CHAPTER EIGHT: The Fall of House Cousland
Supporting Mother with one arm as she hobbles beside me, holding Oren in the other, I limp behind Madra into the Kitchen Proper.
Like the stairway behind us, and the great hall above, Nan's beloved kitchen is almost unrecognizable, every aspect of its appearance distorted by the night's violence into a nightmare parody. Smoke billows from untended ovens and scorched pots, filling the air with a thick haze and the smell of charred food. Servants, most of whom would have arrived shortly after midnight for the early shift, are sprawled between tables and counters, throats cut.
There are perhaps a half dozen guardsmen among dead as well, fallen alongside an equal number of the intruders. The combatants' bodies are in places tangled together, limbs and weapons intertwined with the men they killed or were killed by. Most of the fighting seems to have taken place after the servants were murdered, and been concentrated a few paces from the side entrance. Judging by gaping wounds on a few of the guardsmen, it's obvious Ser Randolph and his broadsword contribute to the melee.
I wonder if he'd been down here all along, orchestrating the other attacks. As we stagger past the carnage, I recognize one of the guards' lifeless faces. He was among the men who followed Father to secure the kitchen. As soon as I see him, I feel a spike of panic and look for Father among the dead, but the panic is not as acute as I know it ought to be.
If Father is truly dead, I know the grief will be crippling, but I am already crippled by grief.
The truth is, I've next to nothing left to give, and little left to feel.
If it were not for Mother and Oren, I don't know that I would take another step. Whether I'd sink to my knees here in the kitchen and wait, or return to the stairs and cradle Iona's body until more assassins found me, or return to the gates and seek an honorable death beside Aeron, I've no idea. But any of those ends seem more purposeful than whatever awaits down the basement steps.
But Mother is leaning on me, and Oren is in my arms, and those facts are the only ones that can be permitted to matter.
Ahead of us, I hear something crash to the floor, followed by hoarse voices and footsteps. Shapes move through the hazy darkness, drawing nearer, and I see they belong to armed men. They're not guardsmen, but neither do they look like Howe's soldiers.
Whoever they are, I have no strength left with which to fight, and no weapons left to wield. Madra growls, and I stop moving. In my arms, Oren is still blessedly asleep, but at my side, I feel Mother straighten. She'd fight if she could, I know.
Then one of the shapes calls my name, in a familiar voice, and Madra's growl ceases.
"Liam!" the voice calls again. "Lady Cousland!"
Relief floods over me. I stagger forward, and strong hands reach out to catch me, hold me up, take Oren from me and support Mother as well.
From the edges of my vision, empty darkness closes in again, and for a few seconds I'm so dizzy I lose all sense of direction. Then the pounding in my head relents, and I'm on my feet, upright.
Duncan is in front of me, the Warden Commander, talking to me.
What he's doing here, I have no idea.
"Liam?" he asks suddenly, and I realize he's been speaking and I've missed his words.
I try to speak, but whatever words I try to form are lost, and I manage only a strangled grunt.
"Your wounds, boy," he says, repeating himself. "Are they serious?"
Stupidly, I look down at my injured arm, then back at Duncan. "I don't know," I say.
What I mean is, What does it matter?
The wound isn't deep, but a wide strip of skin has been peeled away, beginning just above my hand. Some of what was removed hangs in a flap near my elbow. The blood is beginning to congeal over exposed flesh, a thick, dark gelatin that still leaks around the edges. Until now, I'd barely noticed it, but with my attention drawn, I find it burns, the sensation so hot that it could almost be freezing.
Beside Duncan, another familiar voice speaks.
"Is the castle fallen?"
It's Ser Jory, armored, sword held up directly in front of him, his head moving back and forth a bit too quickly for simple vigilance. There is a sheen of sweat across his forehead, and he's trying hard not to look at the bodies.
"I... I think so," I manage, searching my mind for the answer. "We – we may still hold the front gate."
"And my aunt?"
"Dead," I say, no energy left for tact.
