3 Solace, 9:25 Dragon
Highever Castle

•o•

"Oh, come on," Rhianna pleaded. "Hit me already!" She dropped down into a crouch, ready with her practice sword to parry an attack.

Rory Gilmore swung the waster in her direction, but at the last moment changed the angle of attack so the blade swished by Rhianna's arm without making contact.

"You call that hitting me?"

"My Lady," Ser Gilmore's voice was apologetic, but firm, "I don't think I can bring myself to hit you. It just doesn't seem right."

"But if you won't hit me, I can't train properly!"

"I don't want to risk you being injured."

"I won't be. At least not so badly it would be a problem. What do you think poultices are for? And there's always Geoffrey if I were to break a bone or something. I need you to try and hit me."

"I'm sorry, My Lady. But I just can't."

Rhianna let out a ragged, and very deliberate, sigh. It wasn't as though she never had the opportunity to spar. Several of the Highever Regulars were happy to train with her, and had enough respect for her abilities to give her a good workout. Today, however, when she tried to find someone to practice with, everyone else was busy with other things, and the only person she could convince to accompany her to the practice yard was the ever reticent and respectful Ser Gilmore.

In the far corner of the yard, her new puppy was barking and bouncing around trying to catch his little stub of a tail. Despite her annoyance with Ser Gilmore, Rhianna was cheered by the sight of the pure-bred mabari hound playing so exuberantly.

The puppy, who she had named Dane, had been a birthday gift from her parents just three days ago, and Rhianna was already madly in love with him. And no wonder: Dane was the most adorable creature in the whole world. He had short amber-colored fur and floppy little ears, and a fold of skin on his nose and another above his front legs. His muzzle was dark, and he had mournful blue eyes, although the breeder said they would probably turn dark before he was fully grown. He was small now, not much larger than a house cat, but when he reached adulthood, he would stand at least as high as Rhianna's waist.

Now, Dane was becoming extremely excited at the sight of his mistress playing with the ginger-haired knight, even though he could tell his mistress was not entirely happy with the situation.

A new thought occurred to her. "You haven't forgotten, have you, my father is your liege? I think that means you have to do what I tell you to do."

The knight shook his head. "Nice try, My Lady, but no. It means I have to do what he tells me to do."

"Hmm." She put a hand on one of her hips. "But that means if I tell my father to order you to hit me, then you will have to do it."

"Begging your pardon, but I doubt your father would actually order me to hit you."

"Don't be so sure," Rhianna insisted. "Because if he doesn't, I'll threaten to run away to Denerim and join Maric's Shield, so I can train with Teyrn Loghain every single day. And whenever I train with the teyrn, I end up covered in bruises. Really big, nasty, painful, ugly bruises."

That was an exaggeration, but only a slight one. Teyrn Loghain was rough on her, and she often had the bruises to prove it. Of course, that was the reason she would rather train with him than with anyone else in the world. Well, one of the reasons, anyway. No one else pushed her as hard, encouraged her to push herself as hard. No one else made her feel she could do things she would have never believed possible. And she knew the reason he was so rough with her, the reason he pushed so hard, was that he believed in her. If she had her way, she really would run off and join Maric's Shield. But since that wasn't possible, she tried to make the best of things here in Highever.

"It's true, Ser Gilmore," she continued. "You know how hard he hits. So you'd be saving me a lot of trouble - and a lot of pain - by agreeing to hit me. If you hit me just a little, I won't have to go to Teyrn Loghain and have him hit me a lot. Not to mention all the fuss it would cause if I were to run away from home. So just spar with me properly. Please?"

Ser Gilmore stared at her, his mouth pursed unhappily, but finally he glanced away and shrugged. "As you wish, My Lady. But if you end up lying on the ground bleeding, I'm going to tell your father it was your own fault."

"Fair enough," she laughed, and dropped into a ready stance, awaiting a blow from the young knight.

They began to circle one another, and Ser Gilmore charged, aiming for her head. Rhianna easily parried the blow, grunting in satisfaction as the vibration ran all the way down her arms. A proper blow. Finally.

