what was said or done, but by the time they sup, the Warden has composed herself. Looking up from the roasted hare, she frowns at Anora. The queen has learned over the years this is the closest she comes to looking abashed.
"Before…this, I was going to Orzammar." She wipes her hands, resigned. "I can use the time to make inquiries."
"That is a smarter course." Anora nods in cool approval.
The Warden flashes a marred, unhappy grin. "When have I ever done the smart thing?"
The responsible thing, Anora corrects. She feels a sudden pang of affection for Alistair, who sits beside her. He hated responsibility almost as much as the Warden, but he stays at her side. That he dropped his accusations and grudges to attempt a civil marriage was laudable enough. Instead, he stood there and let his duty break over him. Some would drown, but Alistair chose to swim.
She looks closer at her husband, and plucks a piece of hay from behind his ear. He stifles a laugh, caught between amused and embarrassed. It's not what you think, his eyes say. He squeezes her hand under the table, callused pads massaging her palm.
"I'm a mage." The princess's high-pitched elocution causes every head to jerk up. Anora twists to find Lir, shooting him a look she reserves for the condemned. The princess saves him. "I can create fire with a piece of glass. Rena taught me."
Sick relief washes over her and the blue-eyed mage. Rena too has gone rigid, though she looks more ready to throttle the girl. The queen's sharp glance coaxes her to explain herself, lest the household grow less accepting of its guests.
"Er—" Her throaty voice catches as she eyes the room like a fox caught in a trap. "A magnifying glass, your Majesty. It focuses the sun, burning small holes."
"My sweet," Anora chides her daughter, "If you wish to pretend, a real mage would not announce it at the table."
She notices the suspicious glances that alight on a few faces. Hopefully, they forget. And nothing unexplainable happens anytime soon.
Not a week after Kirkwall, two Templars barge into court and demand to see the Warden. Anora looks at them with unconcerned annoyance as they interrupt her proceedings and wonders why they also do not demand the apostates. She would have asked her guards to remove them, but for a flash of red and a wiry form stepping into the open, boots clicking over stone. The Warden had planned to leave tomorrow.
"Why would the Templars want to speak with a Warden?" She holds her chin at a dismissive angle. "I have not looked at your Chantry board in years."
The Warden, in rare form, is not wearing traveling clothes or armor. Instead she wears a skirt of carmine, pleated and gathered to show her boots. A leather vest cinches her waist, and a garnet-eyed wolf pendant hangs above her breasts.
The speaker nods stiffly. His pale eyes are over-bright and his forehead is damp. In want of lyrium, Anora suspects. His nasal-thick voice drips in suspicion. "Where is the maleficar Anders and why have the Wardens not culled their rabid dog?"
She is shorter and slighter than the two Templars, but stands far enough back to not incline her gaze. Anora knows that grin, one shared by a vixen before she devours a hen house. "Was I there? How would I know?"
The other Templar scoffs, jowls wriggling. Anora guesses he is a Circle guardian, charged with protecting the kitchens. As they have made no mention of other apostates, she thinks they come from Lake Calenhad. Bless the late Knight-Commander, he had kept her letter to himself.
The stiff-necked Templar gives a cold smile. "The Chantry strikes down maleficars and those who give them aid. The Divine herself is passing a law forbidding Wardens from conscripting mages outside a Blight."
Whatever vitriol she might bear Weisshaupt, the Warden loathes threats. In two strides she stands before them, eyes cold as a jade-hilted dagger.
"Where was the Chantry when the Archdemon attacked Denerim, sers?" She spits the title. "The mages were doing a better fucking job at killing an ancient god than you and Fatty here were at defending your Circle when Uldred had his way. Threaten to fuck with the Right of Conscription again and I will ride to the Circle today and conscript every goddamn mage there."
"Warden—" Fatty chokes, face flushing. His companion is momentarily shocked into silence.
She bares her teeth. "Open your yap again and I will show you what happened to the last Templar who threatened me."
Anora sits still, wondering if she should call for order or refreshments. Alistair will curse the errand that called him away from court. The corpulent Templar looks past the elf.
"Your Majesty, the elf is refusing to disclose information to the Chantry."
"Is she, good sers?" Anora looks to the Warden, eyes bright with interest. "Where and when did you last see Anders?"
The Warden's look cuts ice. "Amaranthine, almost a decade ago. Hard to keep track with so many Warden mages just running around."
"Ah," Anora muses. "A decade-old trail is no trail at all. Do the Templars not have his phylactery?"
The first Templar's neck is so stiff she wonders if he could break it. "Useless, now that his blood is tainted."
"Truly?" The Warden asks sweetly. "I do believe you've inspired my next recruitment pitch."
However much they want to throttle the Warden, discipline keeps them in check. Anora steps in before they can reply.
"Sers, it seems we can do no more for you. Farewell, and safe journey."
The Templars leave after dire threats. Anora thinks of the letter she will send the new Knight-Commander. No, not a letter. The queen sees another visit to the Circle in the immediate future.