Jory barely reacts, his sword still held out before him, eyes still darting everywhere but the dead.
An elven man steps past him, his face calm, a fighting axe held casually in one hand.
It's Varren, the servant who helped us with the bog rats. His big eyes are fixed on me with concern, but he also seems to be evaluating me.
What's he doing here with Duncan?
I want to ask, but I just say, "Varren?"
"My lord remembers my name," he observes, and I'm not sure if he's genuinely touched or being sarcastic. "May I inspect your wound?"
He doesn't wait for permission. Stepping between Duncan and I, Varren hooks his axe onto his belt and trades it for one of a dozen small leather pouches.
Without hesitation, he lifts my arm and squeezes the contents of the pouch onto my arm. It's a salve, instantly calming the white-hot nerves. The fiery sensation fades, and an instant later, almost all the pain is gone from the elbow down. I catch a whiff of herbs and mint, and stare in surprise at Varren.
"You need a healer," he says, "but that'll help for now." He turns his attention to Duncan. "Warden, we need go."
I force myself to focus as I look around. Duncan, Ser Jory, and Varren are not alone. There are four guardsmen, all of them men who left the gate with Father, and several more elves. Some of the elves are armed with axes like Varren's, others with hunting bows. Elves are forbidden weapons within the city, but obviously now isn't the time for questions of legality.
Another elf, Cath, the kitchen servant who was present for Madra's rat hunt yesterday morning, is helping Mother limp ahead of us, toward the basement stairs.
"My husband?" Mother asks Duncan pleadingly, looking back over her shoulder.
"Gravely injured," Duncan tells her, "but alive. He awaits us atop the Alienage staircase. He asked me to find you."
"Why?" I ask, surprising myself. "Why are you here?"
"Arl Howe sent men to kill me and my fellow Wardens," Duncan says, "although not nearly enough of them. No doubt he intended to eliminate anyone who might bring word of his acts to the king. As soon as we realized the attack was widespread, we tried to reach you and the Teyrn, thinking to help you in the defense. Howe's men already controlled the outer walls, however, so we doubled back, thinking to escape the city. By chance, we encountered Varren and his companions, and they led us to the Alienage staircase."
"Howe sent a few men to guard the stairs," Varren says, falling into step with Mother and Cath. He loops Mother's arm around his shoulders, so that she's supported between the two of them. "They're dead, of course," he adds.
Before I can ask more questions, an explosion rocks the keep. Dishes fall from the walls, and I can hear debris raining down on the dirt and grass outside the kitchen.
Ser Jory rushes to a nearby window, peering out into the alley that faces the barracks.
"Howe's soldiers are in the courtyard," he calls, an edge of panic in his voice.
The gates have fallen, then. Or, given the explosion, perhaps they've been destroyed completely. I have little enough experience with mages, but after seeing what one could do in the hall, it hardly seems farfetched to think three together could melt iron, or undo stone.
"Ser Gilmore?" Duncan asks me.
"He was..." I choke on the words, and have to start again. "He was at the gates."
I know now with certainty Aeron is dead. He would not yield the gates while he still draws breath. Although my spirit is already broken beyond any imaginable repair, the knowledge that he, too, must now be gone breaks me further.
Numbly, I wonder if there is any outside limit to the pain one man can feel. You would think that at some point, the vessel would be full, and any extra grief would simply run down the sides, unneeded. But each fresh loss brings its own unique flavor, and although I try to push back at the overwhelming sorrow, there is too much for me to fight.
"We need to go," Varren insists again. "Now."
Duncan takes me by the elbow, calling out for Jory to follow, and escorts me toward the back of the Kitchen Proper. He tugs me along at the back of the group, my feet stumbling and dragging on the uneven floor despite my mind willing them to move as they ought. We pass the larger ovens and make for the entrance to the basement.
Here, at the top of the steps down, I find that the guardsmen have stopped and turned, facing back the way we've come. Three of the elves stand with them.
