Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 11: Spoiled Princesses
Such a strong, well-armed, well-mounted party was hardly a target. Bronwyn and her companions rode through the Hinterlands and skirted the shore of Lake Belenas seeing few signs of life, and meeting no opposition at all.
The handful of people on the road tended to melt away into the surrounding woods at the sound of their approaching hooves. Wolves howled in the distance, but Scout seemed to sense no real threat.
They reached the branch in the road, and Alistair slowed his pace, looking wistfully to the left. That road itself branched a little farther on: the Imperial Highway ran south, back to Ostagar, but also west, around the southern tip of Lake Calenhad. The road sign made it official that that was the way to Redcliffe.
"Do you miss it?" Bronwyn asked. "Redcliffe, I mean?"
"I haven't been there in years," Alistair told her. "I don't know. With Arl Eamon gone, it wouldn't be the same. Maybe I miss my childhood, such as it was. Maybe I wish things could have been different. Anyway, it's gone, and so is he." They cantered past, and Alistair was quiet for some miles.
This portion of the West Road was not as splendid as the Imperial Highway, but they still made good time, stopping to rest the horses and eat some bread and fruit when the sun was high overhead. Bronwyn had seen enough to be satisfied with her companions' horsemanship. Leliana had an upright, elegant seat on her mount, and the Qunari knew what he was about. Morrigan flew and rested by turns, and the horses did not seem to mind the hawk perched on their backs. It was amusing to Bronwyn that Morrigan seemed to prefer to rest on the back of "her" horse—the Antivan mare. It really would be a good idea for her to learn to ride properly.
As the afternoon shadows lengthened, they came upon a small abandoned house by the side of the road—an inn or tavern of some sort from the darkened, illegible sign swinging above the open door.
"We can camp here tonight," Bronwyn decided. "There must be a well."
There was, and with good water, too. Leliana volunteered to cook the dinner, and all of them were busy for some time, unloading the gear, caring for the horses, scrubbing a table clean for their use, making a fire for Leliana to cook over. They were well-supplied, and there was no reason to stint themselves. Before preparing the food, Leliana searched the house methodically for anything of use or value. Bronwyn was a bit shocked.
"What if the owners return?"
"Why did they leave the door open?" Leliana shrugged. "This place looks deserted to me. These foodstuffs—" she pointed at the dusty shelves in the larder "—won't last forever. We should use what we can't take with us, and take with us what we can."
There were all sorts of oddments, though not much of any one thing: a few bottles of cheap Ferelden wine, and a small untapped keg of indifferent ale. It would be good enough to drink tonight. There was a small crate of salt fish that the vermin had not yet breached, and some onions and carrots hanging from the ceiling.
The big stewpot was filled with an amazing variety of ingredients, and soon a very savory herbal scent filled the air. They still had plenty of bread, and some cheese that could be rationed out—actually, that must be rationed out, or Alistair might eat the lot of it that very night.
Food was not the only thing that Leliana found in the house. Bronwyn was uncomfortable with it. The former occupants were not rich banns, but poor people. She decided that to salve her conscience she would leave some silver behind the bar the next morning. The owners might never return, but Bronwyn would be able to tell herself that she was not a scavenger.
The fish stew Leliana concocted met with general approval. and the comfort of the food made conversation easier among them.
Alistair finished inhaling his second bowl of stew, and then said to Bronwyn, "You know, you promised to tell me that story: the 'Be Bold But Not Too Bold' thing."
"I did not," Bronwyn replied saucily. "You promised to pester me until I told it."
"Oh, I love stories!" Leliana urged. "I don't know that one. Please tell it."
"Well..." Bronwyn considered. "If I tell this story, each of you must tell a story—not tonight, of course—but sometime in the future. That way we'll be sure of diversion when we need it."
Morrigan regarded her skeptically. "You want me to tell a story? Are you sure?"
"Yes," Bronwyn affirmed. "I am. Stories will help me understand my companions better, and there is nothing wrong with that."
Sten frowned, and then nodded. "Yes. Interesting. You wish to have more insight into the characters of those you command. An unusual method, but not unsound. I agree to participate."
"Excellent!" Bronwyn smirked at Alistair. "Well, Alistair? Are you in?"
"Sure. It sounds like fun. You go first, though."
"All right." Bronwyn rose and stood in front of the fire. "I shall tell you one of my favorite stories, and I shall tell it exactly as I heard it from my dear nursemaid Nan: The Story of Ser Murtherus and the Bloody Chamber."
"Oh," muttered Alistair, "That sounds...gruesome."
