Victory at Ostagar

Chapter 28: House Cousland against the World

The Queen's private sitting room was in disarray, but it was always in disarray when the King was in Denerim. He would move the chairs from their carefully arranged positions; he lounged and put his boots on the low table; he threw cushions out of his way and onto the floor. The brocade draperies fluttered, their ends trailing out the windows like banners, because the King always threw open the windows and sat on the sills. And, of course, he demanded something more substantial than cucumber sandwiches for tea-time with the Queen, He liked those, too, and it was necessary to make extra when he visited, but along with them were a number of the high-heaped roast beef-smoked cheese-and-mustard sandwiches he particularly favored. At the moment, crusts decorated the little table ,and crumbs dotted the silk carpet beneath the settee. The plate of honey cakes, marchepane horns, and oatmeal cookies was as yet untouched, forgotten in the confusion of the unexpected news.

"No, Your Majesties. It's absolutely certain," the guardsman told them breathlessly. "The Girl Warden chose a king for the dwarves, and he agreed to honor their treaty. There are dwarves marching south to Ostagar! Thousands of them!"

Anora interrogated the man a little further, dismissed him, and considered this matter in silence, while her royal husband jumped to his feet and started pacing. The afternoon light was just starting to soften to old gold. She ate her cucumber sandwich with disciplined relish, and watched Cailan wear out the silk carpet.

"I thought she might have gone to Orlais to make some sort of deal," Cailan burst out, when the messenger was gone. "Since you showed me Howe's letters, I thought it had all fallen into place."

"If you will remember," Anora said patiently, "I said at the time that those letters might be forgeries. I find it hard to believe that Bryce and Eleanor were plotting with the Orlesians. And I can't see why Bronwyn would want to marry an Imperial Prince."

"Well, Bryce and Eleanor are dead!" Cailan pointed out. "And she could be looking for the crown for herself! It all makes sense! Leaving the army when it needed Grey Wardens! Taking so long to enforce the treaties—"

"I hardly think three months is a long time. In fact—"

"—It looked to me like she was after the crown! And Fergus would be Teyrn of Highever, and that would put them in a very, very strong position. And if she did marry Prince Florestan, then the Orlesians would be bound to support her!"

Anora took a deep breath. "But she did not do those things. Instead, it seems that a large dwarven army is coming to our aid, making the Orlesians superfluous. Father thinks very highly of Bronwyn Cousland, and he'll think even more highly of her now."

Cailan threw himself into his chair, sulking. He hated it when he thought he had found out something amazing and secret, and was proved wrong. And it was all so very inconvenient, anyway. Bronwyn had taken so long that he had presumed her mission to the dwarves a failure. Once that was clearly established, no one would be able to protest when he gave Celene permission to send her troops over the border. At least it didn't look like Bronwyn was after his crown. Yet. He could tell Anora that Bryce had been trying to persuade him to set Anora aside and marry Bronwyn, but that would hurt Anora's feelings, and give her a hint that something of the sort was in the works.

As if he would set Anora aside for just another nobleman's daughter!

This was such a bother! He had really wanted this opportunity to prove that Ferelden and Orlais were entering a new era of friendship and cooperation, and now Bronwyn Cousland had spoiled it all with her meddling. Of course Anora did not understand, since he had not shared his plans with her. She would play only a limited part in them, which was sad in a way, but she would be handsomely provided for, and would understand, in the end. They would always be friends.

Duncan would have understood, and not got in his way. Cailan missed Duncan a great deal. Duncan would not have deserted the army in its hour of need. Bronwyn should have stayed, and sent Alistair to enforce the treaties, or she should have gone by herself, and left Alistair. His own wounds had been due to her selfishness.

He sniped, "I know exactly what your father thinks of Bronwyn Cousland! He fancies her! I never thought I would see the day when the Hero of River Dane's judgment was impaired by a pretty face."

Anora took a deep breath, not sure if she was comfortable with the idea that her father fancied anybody. "I am sure my father's judgment is not impaired. Bronwyn has done wonders in a very short time—"

Cailan offered an irritated grunt, still pacing. Anora went on, quietly and persuasively. "And much of this will be resolved if Arl Howe comes before the Landsmeet. He must have received your summons by now. If he has proper evidence—and not these copies, which could be written by anybody—let him present it. It cannot affect Bronwyn, since she is now a Grey Warden, and I hope that Fergus will not be implicated…"

"If he is," Cailan said with inexorable virtue, "he must still bear the burden of his family's treason. Very sad, but there you are. I shall have to think about whether Howe can keep both Highever and Amaranthine."

"I think giving nearly the whole of the north of Ferelden to one man is an extremely bad idea," Anora declared.

"Not if he's truly loyal. It simplifies things, really."

"Will you go south to greet the dwarves?"