"We'll hold as long as we can, my lord," one of the guards tells me as I approach, his face implacable.
This man's unquestioning sacrifice, offered tonight by so many others as well, is beyond my comprehension. I grew up with or around many of the guards who now lie dead throughout the castle, secure in their protection, never imagining that one day they would be called on to throw away their lives on my behalf – certainly never imagining they would do so willingly, even blindly.
All my life, I've been taught to hold duty above all other virtues. Today, I have seen the grim cost of such devotion, as well as its purest incarnation, as life after life is sacrificed on duty's altar.
Mother blesses the men and the elves as she passes down the steps. "May the Maker light your way," she says, and her voice is choked with emotion.
"Go in the light, my lady."
The reply comes from one of the elves, a man I don't recognize. He is not among the household staff, and his hands are a patchwork of thin, white scars. A fisherman, I guess.
Why is an elven fisherman here? Why are there any elves here at all, in fact? Cath may have been on duty in the kitchen, but Varren came here intentionally, and led others with him.
What duty do the elves owe us, I wonder? What could motivate them to involve themselves, let alone to embrace certain death for shemlen nobility? I allow these questions preoccupy me as I follow Duncan down through the basements and sub-basements, not because I expect to find an answer, but because it provides some distraction from the crippling specter of Iona's death.
The echo of her last words, the final press of her warm body in my arms, the grating sound of her last breath. These impressions will remain with me, branded onto the forefront of my memory, all my life. There is no purpose in dwelling on them now, and although it feels like a betrayal, I try to press them away, to focus on anything else.
But it's no use. The thought of her, the absence of her, overwhelms me, and in my mind's eye I see her die over and over again, see her head fall back and her shoulders go limp, see the weak pulse in her neck fade, see the rivulets of blood running across her smooth skin.
Tears cloud my vision again, sobs racking my body. There have been too many tears tonight, weakness on my part. I ought to feel shame, but I don't.
Strong hands push on my shoulders, guiding my forward, and shame rises in me. I should be strong for these men who risk their lives to save mine. I am a Cousland. A Cousland always does his duty.
Those words are good mantra. They have defined my life until now, guiding me to the right choices, sheltering me in difficult times.
But now the grief is too strong. Not just for Iona, but for Aeron, and for Oriana, and for all the other dead.
Weakness takes me, and the tears flow, and only the effort of the others keeps me moving forward, climbing down, winding my way deeper into the belly of the keep.
...
We stop at last in the armory above the servant's staircase, the same room in which Aeron and I interrupted the card game with our bag of rats yesterday morning. A handful of guards await us, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with more armed elves, facing the door. Behind them, Alistair, the Duncan's younger companion, waits anxiously beside dark-skinned man I don't recognize.
Nan is here, surprising me. Dully, I realize I'm glad to see her. She's huddled with two of the kitchen servants, at soldiers' card table. Judging by their cuts and scrapes, and their haunted expressions, I guess that besides Cath, they represent the only survivors of the massacre in the Kitchen Proper.
Father rests against the far wall, near the sturdy door that leads out to the cliff face. His shirt has been torn away at the naval, exposing a thick layer of tightly-wrapped bandages that are already soaked through with blood. There are cuts on his chest, shoulders, and right arm, as well. His face is ashen, and strands of hair are plastered against his forehead, slick with sweat. Still, his eyes are bright and alert, and they fix on Mother as soon as we enter.
"Eleanor!" he calls, and I can hear the pain in his voice, alongside the relief. "Eleanor, thank the Maker!"
Supported by Cath, Mother makes her way to his side. Gingerly, she is lowered to the ground beside him and wraps her arms around his shoulders.
"Oh, Bryce!" Her voice is muffled as she presses her face into his shoulder. "What happened? You're bleeding!"
"So are you, my dear," he says. "But we've made it this far, by the Maker's grace."
Nan has risen from the table, and has Oren in her arms.