"Ssshhh," Leliana hushed him. "I want to hear this."
Bronwyn's story of Ser Murtherus:
Lady Dara was young, and Lady Dara was fair. She had two brothers, and more suitors than she could count. But of them all, the bravest and most gallant was Ser Murtherus, whom she met at a tournament in Denerim. No one knew who Ser Murtherus was, or where he came from; but he was certainly brave, and clearly rich, and of all her suitors, Lady Dara cared for him alone. He asked for her hand and was accepted. He described his keep, and where it was, but did not arrange for her to come with her brothers to see it.
Lady Dara was full of curiosity about her new home, so one day when her father and brothers were hunting, and Ser Murtherus had gone away to tend to some business—as he said—she mounted her horse and set out to find his castle.
At last, after a long ride, she came to a solitary wood, and a fine strong keep she saw, with high walls and a deep moat. When she came up to the gateway, she saw a sign written on it:
Be bold, be bold.
The gate was closed, and no one answered. The little postern gate to the side was open, though, with room enough for her to slip through. Lady Dara had a cold feeling, like something terrible would happen. She tied her horse in the woods, well out of sight, and she entered the courtyard, all empty and silent as it was, and went to the door, and over it was a sign:
Be bold, be bold, but not too bold.
Still she went on, until she came into the hall. It was fine and broad and high, but empty like all the rest of the castle. She found some wide stairs and went up them, until she came to a door at the end of the gallery, over which was written:
Be bold, be bold, but not too bold,
Lest that your heart's blood should run cold.
But Lady Dara was a brave one, she was, and she opened the door, and what do you think she saw? A pile of bodies of other young ladies, dead and rotten, the remains of their rich clothing stained with blood. So Lady Dara thought it high time to leave that place, and she closed the door, and she ran back along the gallery and down the stairs.
But just as she reached the door of the hall, she heard loud voices, and the sound of armored feet. She rushed to a corner, and hid herself behind some barrels, and Ser Murtherus came in with his henchmen, dragging a young lady through the door. They laughed and joked, and paid no attention to the young lady's shrieks and lamentations. They forced her to drink three glasses of wine: white, yellow, and red as blood. They stabbed her, every one of them, and then she lay dead. Ser Murtherus saw a ruby ring on the lady's hand, and tried to pull it from her finger. But it was too tight, and he cursed and swore and he drew his sword, and cut the young lady's hand right off.
The hand flew into the air and fell, of all places, into Lady Dara's lap. The men roared with laughter, as they dragged the dead young lady up to the Bloody Chamber. Ser Murtherus wanted to search for the ring, but his captain stopped him and said, "Wait until tomorrow morning. That hand won't run away!"
No sooner were they out of sight than Lady Dara jumped up from behind the barrels, made a dash for the door, and was outside and through the postern gate, and on her horse, and riding for home as fast as ever she could.
Now it happened that Lady Dara and Ser Murtherus were to be married the very next day. All her father's vassals came, and her brothers and all her kin, and there was a great wedding breakfast set out. Ser Murtherus came with his henchmen and was seated across from Lady Dara, and he said,
"How pale you are this morning, my dear."
"Yes," said she, "I had no rest last night, for I was plagued by a terrible dream."
He was very gallant, and said, "Dreams go by contraries. Tell me your dream, and your sweet voice will make the time pass till the happy hour comes."
"I dreamed," said Lady Dara," that I went yesterday to your castle, and I found it at last in a solitary wood. It had high walls, and a deep moat, and over the gateway was written:
Be bold, be bold.
Ser Murtherus looked at her strangely, and he said, "But it is not so, nor was it so."
Lady Dara said, "I went to the door, and over it was written:
Be bold, be bold, but not too bold.
He said, "It is not so, nor was it so."
"And then I went up the stairs," she said, "and came to a gallery, at the end of which was a door, and over it was written:
Be bold, be bold, but not too bold,
Lest that your heart's blood should run cold.
"It is not so, nor was it so," said Ser Murtherus.
"And then," she said, "I opened the door, and inside the room were piled the bodies of dead young ladies, their rich clothes stained with blood."
"It is not so, nor was it so," said Ser Murtherus. "And Maker forbid that it should be so."
"Then I dreamed that I rushed down the gallery, and down the stairs, and just as my hand was on the door, I heard you, Ser Murtherus, and your men coming up to the hall, dragging with you a young lady, rich and beautiful."
"It is not so, nor was it so," said Ser Murtherus, "And Maker forbid that it should be so."