Cailan pursed his mouth. It would be rather historical, but…

"No. There's too much for me to do here, with the Landsmeet and whatnot. I can't let the Cousland and Howe feud go unresolved. I need to be here when Howe arrives with his evidence."

"And if Howe does not arrive within the week," Anora insisted, "you must allow Fergus Cousland to march on Amaranthine." She saw the look on Cailan's face and repeated herself. "Yes. You must. If he does not come, then that's proof positive that his evidence is rubbish, and only a pretext for a power grab. One way or another, this situation must be resolved, and soon."


"You need to keep your heels down, Astrid," Cullen said gently. "You have better control that way."

"You're doing awfully well," Alistair encouraged her.

Astrid, once Gytha, Lady Aeducan, gave him a serious nod. If she was going to be a surfacer, then by the Stone, she was going to be good at it. It had not escaped her that riding a horse was a sign of power and prestige here on the surface.

She cast an eye on the supply train they were guarding, and smiled grimly. Now that she was a Grey Warden, her fellow dwarves were forced to admit her existence once more. It had been awkward for them, but sod that.

With luck, Bronwyn would return in a few days from her mysterious mission to the Fereldan capital. When she arrived, Astrid believed she would be pleased with the situation. Alistair was a shy young man, unused to command. With Astrid's guidance however, he had kept the convoy moving along well.

The contingents of dwarven warriors needed time to get used to the surface. Astrid had detailed her fellow dwarves, Oghren and Brosca, to mentor and encourage them. This was a great undertaking, worthy of an Aeducan, and Astrid intended for it to be a success. Surfacer maps were a bit unusual, but she was becoming accustomed to them, too.

The mage Anders was coming back up the line, a grin on his handsome face.

"I've made more of that ointment, Astrid! Tell everyone to slather it on any exposed skin. Here, you too. Lean over and let me put it on you. Your nose is looking a bit pink."

She cautiously leaned out of the saddle, and permitted the mage the liberty of anointing her distinguished Aeducan noise with his concoction. It was a disturbing notion that the sun could actually burn one's skin when one stood out in it too long. Supposedly, after a time, one simply turned brown, but Astrid had not turned brown yet. It was considerate of Anders to think of easing her discomfort.

He was a fellow Grey Warden, after all, like Alistair and Cullen. Like the casteless girl Brosca, too. While it was easier to accept warriors like Alistair and Cullen—and even the talented mage Anders, too—as equals, the casteless girl had something in her, too.

It only made sense that there were differences among the casteless. She had seen for herself that many casteless served reliably in the Legion of the Dead. Brosca was an excellent fighter and a cheerful companion. There was something in her blood that had raised her above the level of mere Duster trash. Her sister, too, must have unusual qualities to have ensnared Bhelen. That she was beautiful was undoubted, but Bhelen would have wanted something more.

Of course, Astrid considered, one never spoke of it, but something must happen to the girl babies of noble-hunters. They remained at the bottom of society with their mothers, but they really did have the blood of their father in their veins. It was not considered nice to talk about, but it was certainly true. The Brosca girls' father might have been from a noble family. In fact, Astrid decided, there was nothing more likely.

Satisfied with that explanation, she continued her exploration of the art of horsemanship. Being on a horse was an excellent idea for an officer, here on the surface. One had wide vistas to study, and from horseback one could overcome the limitation of one's height. When she had accumulated enough coin, she would buy a horse. Cullen and Alistair could teach her how to choose a good one. Riding had more dignity, certainly than riding in the back of a trader's wagon, the way the mage Morrigan chose to. However, if Morrigan wished to sit and read, Astrid would be quite happy to ride her horse in her stead.

Brosca and Oghren marched with the dwarves, which was very sensible and proper. She could hardly look at Oghren without wishing for Gorim instead. Her former second would have the Stone's Blessing, and would certainly have Joined the Wardens with her. Every time she heard Oghren's raucous, ale-sodden voice voice, she remembered another voice: deep, reassuring, and musical. Her loyal and sensible Gorim. He had been exiled to the surface, from what she could gather. It was always possible that they might meet again, someday, but she had learned that the surface was a very big place indeed.


Anders trotted by the Feddics' trading wagon to have a word with Morrigan. She was still immersed in her mother's grimoire, and hardly had said a word to him since she open the covers. He thought he was looking quite dashing—mage on horseback, and all that, and wanted her to notice him.

"Good morning, Bodahn!" he called out. "And to you, too, Sandal! Lovely weather we're having!"

"A fair morning to you, Warden!" the tradesmen granted.

"Enchantment!" Sandal seconded happily.

"My words, exactly!" agreed Anders. He slowed his horse to get behind the wagon, and peered in at Morrigan, sitting on a crate in the shade of the canvas cover.

"My lady! Coming out for a bit of sunshine eventually?"