Although the boy is still unconscious, Nan is cooing in his ear, rocking him back and forth in her arms. Oriana and Nan never saw eye to eye, and so Nan was not permitted to take on the same central role in Oren's upbringing that she had played in mine and Fergus's, but she's loved the boy no less for the exclusion. Of everyone present, she's in the best shape by far to care for him, and her presence strikes me as the first shred of luck I've seen since I managed to overwhelm the assassins in my room.
"Liam," Father says, and I find he's staring at me searchingly. "Your friend?" he asks, and I know he means Iona.
I can't muster the strength to shake my head, let alone answer aloud.
Mother whispers something in his ear, and he closes his eyes tightly, surprising me. Does he share in my grief, somehow, for an elven girl he ordered me not to love?
"I'm sorry," he says, eyes still closed. "I'm so sorry, Liam."
Still I can't speak, but I move to his side, kneeling across from Mother.
"What happened?" I manage to ask.
"Howe's man," Father says with effort. "Randolph. Must've been in the castle all along... We found him in the kitchen, attacking the servants. He...he killed half the guards. We retreated into the basement, and I thought he'd follow, but he took half his men with him and went back up toward the hall...I thought...thought he'd find you..."
"He did." It's really all I need to say.
"Duncan found me here," Father says. "Duncan, and some...some of the elves..." For a moment, Father's eyes drift, and then refocus on Mother. "You were right about them," he says lazily. "About the elves, I mean..."
"Never mind all that," she says, almost chiding him. "We have to get you out of here, Bryce."
"I... I'd not survive the standing."
"We can carry you," I blurt. "We'll carry you!"
"Only... only if you don't mind leaving pieces of me behind, Pup."
"Bryce!" Mother exclaims, and I can hear fear in her voice. "This is no time for joking! Howe's men have taken the gates, and it won't be long until they find us. We must go!"
"We can carry you, my lord," Varren says solemnly, kneeling as well, directly in front of Father. "There were no attackers in the Alienage when we left, nor in the port, either. Even if there are now, no one knows the alleys and sewers better than we do. We can get you all to a boat, or failing that, hide you."
Again, Father looks to mother, seemingly ignoring Varren. "You were right," he repeats.
"My lady is loved by us all," Varren agrees, "but we have no small loyalty to you, as well, Lord Teyrn. We would try to save you, if we can, but we must hurry. The steps cannot be rushed down, not safely."
Turning, Varren beckons to one of his companions, an uncharacteristically stocky elf whose rough hands and muscular forearms might belong to a blacksmith or farrier. "Help me," Varren directs, and together they move to lift Father.
He waves them away.
"Bryce!" Mother exclaims. "Bryce, you heard them! Let them carry you!"
"No!" Father says with finality, and then repeats himself more quietly. "No."
"Bryce! The servant's exit is right there!" She's pleading now, panicked.
It's the same panic, the same overpowering denial I felt as I watched Iona breathe her last.
"We can flee together," Mother continues. "Oren needs us! We'll find you a healer, and-"
"No," he repeats again, his voice strong and soft at once, that one word silencing Mother.
She begins to sob, rocking forward, bumping the crown of her head against his chest.
"I'm told Howe's men already control the castle," he says, and leans forward with great effort to cradle Mother against him. "They will control the city soon, if they do not already. You are not many, and you are hurt, and you must carry Oren, and I... I will only slow you down."
Exhaling, he collapses back against the wall without letting go of Mother, and she rocks with him. She's beyond words, keening against his chest, and I can see her tears dropping on his tunic.
"Leave me here," he tells me. "Get your mother and your nephew out of the city."
"I'll stay with you," I reply.
I'm not sure I even meant to speak, but as the words leave my mouth, I know this is the right course. Everything I love is gone – dead or dying in the castle above me. Here, beside my Father, in the depths of the home I love, there seems no better time or place to die.
Others can carry Oren and Mother to safety. My story can end here, in Highever, where it began.