"I dreamed that I hid myself behind some barrels while you and your men forced the young lady to drink your wine: white, yellow, and red as blood. And then you stabbed her, every one of you, and she lay dead. You tried to get her ruby ring from her finger, but it was too tight, and you drew your sword and hacked off her poor hand."
"It is not so, nor was it so. And Maker forbid that it should be so," said Ser Murtherus. He was rising from his seat, getting ready to say something else, when Lady Dara cried out:
"But it is so, and it was so. Here's hand and ring I have to show!" and she pulled out the lady's hand from her dress, and pointed it straight at Ser Murtherus.
And at once, her father and her brothers and all her kin drew their swords, and they cut Ser Murtherus and his evil henchmen into a thousand pieces.
The story finished, Bronwyn bowed gracefully, just like the traveling minstrels she had seen.
"That," said Alistair, "is just about the goriest thing I ever heard. I can't believe your nursemaid told you that. They never told us things like that in the Chantry!"
Morrigan laughed at him. "No doubt! I found it very diverting. An evil man's plans foiled by a woman's wit and courage!" To Bronwyn, she said, "The story you told those tiresome children back at Lothering had a moral. What is the moral here, I wonder?"
"That the ones you love aren't always the people you think they are," Leliana whispered, almost to herself.
Sten remarked, "I approve that the men executed the criminals, as is proper. The young woman also showed good sense in retaining credible evidence against them."
Bronwyn laughed lightly, "I always find it amusing that it was an arranged marriage, with the full consent of her father. Perhaps the moral is that sometimes parents choose no better for their children than the children would for themselves!"
Morrigan smirked. "You are subversive! And a teyrn's daughter, too!"
"I dislike others choosing for me," Bronwyn shrugged. "If that is subversive, so be it."
Darkness crept into the little room, making the fire on the hearth glow brighter by contrast. The companions slowly settled down for the night, each finding a place to sleep that suited them. Bronwyn sat up for a little while at the table, working on her lengthening letter to Fergus.
Leliana offered to take the first watch, and stepped outside to find a dark corner to lurk in. Morrigan seemed to like to keep her distance from the others, and claimed a room upstairs for herself. The rest of them spread their blankets out in the little common room. Once finished with her writing, Bronwyn chose to sleep sheltered behind the bar, and Scout stretched out beside her. Their situation lacked something of Lothering Manor's comfort, certainly, but at least they had not had to pitch tents.
She found it very hard to fall asleep in such a strange place. Sten snored, very quiet and very low: the sound so much like his speaking voice that it almost made Bronwyn laugh. Alistair only snored when his sleep was disturbed by nightmares, which was unfortunately often.
Finally, she drifted off, kept from true rest by gibbering monsters walking her dreamscape. It was almost a relief when Leliana gently shook her arm. She sat up slowly, and gave Leliana a nod of thanks. Scout's eyes were already open and alert, reflecting glints of firelight in their black depths. He padded silently out just in front of her, and she shut the door.
How many nights will be like this? she wondered.
The distant lake shimmered silver under the moonlight. Deep in the sighing trees, a few nightbirds called. Bronwyn looked up at the glittering stars, searching for her favorite constellations. So strange. A month ago she could not have pictured herself standing watch near Lake Belennas, far from everyone she had ever loved, on a mission to save Ferelden from monsters.
What would Mother say, if she could see her now? That last day, Mother had worried about Bronwyn and her lack of "softer skills;" she had worried about finding her a husband. Mother had never reconciled herself to Bronwyn's arrangement with Father. When she could be brought to talk about it at all, she made plain she thought it a bad idea: bad for the Couslands in general, and very bad for Bronwyn in particular. What she wanted for Bronwyn was very different than what Bronwyn wanted for herself. Mother wanted Bronwyn to relive her own wonderful life: a lovely young nobleman with a lovely home, who with Bronwyn would make lovely children. Mother always wanted lots of grandchildren.
No. I don't want to think about Oren.
She was usually such a light sleeper. Why on that night of all nights, had she slept so obliviously while enemies crept through their halls, while they made their way into her brother's bedchamber?
"Holy Andraste!" she hissed out loud, and then bit her lip, angry that she had given away her position. She moved silently to another dark place, and fixed her attention on her surroundings. Still the thoughts plagued her. Howe's men must have had the keys. Who gave them the keys? Did they kill the seneschal first? Or did they have a good picklock with them? Bronwyn was rather good at picking locks herself, having had practice whenever she had been locked in her room as a punishment.