She whirled around, preparing for his next strike, but the sound of hoof beats approaching very quickly up the road caught her attention. Turning her head to look, she was caught off guard when Ser Gilmore hit her with his shield. She flew backwards and landed on her rear end.

"Maker's blood!" Ser Gilmore hurried to help the girl back to her feet. "I'm sorry, My Lady! I didn't mean to hit you so hard!"

Rhianna laughed, once she caught her breath. "Don't apologize! It was my fault. I wasn't paying enough attention. Look." She pointed to the road. "A rider."

She crossed to the fence surrounding the practice field and hopped up on the bottom slat to get a better view. Reaching out with her mind, she touched the mind of the horse. He was focused on running as fast as possible, anxious because of the agitation his rider was feeling.

"It must be important." A ribbon of fear, cold and uncomfortable, slithered into her belly. "I hope it's not bad news."

The messenger rode through the main gates of the castle.

Glancing at Ser Gilmore, Rhianna jumped down from the fence and stowed the practice weapons in their crate. She scooped Dane up into her arms and left the practice field at a jog.

Halfway to the castle, she broke into a run.

•o•o•o•o•o•

Standing beside the fire, Bryce stared at the parchment in his hands, reading the words again. Perhaps he had misunderstood them the first time. Or the second. Perhaps his eyes had skipped over some vital part of the message. Perhaps it didn't really say what he thought it said.

But every time he read it, the words were the same. Terrible words. Words that changed everything. Words that were going to break his daughter's heart. Words that were already breaking his own heart.

He looked up as Rhianna raced into the great hall, sliding to a halt at the scene that greeted her. It must have looked dismal. Bryce, holding the parchment, a grim expression on his face. Eleanor, sobbing, with Fergus seated beside her, an arm draped around his mother's shoulder.

"Father?" Rhianna's voice was high-pitched and anxious. "I saw a messenger arrive."

"Yes. There's a letter. From Teyrn Loghain." He ran a hand across his face. "Rhianna . . ." he began, but his voice trailed off.

"What is it? What's happened?" She walked closer, cradling the puppy in her arms. "It's something bad, isn't it?"

"Perhaps you should sit down, Pup," Bryce urged.

"No, I don't want to sit. Just tell me what happened."

"The Demelza . . . the ship taking King Maric to Wycome . . . it never arrived." Maric had been on his way to the Free Marches, to mediate a peace accord between several of the Marcher lords. He was only supposed to have been gone a few weeks, a month at most.

"What do you mean, 'it never arrived?'" Rhianna asked. "Where is it?"

"It looks like . . . well, it looks as though the ship went down somewhere on route, but no one has any idea exactly where that might have happened."

Rhianna inhaled sharply. "The ship went . . . down? You . . . you mean it sank? Teyrn Loghain said it sank?"

"Yes."

"But . . . but what about the king? He's all right, isn't he?"

Bryce closed his eyes briefly before meeting her gaze. "Pup, we don't even know where the ship went down. And no survivors have turned up anywhere."

"Not yet, you mean." Her face had drained of color and her eyes were watery and bright, but her voice was firm. "No survivors have turned up yet. But that doesn't mean they won't. Even if the ship sank, King Maric knows how to swim. He's a good swimmer; he would just swim to shore. That's what must have happened. He swam to shore somewhere, and just hasn't made his way back to a city yet, to send word, or . . . or get another ship back to Ferelden. Maybe he's stuck on an island somewhere, waiting to be rescued."

Wycome was only a short journey across the Waking Sea and up the eastern coast of the Free Marches. But the currents in that part of the ocean were treacherous, and unless the ship went down ridiculously close to land, not even the strongest swimmer would be able to make it to shore. The thought that Maric had been this fortunate was appealing, but . . .

"That seems . . . unlikely," Bryce replied.

"But it's possible," she insisted. "You can't tell me it's not possible!"

"Possible, yes," he admitted. "But I think . . . Rhianna, I think it isn't wise to get your hopes up. Not this time."

His daughter's face crumpled. She clutched the puppy in her arms even tighter, pressing her cheek against his fur. Dane responded by licking her hand.