"And I, as well," Ser Jory says, surprising me. "My aunt's death must be avenged."
"No!" Father snaps, almost angrily, but a fit of coughing undermines his tone. "No," he says again, when he's recovered. "No, neither of you will stay."
"This is my place," I insist.
"Duncan?" Father says tiredly, turning toward the Warden.
"My lord?"
"Grant me this favor...if you will?"
"Name it."
"If my son will not listen to me, take him with you by force..."
"Of course."
"Ser Jory, as well."
"With respect, my lord, I could not permit Ser Jory to remain in any case."
Jory stiffens at this, but Duncan casts him a warning glance.
"He is pledged to the Wardens," Duncan explains, "and we cannot afford the loss of even one recruit."
"Duncan?" Father asks again. "Is there...is there nothing you can do to save my city?"
"Nothing, my lord," Duncan says. "Howe has already tried to kill me tonight and I have only Alistair with me, and the recruits you see before you. Flight is the only option."
"I understand," Father says. "Duncan, you are under no obligation to me. But...but I beg you, I beg you grant me one more favor? See my wife and my family to safety..."
"I will do my best, my lord," Duncan says. "You have my word. But, I fear there is something I must ask of your family, in return."
Father nods, once. "Anything."
"What has happened here is a tragedy," Duncan says, "and it shocks even my conscience, but it pales in comparison the evil that is now loosed upon the world. I came to your castle in search of a recruit, and the darkspawn threat demands that I leave with one, if I can."
Father's eyes flash with anger, but he doesn't speak.
"What are you talking about?" I demand, but I think I know. The mere suggestion ignites burning anger in my chest. Grey Warden or no, how dare he? But neither Father nor Duncan pay my question any mind.
"I must beg your forgiveness, my lord," Duncan continues. "Ordinarily, I would not dream of asking for such a thing under these circumstances, and I swear to you, regardless of your answer, I will commit myself to your family's safety. But my code is clear – I can only aid them as a man, not command the rest of my Order to intervene. If you grant my request, not only will it benefit my mission, it will grant me standing to command aid from other the Wardens. I could use the Order's resources to ensure their safety, and to demand justice against Howe."
For several seconds, Father stares at Duncan, eyes still hard.
Mother is looking up, and seems to be holding her breath.
Around us, Varren and the elves and guards shift nervously. Every second spent talking or deliberating is a second that Howe's men could be drawing nearer, or overtaking the Alienage, or both.
Then the fire leaves Father's eyes, and he nods.
"I understand," he says.
"Understand what?" I demand, although now I'm sure I know.
"You fought your way through Howe's soldiers." Duncan is addressing me now. "All that I told you, of the skills that you possess that would benefit my Order, remains true, and now I learn you are a warrior, besides. And unless I have misunderstood what's happened this morning, you have lost much of what ties you to your old life. I think the Maker's intention is clear."
"Fuck you, and your Maker!" I growl.
"Liam!" Mother hisses, her hand going to my shoulder.
"I will not force you," Duncan continues, calmly, "but if you are willing, my offer is still open. You could join the Wardens as a recruit. We will see your mother and your nephew to safety, or take them with me to Ostagar if I can find no better course. In either case, you will accompany me to Ostagar, where we will warn your brother, and I will give my account to the King. I know King Cailan, and I believe he will seek out justice for your family if he can, but I fear there are greater forces at work tonight than Arl Howe's ambition. As I told your father, if you become a Warden, I can use my Order to protect you and your family from whatever game is afoot, and invoke our old treaties to demand action against Arl Howe."
As the implication begins to sink in, my anger begins to fade, but I still cannot accept what Duncan is offering, nor forgive that he would make such a request at a time like this.
"Pup," Father says, and waits until I am looking at him before continuing. "So long as justice comes to Howe, I agree to Duncan's request, and ask you to do the same."
"But my place is here, with you!" I insist. "Or if not here, then with Mother and Oren..."
"I would not part you from them until they are safe," Duncan says.