If only she had heard the bastards creeping around! If only she had awakened when Scout first gave the alarm. Her imagination pictured her waking, alert and ready, arming herself quickly, surprising the intruders, saving Oriana and Oren, gathering them and Mother for an escape...
She would have sent them to the larder immediately, and looked for Father on her own. But then, reality intruded. It was more likely that Mother would have ordered her to take Oriana and Oren under her protection, and then Mother would have gone with the servants to look for Father. And she likely would have died.
She died anyway, Bronwyn thought bitterly. At least I might have rescued Fergus' wife and child. And I might not now be a Grey Warden. We could have gone west, to Bann Alfstanna's manor. She has always been a good friend of the Couslands...
But if Bronwyn were not a Grey Warden, what would have happened at Ostagar? What would have happened had she not been there to give the signal? What if Teyrn Loghain had not charged? What if he found that the King's position was already hopelessly overrun?
Bronwyn shivered, imagining the consequences: the king dead; half the army dead; the teyrn forced to choose between deserting the king and possibly destroying the entire army of Ferelden; darkspawn roaming unchecked, swarming up the Imperial Highway, their foulness surging over Lothering like an evil tide. What if Loghain had charged late, even knowing he was doomed, and died there on the field with the king? Ferelden would have been unarmed and unprotected, in chaos. Three of the country's five arls might have perished as well, and with the death of Arl Eamon, Rendon Howe would become the premier noble in Ferelden. Bronwyn thought of Fergus, wounded, dying all alone in the Wilds; of Queen Anora, far away in Denerim, hearing shreds of ghastly rumors, trying to assemble some sort of force with no one to help her...
It didn't happen. Bronwyn clamped down firmly on such frightening, disturbing images. I didn't let it happen. I was there. I couldn't be everywhere, but I was there.
Scout snuffled around the outside of the little house, nosing into nooks and crannies. Bronwyn made herself focus on watching and listening, while the stars in their courses wheeled overhead.
Much later, the door opened, and a tall figure emerged, stooping under the lintel.
"I have come to relieve you," Sten told her.
"Thanks. Scout and I have heard and seen nothing of concern. I can't even say it's too quiet, the way it was in the Wilds."
He nodded, and remained looking at her, frowning in the dim light. Bronwyn wondered what was on his mind, when he suddenly declared:
"You look like a woman."
Surprised, offended, amused, she paused, trying to think what to say, and finally replied, "I am a woman."
The frown deepened. "Women are priests, artisans, farmers, or shopkeepers. They don't fight."
Bronwyn smiled, remembering other debates with other people on this very point. "That must be the tradition in your country. A custom of your people, not a universal truth. Some women fight. Some women have to."
"It is the duty of warriors to fight. Not women."
"You know, Sten, my brother's wife often told me that. She was a good person and a wonderful mother. I loved her dearly. She wanted me to be like the women in Antiva, her homeland, where the women are refined and educated and never fight—except with words and poison." Bronwyn leaned against the wall, looking briefly out to the silent road, and added, "You will notice that she is not here, and I am. She was killed when enemies attacked our home. Because she did not know how to fight, it was easy for those men to kill her and her child. The women of Ferelden learned long ago that the menfolk can't always be there to protect the womenfolk."
She looked up at him with a hint of challenge. "So, yes, Sten. I am a woman, and I am a soldier. I am a Grey Warden, and I am at war against the Blight. You look like a soldier yourself."
"I am."
"Have you ever fought in a war before?"
"I have always fought in war."
"Good. Then you must know you way around a battlefield."
"Some of them. They aren't all alike."
"Well said. I'll leave you to your watch."
Their journey continued with little incident and few difficulties. The second day, true, a large wolf pack followed at their heels for some miles, hoping for signs of weakness. Even the mule, however, could put up a fierce fight with teeth and hooves, and the wolves gradually dropped behind, their yips of disappointment fading into the other sounds of the forest.
They pressed on, and the road turned north as the vast grey expanse of Lake Calenhad emerged. The West Road became the Lake Road. They eventually stopped at a farmhold, where Bronwyn dismounted and approached the house, hands empty and out.
"We are Grey Wardens, on our way to the Lake Calenhad docks. May we use your well, and camp tonight in your meadow?"
The freeholder peered out into the twilight, alarmed, crossbow in hand. His wife whispered excitedly behind the door. Permission was granted, and a little later, a young boy came out to bring them a plate of cookies.
"You're the Girl Warden, aren't you? We could tell by the helmet."
Alistair smirked at her. Bronwyn sighed, and thanked the boy for the treats.
"What are these?" asked Sten. "Some sort of local waybread?"