She pursed her lips, and did not look up from the book. "Eventually, perhaps. This is most engrossing...and disturbing."

Anders' smile faded. "Disturbing?"

"My mother had many secrets…" Morrigan regarded him gravely. Would he help her in this? Perhaps, if she continued to be civil to him. It was worth the effort, and it was not so difficult to be civil to Anders as to some others she could name.

"This is not the time," she told him in a low voice. "I must finish this, and then we shall talk. What I found here is unexpected. This is not the book I believed it to be, but it is nonetheless something my mother would not want me to know. I promise that I shall come out later and we shall...fly...together, but for now I must read this to the end."


"Vaughan's not happy with me. Not happy at all. No help for it though," Arl Urien told Fergus Cousland. "A few months more in the chill of the south will finish me off for good. I asked the boy outright if that was what he had in mind! Told him he should be looking to you as an example, instead those parasites he surrounds himself with. Slack and soft-handed, the lot of them!"

Fergus sighed, and made himself listen with only sympathy on his face. The Common Room of the Gnawed Noble was not the place to be going on and on about the shortcomings of the future Arl of Denerim, though the entire city knew them already. He finished his wine, and glanced about, hoping that Bann Ceorlic had not yet arrived. The man was known to spend a good part of his afternoons here everyday, and if Ceorlic saw him, he would want to corner Fergus and complain about Bronwyn and his bloody horses one more time.

He resented having to spend yet another day in Denerim, anyway. Everything was in readiness for the march north against Howe, and yet the King, for reasons of his own, had Fergus cooling his heels at Court functions. It was odious and unpleasant to accept the empty sympathy of people who had hardly known his parents, and painful to acknowledge the sentiments of those who had.

The Queen, however, had been notably considerate and tactful. She had called him in for a private audience and spoke very kindly of his family.

"Eleanor, especially, was dear to me…"

He accepted her words more easily than those of others, and was glad to meet with her. The Queen knew what was going on in Denerim better than most, and Fergus had an uneasy feeling that there were things going on behind the scenes about which he was completely in the dark.

Urien drew his attention again, having more to say about The Degenerate Youth of Today-always, of course, excepting Fergus.

A shadow fell on him. He looked up to see a pretty, well-dressed elf girl—probably some sort of upper servant—standing shyly by his settee, a sealed noted extended in his direction.

"My lords," she said softly, and dropped a little bob of a curtsy.

Urien was eyeing her with more than grandfatherly interest. Fergus grimaced and unsealed the note. Probably some sort of petition…

Fergus—

Do not say anything, or even looked surprised. Yes, it is your only sister, and not a prank! I'm here in Denerim, and I'm down the hall in the second suite to the right. No one can know that I'm here. No one.

One of our party is pretending to be our cousin Vera Porodolin, here from Ostwick, and I'm playing the part of a bodyguard. The bearer of this message is a fellow Grey Warden, so be polite. I have so much to tell you. Get away from Arl Urien as soon as you can!

Bronwyn

Fergus controlled his face with an effort, and looked up at the pretty elf with a smile.

"Yes, I'll see to it directly."

The elf backed away politely—completing the picture of the well-trained servant—and vanished down the hall, her light footfalls muffled to silence by the rich green carpets.

"Good news?" asked Urien, full of curiosity.

"More teyrnir business. I'm afraid I have to leave our pleasant corner here and get back to work. I'm sure Vaughan will do very well, once he's put to it, Urien. Perhaps all he's needed is a real challenge. I shall see you at the Palace tonight, I trust?"

"Indeed you shall."

Second suite to the right. Excitement quickened his step. What was Bronwyn up to this time? Hiding from Bann Ceorlic, most likely, and he could hardly blame her. But why was she in Denerim, at all? A niggling worry that this might be a trap crossed his mind, just before he heard the muffled "woof!"

The door cracked open, and Scout was pushing out past the pretty elf, panting eagerly, stubby tail vibrating.

"Hello to you, old fellow!"

There were others in the handsome, paneled room: another elf, a tall Qunari, a beautiful black-haired lady, and…

"Get in here!" Bronwyn whispered. She gave him a hard tug, and threw his arms around him, while the others shut the door quickly and quietly.

"Bronwyn!" he gasped, "Your eyes!"

Her hand jerked to cover them, and then she forced herself to laugh about it. "They're fine! I see perfectly well. It was a fluke, but no lasting harm was done, other than changing the color." She saw his eyes drift to her scarred face, concerned and grieved, and she said, more firmly, "I'm fine. Let me introduce you to my companions."

She gestured around the room. "These are our friends Sten of the Beresaad, and Zevran Aranai from Antiva…"

"Antiva!" Fergus' eyes lit with memory

"…and these are my fellow Grey Wardens, Tara Surana from of the Circle of Magi, and Leliana, formerly of the Lothering Chantry. She's been using the name and identity of our cousin Vera Porodolin…"

Fergus laughed. "You're much better looking that our cousin from Ostwick!"