"It doesn't matter! My duty is vengeance on Howe, not your war against monsters!"
Duncan is still unperturbed by my outbursts. "A fair concern," he says. "I can only tell you that I will not keep you from your revenge without cause. But I must be clear: a Grey Warden's duties take precedence even over personal vengeance, and I would hold you to your oath, if ever you had to choose between the two."
"Then there's nothing to discuss," I snap.
But Father reaches out and takes my hand in his.
"Please," he says quietly. "Please, Liam. This is my last request of you."
"I thought...you wanted me to be Teyrn." I regret the words even as they pass my lips. How unworthy, to speak of titles in the wake of all we have lost.
"Oh, Pup," Father says, without a trace of reproach. "I want nothing more, but the world has a way of taking what we want and..." He trails off, his eyes losing focus again. "The world has a way of changing," he finishes at last.
I nod in acceptance, and let out breath I didn't realize I was holding in. A curious sort of peace - or perhaps resignation? - washes over me, cleansing most of my anger.
"You would have me join the Wardens, Father?"
"Howe has betrayed my friendship and our family..." Every word is labored now. "He... he fears I am blind to the threat of Orlais, and thinks himself a better ruler. Or perhaps... or, he thinks to use the chaos of the Blight to advance himself. Make him wrong, Pup. See... see justice done, if you can. But remember, our family... our family always does our duty first. The darkspawn must be defeated."
"Bryce," Mother says, her voice strangled. "Are you sure?"
"I would not see my line die because of Howe's treachery," Father says. "But I would rather that, than see our people perish beneath darkspawn blades. Duncan can keep him alive, and help him save our people. If that is our legacy, then it... it would be a good one."
Tears fall down her cheeks again, but Mother nods silently to me.
Slowly, I nod in return, first to Mother, then to Father, and at last to Duncan. "I will do as you ask."
"In that case," Duncan says, "I hereby claim you for the Grey Wardens."
From the corner of my eyes, I see Alistair, Ser Jory, and the dark-skinned man are all watching attentively.
"You are charged to our service, Liam Cousland," Duncan continues, "and commanded to fight beside us."
"If that's done," Varren says edgily, "we need to go. Now."
One of the guards clears his throat and catches Duncan's eye. I recognize him as the corporal Aeron and I caught playing cards. "If you've no need of us, Master Warden," he says, "we'd like to remain with the Teyrn."
"It'd be for the best," Varren says. "The fewer shems we have to sneak through the alienage, the easier it'll be." Several of the elves nod in agreement.
"Settled, then," the corporal says stoically, and none of the other guards object. Moving quickly, they tip the table over and push it against the door that leads back up to the keep.
I rise, and reach down for Mother's hand.
She ignores me, and beckons to the big elf, the one who earlier prepared to lift Father.
"Teyrna?" he asks, bowing his head.
"Would you lend me your bow, young man?"
Without hesitation, he hands her the weapon, then unslings his quiver, and passes that to her as well.
"Thank you," she says, ever polite.
"Anything for you, my lady," he says, and I believe he means it.
Again, I extend a hand to help her up, thinking that now she has a weapon, she'll be ready to go. Instead, she looks me directly in the eye and shakes her head.
"Darling," she says, "go with Duncan, and watch after Oren. You have a better chance without me."
Father and I protest at the same time, but Mother cuts us off. "Hush, the both of you. I can barely walk," she says. "Nan?"
"My lady?" Nan answers.
"You'll care for Oren, won't you?"
"With my life, your ladyship."
"Thank you, Nan," Mother says, and her tone conveys the depth of her gratitude. "I know you will." Mother turns back to Father, and stares directly into his eyes. "I still have a bow, and I'll kill every bastard that comes through that door. I'll buy time for my son and my grandson, but I won't..." She chokes back a sob, then continues. "But I will not leave you, Bryce. I cannot. My place is beside you, in life as in death."
Blinking back tears of his own, he nods slowly. "I... I'm so sorry it has come to this, my love."