"Cookies, Sten," Alistair told him, grinning. "They're cookies. Try them."
The Qunari did, and said nothing, but thought long on the matter.
The farmer's boy seemed inclined to linger, and Alistair answered his questions in his genial, unassuming manner. Bronwyn knew it was silly to sulk about a name, but it was so annoying. She pitched her tent and disappeared into it as soon as possible, hoping for rest.
The farmer's wife insisted on making them breakfast the following morning, which saved them time and effort. They were invited into the little house and served at the family's table. Bronwyn made herself rise to the occasion, and expressed her appreciation for the hospitality in her grandest style. Before long, they were on the road once more.
There was time for talk. Hesitantly at first, Leliana spoke of how pleasant and quiet she had found life in the Chantry…but that is was…not entirely perfect. Growing more confident, she told Bronwyn more: there were judgmental people there, people intolerant of the views of others, people with whom she was never quite in tune. She called herself a native of Ferelden, but that was an exaggeration. She was the bastard child of a Fereldan woman who had been a servant to an Orlesian lady. When the Orlesians were driven from Ferelden in the wake of King Maric's successful rebellion, Lady Cecille had allowed her servant to travel to Orlais with her. Leliana had been born there, and her mother had died when Leliana was very young.
"But Lady Cecille was so kind and so gracious. She could have thrown me into the street. Instead, she kept me with her, and paid for my music and dance lessons. But she, too, died, and I was alone."
Her whole story raised more questions than it answered. Bronwyn considered her companion as they rode together. How had Leliana earned her bread, after the lady of the house had died? Had she been married? Had she been in the Chantry in Orlais? She spoke of music lessons: was she a minstrel? More to the point—was she a bard?
The reputation of Orlesian bards as spies and assassins as well as entertainers was not mere invention. Father himself knew a number of bards and had had some...close calls in the course of his embassy to the Empress. They were beautiful, clever, deceitful, skilled, enthralling and deadly—both the men and the women.
If Leliana was a minstrel, that was well enough: she would have musical skill and might be able to tell stories. Minstrels had a shady reputation of their own, of course, as female minstrels often supplemented their earnings from public performances with coin earned in more private and intimate circumstances. Perhaps Leliana was repenting such sins in the Chantry.
If she were actually a bard, instead—and the skills of minstrels and bards overlapped a great deal—there might be very sinister reasons for her presence in Ferelden. Father had explained that the intelligence network of the Empress spread all over Thedas: her agents were everywhere. Some of them worked openly, living at the Orlesian embassy and gathering information from the foolish or inebriated at receptions and feasts.
There were others, though: the ones Father called "sleeper" agents. What if Leliana had been sent to Lothering to insinuate herself into the village, to listen for interesting rumors, to step forward when opportunity knocked? Things could get very, very bad, if a bard were to find out the truth of Alistair's paternity. The Empress would pay a fortune for that kind of information. Leliana would certainly not discover it from any carelessness of Bronwyn's. Perhaps she should talk about the issue discreetly with Alistair...
They met the bereskarn on the third day: the horses screaming and striking out; Morrigan darting down from the sky to pick at the creature's eyes; Leliana galloping past in a blur of speed, twisting in the saddle to shoot with deadly accuracy; Scout snarling, leaping to rip at the mighty throat. Swords slashed, as they surrounded the beast, and it went down at length, roaring in protest, stretched out on the dusty earth.
There were other hazards, other threats. A pair of incompetent horsethieves attempted to cut the horses' hobbles and make off with them, only to meet with the twin misfortunes of Scout and Trampler before the other companions even reached the spot. At an isolated house, the inhabitants tried to lure them in and poison them, but found themselves outmatched.
Only once did they see darkspawn, and it was a small group—perhaps a scouting party. Sten showed no fear of the monsters, and to her surprise, neither did Leliana, who was an aggressive fighter, and curiously bloodthirsty for someone so sweet-spoken.
Bronwyn was expecting Morrigan to freeze the darkspawn spellcaster in place, when Alistair suddenly put up his hand, and the creature's spells dried up to a pathetic trickle. He was down and dead in short order. Bronwyn stared at her companion.
"What did you do to that darkspawn mage?"
"Templar trick," Alistair grinned. "Sucks the magic right out of them for a minute or two."
"Impressive."
So there was danger and hardship, of course, and quite a bit of blood spilled and splashed, but they were still making good time, and on the afternoon of the fourth day a ghostly tower appeared, as if suspended in the air over the lake.
"Kinloch Hold," Bronwyn told her party. "Home of the Circle of Magi."