"No," she sobbed, fat tears escaping from her eyes. "He's not dead. He can't be dead. Not King Maric. I don't want him to be dead."

Bryce stepped close, pulling her into his arms, feeling her shoulders shake as she began to cry in earnest.

Abruptly, Rhianna pulled away from him, panting for breath. She scrubbed the tears away with the heel of her hand.

"No. He isn't dead." Her bottom lip quivered, but her voice was steady as she stared into her father's eyes. "I don't believe it. King Maric is out there, somewhere. Alive. We just have to find him, that's all. He isn't dead. I would know if he was dead. I would feel it . . . if he were gone, I would feel it. I know I would."

She stopped crying, but her breath was ragged, and Bryce felt his heart break at the look in her eyes. Never before had he seen her so grief-stricken and fragile. Not after she'd been attacked by the werewolf, not even after she had been locked up in that dungeon so long ago.

The puppy in her arms stretched up to lick her neck and her chin, as if desperate to offer whatever comfort he could to his mistress. She pushed his face away, gently, but then stroked his fur and rested her cheek on the top of his head.

"Pup," Bryce began.

She cut him off. "No. Don't tell me again not to have hope. He's not dead. We just have to find him, that's all. There are ships here at Highever. We'll charter one of them and go looking for him. I'll go with them myself. Find where the ship sank, and the place he swam to shore, and we'll bring him home again. That's what needs to happen."

Maker's blood. She wanted to go sailing off and look for Maric herself? Not that it should come as a surprise; she loved the king. They all did. Rhianna, especially, had been close with him these past few years. Still, there was no chance Bryce would allow his thirteen-year-old daughter to sail off on what would almost certainly be a wild goose chase.

"The royal navy is already out looking for the king," he assured her. "Teyrn Loghain organized an expedition as soon as he heard about the . . . disappearance, and he himself is on one of the ships. You know no one cares more for Maric's safety than Loghain does. If the king is still alive, Loghain will find him."

"I know. But . . ."

She let out a sigh, not bothering to finish her sentence. Her face was tearstained, her mouth pinched in sorrow. He could see she wasn't satisfied. To be honest, he wasn't really satisfied either. He'd felt sick to his stomach ever since the messenger rode into the courtyard at top speed. Not that Bryce believed there was any chance of finding the king. Maric was almost certainly dead. But if there was any chance . . .

"We'll send ships from Highever as well, if you think it would help," he suggested. "But you're not going with them." She opened her mouth to protest, but he added, "I'm leaving for Denerim tomorrow, and you're coming with me. I'll need your help in the city, while your mother and brother stay here to manage the teyrnir. A Landsmeet will be called to decide how things will proceed until . . . Maric is . . . found," he said, even though there was little hope of that happening. What they'd be doing is choosing a new king. But there was no point in saying that to his daughter, not right now.

"All right. I'll come with you to Denerim. But can we go to the waterfront right now? And see about hiring some ships of our own?"

"Of course, Pup."

No ship from Highever was likely to find anything the royal navy couldn't, but if it would ease his daughter's suffering, even a little, it would be a small price to pay.

•o•o•o•o•o•

It was late, almost midnight, when Fergus heard a knock at the door to the room he shared with Oriana and the baby. Cursing softly, he slipped out from under the covers. This had been a trying day. Apparently, it was not yet at an end.

He crossed to the door, the chill of the cobblestone unpleasant under his bare feet.

In the hallway, he found his sister, fully dressed.

"Elsie?" He couldn't keep the annoyance completely out of his voice. "What is it?"

"I need your help with something," she whispered. "Please, Fussy. Just come with me. Please?"

Fergus glanced at his wife's sleeping form, then back to his sister. Whatever she wanted, it must have something to do with King Maric. She'd been devastated earlier, and he didn't blame her. But what on earth did she hope to accomplish in the middle of the night?

"Whatever this is, can't it wait until morning?"

"No, it can't. Please, Fussy." Rhianna's face was pale, and her eyes looked swollen and red. She looked so forlorn, it was impossible for him to say no.