Leliana beamed in response. "You are too kind, my lord. It is easier to pretend to be a real person than to invent an identity."

"Please excuse us, all of you," Bronwyn said, putting a hand on Fergus' arm. "I must speak to my brother in private."

They moved into the inner bedchamber, and Bronwyn gestured at a chair. She poured him some wine, and then sat down opposite him.

"Nice armor," he commented.

A half-smile. "I found it in a Grey Warden cache here in Denerim. The wretched stuff I was wearing was ready to disintegrate. Now tell me: why is the King in Denerim, and why are you with him? Is the war in the south going that well?"

Fergus grimaced, and knew there was no time to be anything other than frank. "We're doing well enough. The fact is that the King suffered a minor wound, and it was the tipping point for him. He's sick of fighting darkspawn and bored with the lack of amusement. He was also…" he voice slowed "...disappointed in his hopes of the Grey Wardens riding in to save the day. He's been complaining of you, pup."

"Has he, now?"

Fergus looked at his sister, startled. He had never heard such a snarl issue from her throat.

Bronwyn said, "Well, as it happens, the Grey Wardens are even now riding to his bloody rescue! I secured the dwarven alliance, and they're sending five thousand warriors to Ostagar right now, along with most of the Legion of the Dead, which makes another thousand. Now that I've taken care of my business in Denerim, I'm riding back to join the rest of the Wardens and the dwarves as they travel down to Ostagar." She rose, and began pacing, seething with anger. "So he's disappointed, is he? Not nearly so disappointed as I am in him!"

"You've got the dwarves?" Fergus looked up at her in amazement. "That's bloody marvelous! I heard they were engaged in some sort of succession crisis."

"I sent you a huge letter with the whole story, and I haven't time to recount it today. I resolved the crisis, chose the king, and the king agreed to honor the treaty." Her voice softened. "Plenty happened to me in Orzammar, Fergus, and even more in the Deep Roads. That's where I got this…" she gave a look of distaste, and gestured at her face, "...this altered appearance. I met a new kind of darkspawn—don't worry, it never comes to the surface—and it spat poison in my eyes and then tried to claw my face off. Believe it or not, I was lucky. But that's not why I'm so relieved to see you, Fergus. I've found some things out: things you have to know. People are plotting behind the scenes, and you are going to end up dead or exiled unless we make some wise choices."

"What do you mean?"

"It's complicated. It involves some really devious Orlesian plotting, and the reason why Howe attacked us. You're not going to like what I'm going to tell you, but I have the papers to prove it. It came to my attention when a very well-armed band of mercenaries tried to kill me near the border…"

She told that part of the nasty little story fairly quickly, and then added the Orlesian plan to kidnap Alistair and herself.

Fergus nodded. "I can see why the Orlesians would want to browbeat the King into giving leave for their Wardens and chevaliers to enter Ferelden. I asked the King in fact, if we could get the Wardens without the chevaliers, and he says not."

Bronwyn sprawled in her own chair, snorting. "The King would have loved the opportunity. Complaining about me is a way of setting the stage for the admission of the Orlesians. I'm not saying he was in the plot to kidnap us himself, but he wouldn't regret it for a minute—and I'll tell you more about that later."

"You're not just a Warden, pup. And if you're right about Alistair, the Orlesians could have used you other ways. They could even try to present you as a client king and queen!"

She nodded slowly, frowning. In the light slanting through the shutters, she looked vaguely menacing. "Believe it or not, that had occurred to me, but I didn't want to put that in writing. Even writing it down might be construed by a stranger as a secret desire to put myself forward for the throne. Except I don't think that's what the Orlesians had in mind at all. Based on what I've learned, I believe they wanted not only to deprive Ferelden of its Wardens, but of possible alternatives to Cailan, if things started going wrong."

"You mean…if he were killed?"

"Well, that could certainly happen, but I'm thinking more in another direction. If Cailan were to do something…" she sighed deeply, and started up again. "...something profoundly offensive to the majority of Fereldans, it would be easier for him if there were no other viable candidates for the throne. Among other things, brother, I am urging you to be very, very careful. Howe sent a party of Crows after me, and it's likely he'll do the same for you. Watch what you eat and drink. And don't try to disagree with me. You know I'm right."

He grunted. "I do. And I am. I try to be inconspicuous about it. Crows, you say? They're supposed to be tough."

She shrugged. "I didn't give them a chance to show how tough they were. Maybe they had an off day. Keep you loyal men close. And now I'm going to get to the dark heart of the matter, Fergus, and you will like this even less. We discovered the name of the woman who sent the assassins at the border. She was an Orlesian bard, by name Marjolaine, who had dealings with most of the nobility of Ferelden and worked out of Denerim. Many letters went through her hands: letters to the King, letters to the Empress, letters from one noble to another. Some letters she transmitted, and other were…altered…to suit her purposes."