As they rode north, the tower grew larger and less ethereal. Eventually the bottom made contact with the island below it. Everyone had remarks to make about the imposing structure.
"Is that the prison for your mages?" Sten asked. "Ours are not so grand."
Morrigan chuckled at that, remarking, "A grand prison indeed. How appropriate that they built it in the middle of a lake and made it look like a giant phallus."
Sten snorted. "Humans, over-compensating as usual."
"Not very practical," Alistair said to Bronwyn.
Leliana gazed at in in wonder. "Well, I think the view from the top must be spectacular!"
Bronwyn scowled. Was she the only one here who knew any history? "The tower was not built either for or by the mages. The ancient Avvars built it over fifteen hundred years ago, with the help of the dwarves. That's probably why it's still intact. The Tevinters took it over when they conquered these lands, and after their withdrawal it lay empty for centuries until the mages moved in during the Towers Age. That's only six hundred years ago. It's true that it's prison-like, in that the causeway was deliberately destroyed, making it accessible only by boat. And yes, Leliana, I imagine the view is spectacular. It's nearly as tall as the tower of Fort Drakon in Denerim."
"A gilded prison," Morrigan considered, "but still a prison. How can you call it impractical, Alistair, when it serves its function to isolate and incarcerate Ferelden's mages so very well?"
Bits of Tevinter ruins became frequent as they approached the docks and the associated village marked on Bronwyn's excellent map. By the time the reached the slope leading down to the water's edge, the road was framed by ancient colonnades. Below them lay the docks, and what must surely be an inn.
No boats were tied up at the moment. Bronwyn bit her lip. That was awkward. She had hoped for a good-sized boat to take them across the lake. Without it, they would have the long ride around the north end of the lake before them. Well, her business at the Circle would take time. When it was complete, perhaps there would be something.
Wait...there were no boats at all at the docks.
"Well," she told her party, "it appears I won't be going to the Circle today. The Tower ferry must have left with someone else."
Alistair was philosophical about it. "We can go in the morning. We'll be rested and cleaned up by then. Maybe it's all for the best, if we want to make a good impression."
"Perhaps so. The inn looks tidy and well-kept, at least." They dismounted, and a boy came out to take the horses. After giving him instructions and dire warnings, they walked up to the inn itself and made out the sign. "The Spoiled Princess?" Bronwyn laughed. "I've never heard of such a name!"
"Sounds right up your alley," Alistair teased.
"Ha! No princess here! Are you implying I'm spoiled?"
"Are you saying you're not, my lady?" His smile grew softer. "And you're as close to a princess as no matter. If your father had been elected King, you would have been a princess!"
"Yes, well..." Bronwyn shrugged, uncomfortable with the great interest that Alistair's revelation had generated in the rest of their companions. "If the ancient Tevinter mages hadn't been idiots, there wouldn't have been darkspawn, either!"
The inn was small but clean. The innkeeper was a pleasant man who welcomed them warmly, poured them some good ale, and was happy to tell them the history of the inn's name—an ironic tale of sibling rivalry and the innkeeper's pampered sister's sticky end. Bronwyn asked about lodging, and he offered them the rooms available.
Which were two in number. "Another party's got the third."
"Well, that's easy," Bronwyn said, with sardonic nonchalance. "Gentlemen to the right and ladies to the left."
"I hope the bed is really big," Alistair muttered.
Bronwyn blew out a breath. "So do I." She had not had to share a bed in years, but she would be hanged before she would give up her share and sleep on the floor.
The room was...well...not very big. Bronwyn, Morrigan, and Leliana nearly tripped over each other, trying to stow their packs and wash. The bed itself would just accommodate three slender women—if they didn't move much.
"It's still better than the floor," Bronwyn told herself.
"Someone is going to have to sleep in the middle," Morrigan said darkly. Clearly, it would not be her.
"I don't mind!" Leliana volunteered, very cheerfully.
"And the dog stays in the common room tonight," Morrigan demanded. "I'm not catching fleas from your filthy mongrel!"
"All right," Bronwyn agreed grudgingly. Scout would probably be trampled if he slept in here.
They sent for more wash water, and Bronwyn eased gratefully out of her filthy armor. Cleaning it would occupy her most of the evening. At least she had other clothes to wear. Leliana had only her chantry robe, and Bronwyn watched the girl slip into it, determined that they would find her something else. A Grey Warden recruit in a chantry robe sent a message that Bronwyn thought was not at all appropriate. The Grey Wardens were not an arm of the Chantry.