"Nonsense," she says, swiping at her eyes. She draws in a breath, and smiles, bittersweet. "We've had a better life than most, and done all that we could. It's up to our children now."
She scoots her back against the wall, shoulder-to-shoulder with Father, and lays the elven bow across her knees. She looks up at me and smiles, a warm smile that's been with me as long as I can remember.
"I'm proud of you, Liam," she says. "Now go. And don't give up," she adds, more quietly, and I know she's talking about Iona, and Aeron, and also about her and Father.
"Warn your brother," Father adds. "Tell him we love him, and that we're sorry...and, and know that we love you, too, Pup..."
Beside him, Varren pulls open the heavy door out to the cliff face. He and several of the elves step out and cross the bridge to the stone outcropping at the top of the stairs. There, they turn back, waiting for us to follow.
"You will do us proud," Father tells me, "as you've always done."
Groaning, he leans forward, and with great effort flips the Cousland sword from his back onto his lap. Only able to use one hand, he fumbles with the a buckle on the leather straps that hold the scabbard in place on his body, until Mother reaches across and undoes it for him.
Grimacing in pain, Father holds the sword up to me.
"Take this with you."
As though in a dream, I reach out, my arm moving more slowly than it should through air that feels too thick. My fingers close around the scabbard, and then Father's hand drops back to his lap.
"This is not... this is not the end, Pup," he says. "Do not let this be the end. Do not... don't let this night be the fall of House Cousland."
Voice thick with emotion, I give my word.
I slip the scabbard over my shoulder, letting the weight settle on my back before tightening the straps and securing the buckle.
Somewhere above us, there is a crash, followed by shouts and the clash of steel. Howe's men have found the guards and elves in the back of the kitchen.
"Not to rush things," says Warden Alistair, speaking for the first time, "but we really need to be going."
Duncan helps Nan and the servants out the door and across the bridge, and Alistair follows. Varren and the other elves are already waiting outside.
I'm left alone with my parents, and the last of their guards.
Mother has not stopped smiling at me through her tears. "Go, my darling," she says. "Go and live."
I nod. Then, not trusting myself to give any further answer, I turn, knowing I will never see my parents again.
Her voice follows me. "Maker watch over you..."
...
Cold wind lashes my face as I cross the bridge. To the west, fires burn in the city, and from the castle above, I still hear the sounds of battle. Below, in the Alienage and the port, all seems peaceful, although there can be no certainty.
Varren gestures to Duncan and I that we should lead the way, and then moves beside Nan, steadying her and Oren. We climb down slowly, a straggling column of refugees and elves and Wardens, relying on starlight to guide us.
Behind me, I hear ropes snap, and a series of rhythmic thumps. I realize the elves are cutting the bridge that leads from the stairs to the armory, to prevent any attackers from following us down. The wood of the bridge strains and creaks, and then gives way with a loud crack, and it falls away down the face of the cliff.
The last link to my life, falling into the dark.
Tears burn in my eyes again, but I blink them back, forcing the thought away, forcing myself to focus on the steps before me.
...
Go and live, Mother told me.
Maker watch over you, she sad, but I have never had much faith in the Maker, and whatever I had has been lost tonight.
Survive, Aeron told me at the gates. For your family. For your people. For Iona.
All those things are gone.
Why, then, should I live? Why survive?
The only victory is vengeance, Father told me at the gates.
Vengeance, I tell myself.
Howe will pay for Oriana, for Iona, for my parents.
I will honor my oath to Duncan, take my vows to the Wardens, do my duty against the darkspawn. But no matter what he says – no matter what the Wardens demand – my family, my love, my life – these things will be avenged.
Howe will pay for Iona's blood, and for Aeron's blood, for the blood of Highever.
Any other duty pales when compared to all that blood, crying out for justice.
So I'll survive, I decide, casting one final glance over my shoulder, to the flames rising above Castle Highever.
I'll go. And live. For vengeance.