She leaned forward, unnervingly green eyes intense. Fergus tried not to look away and pain her by his discomfort. They were like the eyes of a serpent, full of mysterious light. She steepled her fingers, and said, "Do you know that there is plotting afoot for the King to divorce the Queen and replace her with another?"

"One hears things, of course. How could he? Loghain commands the Army, and wouldn't tolerate it! You'd have to be mad to get involved in that."

"I regret to tell you then, that Father was involved in it. Up to his neck. He was not only talking with his peers—notably Eamon Guerrin and Urien Kendalls—but he was in negotiations with the King."

"He had written to the King?" Fergus sat up straight, horrified at what he might hear next.

"He had, and I think you can guess whom he suggested as a worthy replacement for Queen Anora."

Fergus was silent a moment. "Oh, pup. Don't be angry, but I can see why…"

"Yes, certainly. And if it hadn't been for the Blight, it might not have been so horribly dangerous. I'm sure he felt it would be for the best, and that I would understand that it was my duty, but I can't say I'm happy to know that he never had the least intention of keeping his word to me."

"Pup, whatever he did, he did because he loved you and wanted the best for you…"

She hissed at him, her eyes more snake-like than ever. "I know! I will forgive him someday, but I wonder if you will, for that little plot is what led to Howe's attack on our castle."

"What do you mean?"

"I've been through the bard's correspondence…there's a bit more to go, but I've seen the balance of it. Cailan was not in the least interested in me, I'm sure. He was only stringing Father along. I killed that bard last night, you see, and one of my finds was a present he intended for the Empress."

A chill up his spine. Fergus tried to make light of it. "And what is he giving her? A wheel of cheese? A mabari music box?"

Bronwyn smiled coldly. "He was giving her Ferelden."

Then he too had to read the letters and the clever forgeries, and the fulsome letter in which Cailan declared his previously unknown passion for a distant monarch whom he had never met in the flesh. He had had help, for spelled out in it was the complete arrangement: Orlais and Ferelden united as equal partners in a great Empire; Cailan to be Emperor or both; Celene to receive the title of Queen of Ferelden when in that country; the child of the union to be heir to the united Empire. In the event of either party's death without issue, the remaining spouse would continue to reign over the Empire, with the succession of the two nations to be decided separately.

Fergus threw the papers aside at that point. "As if it would have any meaning at that point! I can see from this that the Landsmeet would become a mere ceremonial body, with no power at all! It's a barefaced land grab to win by marriage what they lost by war!"

"Look at some of the other items, too. They're lovely. Within a generation Ferelden freeholders would be enserfed and bound to their liege lord's estates, just as they are in Orlais. This is just appalling, Fergus. This cannot stand."

"Loghain won't let it stand," Fergus agreed, dreading the moment that the Teyrn of Gwaren learned of this. "If he knew…" He paused, and said quietly. "If he knew, he would kill the King himself."

"Just as we're going to have to kill Howe." She tossed another packet of papers down. "For this is what the bard Marjolaine made of Father's letters. She sent the forgery to Rendon Howe. She succeeded in making Father out to be after the throne, under the patronage of the Empress. If Howe believed this—and I'm sure he did, for it's quite a good forgery—he probably thought he was doing the patriotic thing, killing Father." She snorted a bitter laugh. "Marjolaine's mission in Ferelden has been quite the success. Act as a provocateur to create division and chaos among the nobility. Seduce the King into an alliance that will swallow Ferelden up like a snake swallows a goat. It was quite clever of Marjolaine to get rid of Father. Howe will be under a cloud that will prevent Delilah being a viable candidate for Queen, and I'm a Grey Warden. The only other nobleman's daughter of any stature is Habren Bryland, and even Cousin Leonas couldn't imagine that Cailan would marry her. "

"Do you think Howe has written about this to anyone?" Fergus asked.

"I'm quite sure he has," Bronwyn said grimly. "I'll bet serious money that he has sent copies of these letters to Teyrn Loghain and to the Queen. Possibly not to the King. Howe despises the King. If it came to it, I have no doubt that Howe would take Loghain's part, because he hates Orlais like poison."

"And whose part shall we take?" Fergus whispered. "Either way reeks of treason. Even if I were to agree with Howe about this great matter of the King's marriage, he is still the man who killed our family."

"Just so." Bronwyn rose and walked over the fireplace, leaning against the wall, while she thought. "Howe has to go. You're here about that, I take it?"

"The King is going to call Howe to a Landsmeet to answer for the murder of our family." He looked at Bronwyn, horror dawning in his eyes.