"All right. Give me a minute to get dressed."

"Bring a cloak."

Fergus sighed, but nodded in agreement.

Twenty minutes later, he and Rhianna were on the road leading into town, after sneaking out through the servant's entrance in the kitchen.

"Now will you tell me where we are going?" Fergus asked.

"To the docks."

Fergus grasped one of Rhianna's arms, pulling her to a stop. "The docks? Don't be ridiculous. We are not going out searching for King Maric. Certainly not just the two of us, on the sailboat. Father arranged for three ships to leave Highever in the morning. You know that. Look, Elsie . . . I know you are fond of the king. We all are. But this is going much too far."

"Maker's blood, Fergus! How stupid do you think I am? Of course we're not going out to look for the king. I just need to get to the waterfront and stand on one of the docks for a few minutes. But I was . . . I'm scared to be out here all by myself, in the middle of the night. After what happened at the festival. Please, Fussy. This won't take long at all, I promise."

"What do you need to do at the docks?"

"Talk to the seabirds," she replied. "Ask them to look for King Maric. If I tell them what he looks like, maybe they will be able to find him."

Birds? Did she really say she wants to talk to the birds, and tell them to go find the king?

Maker's balls. Had his sister gone mad? Grief did that to people, sometimes, and she was certainly grieving. But this was possibly the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard.

Except . . . Rhianna did have an uncanny way with animals. She always had. Over the years, Fergus had seen things almost too strange to be believed. Deer that came close enough to be petted. A fox that held still while Rhianna put a bandage on its injured leg. Birds that flew down and took food directly from her fingers.

At first, it had made him nervous. What if this was magic? The thought his beloved sister might be sent off to Kinloch Hold was unbearable. But she was thirteen years old now; if she were a mage, there would have been other signs by now. So there must be some other explanation for it.

That it was, for example, nothing but her overactive imagination. This seemed the most likely explanation by far. As if seabirds could be convinced to search for the missing king.

It was time to put a stop to this folly, to get Rhianna back to the castle. If their parents found out he'd taken her to the waterfront in the middle of the night, they'd both be in trouble.

He turned to her, ready to insist they go back. He wanted nothing more than to be in his bed, to be back with his wife, who had woken while he was dressing and had not been happy about this unexpected errand in the middle of the night.

But when he looked into Rhianna's face, he felt his resolve crumble. The crease in her forehead, the way her teeth pulled at her bottom lip. The earnest, pleading look in her eyes.

Even if it was her imagination, this meant a lot to her. If it would make her happy, what harm could there be in visiting the docks for a few minutes? And if there was any chance she was right about this, any chance these birds could help find the king . . . that could only be a good thing.

While he wouldn't have admitted it to anyone except perhaps Oriana, Fergus was devastated by the possibility King Maric was dead. In part because he genuinely liked the king. Maric was friendly, and funny, an all-around charming man, and a good king who cared about his people.

And of course, Rhianna cared a great deal for King Maric, and it was obvious Maric cared about her as well. The two of them, along with Teyrn Loghain, spent a lot of time together and always seemed to enjoy themselves. Maric had gone to visit her when she'd been ill with the plague, and had insisted on going into the underground tunnels to seek out the werewolves that had hurt her. Both times, putting his own life at risk. It didn't seem outlandish to think Maric might care about Rhianna enough to marry her once she came of age, and it was difficult to imagine a better future for his little sister. Marriage to a man who could be trusted to treat her with respect and affection, and who was, of course, the King of Ferelden. The thought Rhianna might someday be the queen was somewhat bizarre, but not at all unpleasant.

But neither of those things were the primary reason Fergus hoped King Maric would be found. Something else weighed much more heavily on his mind. Although Cailan was the obvious choice for the succession, not all the nobles in Ferelden would be happy about the prince taking the throne. Fergus had heard whispers: Cailan was not half the man his father was, and ill-prepared to rule Ferelden. Perhaps given time this would change, Cailan would mature into someone fit to rule, but if Maric were really dead, time had run out. This meant there was almost certainly enough support to put forth an alternate candidate. Cailan did, however, carry the Theirin bloodline, which guaranteed any alternate would not easily be confirmed. Put those two things together, and they spelled the potential for an ugly fight. Not likely a civil war, not in the current climate, but ugly nonetheless.