"We'll have to find something new for you," she told Leliana casually. "I know how tiring it is to wear armor all the time."
Morrigan caught her eye and smirked, understanding her perfectly. She was still in her robes, not thinking a wayside inn grand enough for her green gown.
Leliana turned big, worried eyes on Bronwyn. "Should I not have put this on?"
"It's all right for tonight, but you really need something else. We'll see if we can find something here or on the road later."
"I haven't any money," Leliana told her sadly.
"We'll buy it out of Warden funds."
"Oh!" Leliana's face lit up. "How kind of you! Can it be blue? I love blue!"
By the time they returned to the common room, Alistair and Sten were already there, talking with a middle-aged man who must be the other guest of the inn. His commonplace traveling clothes told little about him, but his bearing revealed he was clearly no warrior.
"Brother Genetivi," he introduced himself, standing courteously as the women approached. "An honor to meet you, Wardens."
"I am not a Warden," Morrigan replied ungraciously, seating herself as far as possible from the man.
"Brother Genetivi?" Bronwyn thought for a moment. She smiled. "I believe I read a book of yours! You wrote that biography of the Rebel Queen. I enjoyed it so much."
The pleasant smile broadened. "My thanks! It was a labor of love, writing on such a very worthy subject." With a certain diffidence, he said, "I believe we have a mutual acquaintance, Warden Bronwyn. Your tutor Aldous was a good mentor to me, long ago. We often corresponded, and he had much to say about the wonderful children he was privileged to teach."
She was unprepared for the sudden pang of loss, but pushed it aside, and made herself smile a little. "We were such a trial to him! He was a good man, and a very good teacher. I am sorry to tell you," she added, "that he is dead. He was killed, along with so many others, when Arl Rendon Howe attacked Highever."
"Yes," he said, very gently. "The news of the arl's crime is all over Ferelden. The Queen herself is horrified, and is working to bring Howe to justice."
"I am glad to hear it," she managed, "but I really do not wish to speak of it now. I had rather hear," she told him, "how a distinguished scholar such as yourself happens to be traveling in such troubled times."
The serving woman brought them their suppers, and they fell to, glad of a meal they did not have to cook themselves. Over the stew and bread, Genetivi told them of himself.
"I suppose I was restless. I suppose I was tired of writing about other peoples' adventures, and wanted to have a grand adventure of my own while I still could."
Alistair pointed out, "We have a Blight on our hands, you know. Maybe it would have been a good idea to wait?"
"Warden," Gentivi laughed ruefully, "Some Blights have lasted over a hundred years. I don't have that kind of time. There comes a moment in a man's life when he asks, 'If not now, then when?' So here I am, on the trail of the Urn of the Sacred Ashes."
Leliana stared at him in wonder. Bronwyn and Alistair looked at each other, a bit incredulous. Sten and Morrigan continued eating, quite unconcerned.
"Yes," said Brother Genetivi, "I do mean the urn that contains the remains of the Prophet Andraste herself. The remains are said to have remarkable curative powers. My research indicates that the urn still exists, and is in Ferelden."
"That is amazing!" Leliana cried, "Oh, how I wish I could go with you. I would, too, if I did not have to kill darkspawn. Where do you think it is?"
He did not seem to mind telling his story, and brought out a map, showing them the location—in the Frostback Mountains—of a remote village called Haven. "That is my destination. I believe the people there can direct me further. There is a funerary temple somewhere in the mountains nearby."
"Haven?" Bronwyn frowned, trying to place the name. "I've never heard of such a place." She got up and came back with her own map of Ferelden. Spreading it out to compare it with Genetivi's, she said, "Not here. Are you sure there's such a village?"
"I have very good information about it. I'm as sure as a cautious old scholar can be."
"Do you mind if I mark it on my own map?" Bronwyn asked.
Genetivi's map displayed other details in the west of Ferelden, beyond Lake Calenhad, that were unknown to her. Leliana ran to fetch pen and ink, and Bronwyn carefully placed a dot on the map and labeled it "Haven." There was another place, south of Redcliffe, that was called "Honnleath." She added that to her map as well. There were some interesting rivers and roads that she drew in. Smiling, she wondered what Teyrn Loghain would say when she told him she knew things about Ferelden that he did not.
"I can't believe you're going alone," Alistair said, rather concerned. "Couldn't the Chantry spare some Templars to send with you?"
Genetivi shrugged. "They're not very impressed with my research," he admitted. "They think I'm chasing rainbows. And besides, hunting apostates is easier than traveling hundreds of miles into danger. No, the Grand Cleric gave me permission to go myself, but offered me no assistance. I suppose I shouldn't have written that controversial study of the early days of the Chantry. The fact is that I'm not in favor at the moment."