"—Where Howe will present the evidence of our family's treason. You'll be lucky to leave the Chamber alive. Even were you to duel him…even were you to kill him, the stain of those forgeries will never be erased. We can't even show the originals, because that would antagonize the Queen and Loghain. No. Howe has to die, and he has to die soon, and he has to die privately. He cannot be allowed a public forum to use to smear the Couslands. He was duped into murdering his friend, but he did murder him. I think," she said, with a hint of her old mischief, "I'll do my bit to muddy the waters. My friend Leliana has a few bard's skills of her own, and we learned how Marjolaine was distributing her messages. A letter will be sent to the Arl of Amaranthine, warning him that the King's invitation is a cheat, and that if he values his life he will fortify his castle of Vigil's Keep strongly, and remain there, until Fergus Cousland is arrested for treason."


They talked a long time while day eased into twilight. It was agreed that if Cailan openly moved to divorce Anora, they would have to throw their support behind the Queen and her father. They ordered food, and Fergus ate an early supper with them all, by turns amused and horrified by their adventures. Sten and Tara went out to collect their laundry, and the companions began organizing themselves for their ride west.

Fergus was expected at the Palace very soon, and Bronwyn would not let her brother walk alone after sunset to the Palace.

"I'm not going alone," he promised her. "I'm going back to Highever House to collect my guard. I'll have them with me all the way there and back. I don't intend to make it easy for anybody."

"I''ll come with you to the house. You're a target, Fergus: I'm serious about that. You need to have people with you from now on."

"I'll come along too," Tara offered. In fact, everyone was willing to go, but Bronwyn took Tara, Sten, and Scout. She did not want to leave Leliana alone, and she did not want to leave their belongings—and their precious correspondence—unattended. Leliana and Zevran would stay and guard their quarters, while Bronwyn and the rest saw Fergus safely on his way.

"All right, then, I'll have to keep my helmet on, Fergus, "Bronwyn said, "I can't afford for anyone to recognize me."

Outside, night had fallen on Denerim: a black night pierced only by a few lanterns glowing dimly over doorways. Their party was not far from Alienage gates, so Tara indignantly whispered the story of how they had been turned away.

"And look!" she hissed, gesturing out at the deserted Market District. "They are opening the gates for those people!"

Two canvas-covered wagons were drawn up in front of the gates. Very quietly, amid muttered orders, a line of elves was climbing into the back of the wagons and huddling out of sight. The guards in charge of the little party were wearing the colors of the Arl of Denerim.

The silence was broken by the cry of a young girl from the shadows.

"Don't go, Nessa! You can't trust Vaughan! We haven't heard from any of the others!"

A male elf hissed out, "Shut your stupid face, Shianni! Don't spoil things for the rest of us!"

"Typical," grumbled a woman. "There's no other way for us to get out of the alienage and find work, and she comes along to make trouble—as usual!"

Another girl spoke from the shadows, her low voice curiously hoarse. "Come on, Shianni. You can't save people who don't want to be saved."

"Let go of me!" shouted the girl. "Wake up, you people! Andraste's ass, don't you see what they're doing?"

A guard nearly threw the last of the elves into the wagon, and his officer stalked back toward the gate.

"Shut that noise, there! Who are you, creeping around in the dark? You'd better come out."

"Maybe she'd like to come along for the ride!" gibed a guard.

"Good idea! Quick, close the gates!" the officer barked. "That'll teach her to make trouble! Come along now and get in the wagon. You and your friend, too!"

The half-dozen guards moved in, drawing their weapons. Four of them lunged into the dark maw of the Alienage gateway as the barrier creaked shut.

"I told you this was stupid!" snarled the hoarse-voiced girl. "Run, Shianni!"

A scuffle in the shadows, a faint cry and running feet. More scrapes and thuds, and a faint spark of metal on metal.

"The bitch cut me!" roared a guard. "I'll fucking kill her!"

It had all happened very quickly. Just as quickly, Fergus had changed direction, his step heavy and determined.

"What's going on here!" he demanded.

The officer turned toward him, angry face yellow in the lantern light, and then paused, seeing Fergus' fine clothes. He peered closer, and his face became a mask of subservience.

"Nothing, my lord Teyrn. Just trying to do our duty. Some elf whore was interfering with Bann Vaughan's work crew."

"If she doesn't want to go with you, release her," Fergus ordered. The thought of armed men attacking helpless women made his stomach roil; made him think of things he kept as far as possible from his conscious mind.

A guard swore again, dragging the girl toward them. "Stinking little knife-ear cut me! She's got a knife. 'Tisn't legal for elves to have weapons!"

"Shut up, Greer!" one of the guards muttered at him. "It's the Teyrn of Highever!"

They could see the girl now: a small, hunched form in the grasp of two large men. Fergus walked over to have a look. Bronwyn sighed and followed, gesturing at Sten to hold the lantern so her brother could see better.