And the man with the next-best claim to the throne of Ferelden was Bryce Cousland.

If Rhianna's crazy plan could locate King Maric - if there was any chance the king was still alive - Fergus was willing to give it a try. Anything to keep his family out of the mess that was sure to break out in the Landsmeet if King Maric was really dead.

"All right. I'll go with you to the waterfront," he agreed.

•o•o•o•o•o•

When they arrived at the docks, Rhianna chose the one that stretched farthest out into the sea, and she and Fergus walked all the way to the end. The moon was nearly full, providing them with plenty of light, which was good. Not that she needed light for what she wanted to do, but she knew the birds didn't like taking wing in total darkness.

"All right my friends. Where are you?" she whispered. Then, she closed her eyes and sent her mind out over the waves. There they were: gulls floating on the water, pelicans roosting on the deck of an abandoned ship, fulmar asleep on the cliffs overlooking the sea.

She called to them. Please, come.

She needed this to happen, she needed their help. Since the moment her father had told her Maric's ship had gone missing, Rhianna had felt so terrified, so overwhelmed, so anxious she could hardly take a breath, and her stomach was so tied up in knots she felt faint and fragile, like she might shatter into a thousand tiny pieces at any moment.

King Maric. He was not only her king, but also her friend. She loved him in so many different ways, and couldn't bear the thought something bad had happened to him. That he might have been hurt. That he might be scared and cold and alone. Or worse. That she might never see him again, never hear his laughter, never watch his eyes light up with mischief as he teased her or told a stupid joke.

Then, it occurred to her even if she couldn't go searching herself, she could ask others to do it for her. Birds regularly traversed distances much greater than what she would require. And if the ship had sunk, perhaps they could find some evidence of it. If it was still afloat, so much the better.

Please, come.

For a few minutes, all was silent, except for the waves lapping at the wooden pilings that vanished into the dark water below.

Then, she heard it. The whisper of wings in flight. She felt a puff of air across her face as a large gull swept past, then glided to land on the dock near her feet. One by one they came, until Rhianna was surrounded by birds. Small gulls gleaming white, and large ones, the feathers on their backs almost black in the moonlight. Pelicans, with their broad chests and stern eyes. A cormorant, holding its wings out at an angle, and twisting its snake-like neck to get a better look at the girl who summoned them here. Guillemots standing awkwardly on feet so brightly colored, the red was apparent even in the moonlight.

Rhianna reached out a hand, holding it in the air above one of the pelicans. The bird lifted its head, pressing its beak against her hand in greeting. She glanced back at Fergus, who stood about ten feet away, at the perimeter of the feathery crowd gathered around her. Fergus' eyes were wide, his brow wrinkled, as though he really couldn't believe what he was seeing.

Turning her attention back to the birds, she spoke to them with her mind. The ship, a caravel that might have sunk in a recent storm. The man, one particular man, who had been aboard that ship, and who Rhianna desperately wished to see again. As she had done with the rat in the dungeon, she pictured King Maric's face in her mind as clearly as possible. One by one, she connected with the minds of the birds, passing the message to each in turn.

"Please," she beseeched them. "If he yet lives, find him and help bring him home safely to Ferelden. Come to me in Denerim, and let me know what you find."

When it was done, one by one they departed, flying off in various directions, alone, or in pairs or triplets or quartets. Rhianna waved to them, offering thanks as well as goodbyes.

When they had gone, Fergus walked up beside her. "Did that really just happen, or am I imagining things? Those birds . . . all those birds . . . they just came because you called them?"

"You're not imagining things, Fussy. Haven't you ever noticed how much I talk to animals?"

"Yes," Fergus began, still looking a bit stunned, "but I never realized they talk back!"

"Let's just hope they are able to do what I asked of them," she replied, gazing out over the water. "Let's hope they find King Maric."

•o•