Morrigan considered that, and deigned to look at Genetivi a little less despisingly.
Bronwyn said feelingly, "I certainly wish you well, Brother, and I look forward to reading an amazing book someday!"
"You are very kind," he smiled, folding up his map. "It was an honor to have met you. But now I'm afraid I must turn in. I'm not as young as I was."
When he was gone, it was time to make their plans, speaking quietly at their corner table.
"I think," Bronwyn said to her companions, "that it would be best if we did not all go to the Mage's Tower. Someone must be here to keep an eye on the horses, at the very least. Our mission would be compromised without them. And Morrigan, I do not think it a good idea to take you there. Having set eyes on you, they might want to keep you, and then there would be tiresome arguments before we left, and that too, would compromise the mission."
"I certainly have no desire to see how captive mages live," Morrigan agreed.
"Very well. I want you and Sten to stay here. I want Scout to stay with you."
A pitiful whine from below the table.
"Yes, I want you to stay, too, Scout. You won't like the Tower. It's hard stone and endless steps and no rabbits, and it's more important that you help guard the horses."
The whining stopped. Scout could see the sense in that.
"So...watch the horses and get plenty of rest. Morrigan, be very careful about your magic use. This area is crawling with Templars. If you get in a tangle with them, I'll either have to conscript you or you'll have to leave the party altogether—at least until we can get far enough away. Even then, they would know about you and watch for you. So be very careful."
Morrigan rolled her eyes. "Yes, Mother."
Sten bowed his head. "I shall make good use of the time."
Bronwyn went on. "Alistair, Leliana, and I will go to the Tower. Alistair's Templar training and Leliana's association with the Lothering Chantry will be of use. Don't be surprised if call you 'Sister,'" she said to Leliana. "I'll have to toady to the Templars a little, because in the end the Knight-Commander is going to be the real obstacle to getting more mages for the army. I'm going to have to be tactful for that. For the Grey Wardens, I can just use conscription."
Leliana said, "We must do the Maker's work however we can. I am sure He wants more mages in the army to help against the darkspawn."
"I am sure you're right," Bronwyn agreed, ignoring Morrigan's expression. "And we cannot let old prejudices stand in our way. Teyrn Loghain is depending on us."
"And the King," Alistair added, with the slightest edge to his voice.
"Of course, 'and the King.'" she agreed, wondering why Alistair always got that look on his face whenever she mentioned Teyrn Loghain. "We must get those mages for the army. And we should keep our eyes open for Grey Warden prospects, too."
"If you are looking for tame mages," Morrigan sneered, "perhaps a healer might be useful. I have no interest in that School of Magic."
"An excellent suggestion." Bronwyn liked the idea, no matter how it was presented. "But however tame these mages might be, I suspect there are at least a few who long to be free. Those are the ones we want. Keep your eyes open," she repeated.
Three women in their smallclothes in one bed was not an experience Bronwyn wished to repeat anytime soon. If she moved in the slightest, she touched Leliana, and that was so unusual and startling that she woke at once. It did not seem to bother Leliana, who actually started cuddling at one point, pushing Bronwyn to the edge of the bed and over.
She thumped to the floor, half asleep and cursing.
"Whatever you are doing," came Morrigan's voice from the darkness. "Stop it at once!"
A little later, Bronwyn cried out as the darkspawn sliced a man open, waking her two companions. They all looked around blearily for danger, before subsiding back into the lumpy mattress.
"It's all right," Leliana cooed, stroking her arm.
Later, she sat up and talked back to the Archdemon. This was also not well-received.
"If you don't lie still, I will stick a knife in you," Morrigan snarled. "This, I swear."
Note: Bronwyn's story is adapted from "Mr Fox" in English Fairy Tales, collected by Joseph Jacobs, combined with a bit of "The Robber Bridegroom," collected by the Brothers Grimm, which has a similar theme. I eventually want all my companions to tell a story, and I don't have the codex features of the actual game. It won't be the Decameron, obviously, but stories can tell us a lot about people.
Thanks to my reviewers: Aoihand, khaos974, bioncafemme, Piceron, Sarah1281, Eva Galana, mille libri, Deviate Fish, Phoenix Fire Lady, almostinsane, phoenixandashes, Night Hunter MGS, Amhran Comhrac, ShyWriter413, rascality, Shining Girl, ByLanternLight, and Beriathwen.
Please review! It's always so interesting!