The girl was scrawny, like most Alienage elves, but with a sinewy, wiry look to her. Her short-cropped hair was matted and filthy. Her clothing consisted of a ragged, shapeless gown over a coarse shift, and both she and the garments smelled unclean. Her eyes were black burnt holes of fear and defiance. One guard indignantly held out the little knife.

"See, my lord? Carrying a weapon!"

Fergus turned it over in his hands. It was double-bladed dagger, razor-sharp, and of no metal that Bronwyn recognized.

It was not unknown to Fergus, however, who had traveled further in the southern forests. "This is Dalish ironbark! Where did you get this?"

The girl growled back in her hoarse voice, "I didn't steal it, if that's what you mean!"

The officer cuffed her quickly. "Speak properly to his lordship!"

"My mother gave it to me, my lord," the girl croaked sullenly. "It's mine."

"It's a fine knife," Fergus said, studying the markings in the dim light. "What's your name, girl?"

A pause. "Adaia."

A false name, clearly.

"Well, Captain," Fergus said to the officer in his mildest tones, "it seems to me that even elves need knives to eat with."

"That's as may be, my lord," The officer replied stiffly, "but she'll have to come with us now. The Bann's orders were to open the gates only for the work crews, and to keep the Alienage locked up tight otherwise."

"She can come with me," Fergus said, carefully casual. "I need another kitchenmaid anyway. As for you," he said coldly to the wounded man, "You wouldn't get cut if you didn't run at young girls with your sword out. Sometimes they get the idea that you mean to hurt them." He turned his back on the Bann's men and said, "Let's go."

Tara slipped to Adaia's side, and whispered, "Come on! Let's get away from here!"

Adaia looked around: at the looming soldiers, at the covered wagons, silent but for the breathing and whispers of the elves, at the big nobleman who had her knife, at his huge dog and the two tall bodyguards, and finally at the pretty elf girl who was whispering to her. She was clean and well-dressed, and so was probably the lord's doxy, but she didn't seem frightened or beaten-down. There was no choice. She fell into step with the nobleman's party, and followed them to an unknown fate.


Bronwyn wondered what they could do with the elf girl. She sympathized with Fergus' generous impulse, but the dirty, sullen creature was obviously unfit to be anybody's kitchenmaid. She looked more like a beggar, or...well, of course Brosca had looked worse when they had rescued her. This girl had something of the same desperate air about her.

"What's this about 'work crews' taken out at dead of night?" Bronwyn asked Fergus quietly. "What is Vaughan up to?"

"No idea. It's the first I've heard of it." He frowned to himself, thinking. They were nearing the King's Bridge when he stopped and asked the elf girl. "What kind of work? Where are they going?"

She shrank back, but Tara pushed her forward, giving her a nod.

"Don't know," Adaia croaked. "It doesn't sound right, though. That's why Shianni was worried. She's scared of everything that involves the Bann, of course, but this was different. The Bann's men say there's work that pays well north of town. If you volunteer, you're told to bring a change of clothes and three days' food and to keep your trap shut and be at the Market gate after dark. Nobody's come back yet, and it's been going on for a couple months. They even let people bring their children. A lot of people have gone."

"Three days' food," Bronwyn muttered. "North." She and Fergus looked at each other. "Amaranthine?"

"Where else? So it could be that Vaughan is sending laborers to Howe. What are they up to? Maybe working on the fortifications of Vigil's Keep or Amaranthine City?" He turned to Adaia. "Did Vaughan or his men say anything about Arl Howe?"

She stepped back, alarmed, and shook her head. "I haven't seen Bann Vaughan since...I don't go out much. I just hear what people say. I wasn't going to go with them! I was only out because I was trying to take care of Shianni."

Tara said, looking at the girl's neck, "Is your throat hurt? Did they grab you there?"

Adaia shrugged her off. "It happened months ago. My voice has been like this ever since."

Bronwyn asked her outright, "Are you in trouble with the Bann?"

The girl studied the ground. "Might be. My name is on a paper they put up on the gates, so I stay in the cellar, mostly."

Fergus asked, "What did you do?"

She wanted her knife, very badly. Looking away, her hoarse voice thick with misery, she said, "I was stupid. I washed myself and dressed in my best, and I went outside where shems could see me. If you're dirty they don't look at you as much."

"What did you do?" he repeated impatiently.

She whispered, "I said 'no.'" She flicked a glance up at Fergus and then looked away. "My cousin killed a guard and I got away. He didn't. I can't let the guardsmen know who I am."

Bronwyn turned to Fergus, "So Adaia is certainly not her real name. I think having her in your kitchens would be a very bad idea. You know how servants talk. If Vaughan is involved with Howe in some way, you don't need this sort of complication."

Tara spoke up. "She can come with us!"

Sten broke his silence. "We must ride fast. This girl will slow us down."

"No, she won't!" Tara said fiercely. "The two of us won't weigh as much as you...or even as much as Bronwyn in all her armor!" She whirled on Adaia, "Can you cook and sew?"

"Of course..."

"Can you do laundry?""

"Yes."

"Well, then!" Tara pleaded with Bronwyn, "Let her come with us! There's work for her with the army, and she'll be safe!"

"Tara..." Bronwyn sighed, recognizing her own pity come back to bite her. She had rescued Tara out of pity, and now Tara was moved in the same way. On the other hand, Tara had proved a brave and useful companion... She sighed again, and addressed Adaia. "All right then. You'll have to come with us. We're going south to the army. You'll work and you'll be paid, and no one will meddle with you. In return, you will keep silent about us being here in Denerim."

"I don't want anybody to know I'm from Denerim!" the girl said quickly. "I'm not a whore, though. I won't do that!"

Bronwyn snapped, "Nobody's asking you! Now be quiet and come along."

After a long and weary walk, Adaia had the courage to whisper back to Tara, "Where are they taking us now?"

"The teyrn is going to his house to find his his guardsmen. Then he's going to the Palace. We'll return to our inn afterward, I suppose."

"Will he give me my knife back?"

"Probably. You'll want it where we're going."

Emboldened, Adaia croaked out, "Can I have my knife back, my lord?"

Fergus snorted, and pulled it from his belt. "Here," he grunted. "Be careful where you stick it. You said it was your mother's. Was she Dalish?"

The girl growled, "Grandmother. My lord," she added hastily.

Ahead, the King's Bridge threw out its ancient stone span over the River Drakon. A dim lantern guttered on a pillar at their end. The other end was dark. Bronwyn felt the slightest prickling...

A deep musical hum through the air, and Bronwyn shoved Fergus to the side, out of the way of a sudden volley of arrows.

"Stay behind me!" she shouted.

"Sod that!" Fergus shouted back, drawing his long daggers from his fine tall boots.

Scout growled, barreling down the length of the bridge at the dim figures there. Sten lifted Asala, and roared a challenge, the arrows deflecting from his plate arrow with a series of disappointed thunks.

Tara shouted, too. Lightning spurted from her hands, leaping ahead of her companions, sizzling up the attackers from head to toe. Cries of pain and shock shattered the night. She ran forward, gathering herself for another burst of magic. Beside her, the girl who called herself Adaia jumped away, fearfully startled. Magic! The friendly elf girl was a mage!

While she hesitated, trying to balance "friendly" and "elf" against the dreadful word "mage," an arrow cracked against the stone rail of the bridge, only a foot to her left. Whoever was attacking them did not care that she had just met these people. For a terrible instant, she thought it might be Bann Vaughan himself, come to finish what he had started. She could run, and maybe get an arrow between her shoulder blades, or she could stay with her new companions, and hope to escape from Vaughan altogether.

So she followed them, crouching low, clinging to the shadowy side of the bridge. Fang was in her hand again, and felt good there.

Bronwyn saw a tripwire and jumped over it, yelling, "Trap!" Fergus stumbled briefly, and Sten tore through it, unhindered. Ahead were more traps: leghold traps, camouflaged by piles of trash and straw. Fergus avoided them easily, not inclined to walk in filth while wearing fine boots. Sten was caught by one and dragged it along, snarling until he could kick it away. More arrows came their way, and Tara shouted again. An archer froze in place, and another moved slowly, as if caught in tar.

A swordsman leaped out at them, quick and silent, his white teeth flashing in a fierce grin. Bronwyn crossed blades with him, and he parried quickly, the dagger in his left hand darting out like a serpent's tongue. It scraped along her side, defeated by dragonbone and Master Wade's skill. Scout flanked him, and tore at him with teeth and claw. Another attacker burst from the shadows, sword lifted to cut Scout in two. Fergus lunged, and wrapped an elbow around the man neck, dragging him backward. He gritted his teeth and plunged a dagger exactly into the spot his father had circled on a diagram a lifetime ago. He threw the dead man aside and went after one of the archers.

There was another archer, up on a roof overlooking the bridge. Tara hissed in anger at the arrow sticking in the skirt of her fine dress. It could be mended, but it would always show. The archer turned to ice, and toppled into the black current of the Drakon with a heavy splash. Another man rushed at her, and was struck by a bolt of lightning. He spun around and fell hard, and Adaia crept quickly from the side of the bridge, and buried Fang in his chest.

A pair of assassins tried to break away and retreat back into the alleyways. They could not hide from Scout, and Bronwyn raced along with him, her sword arcing out to catch one along the back of the neck, severing his spine, and dropping him with a single sharp cry. Scout leaped on the other, a fearsome sight on his hind legs, as tall as the man himself as he bit down on the man's head and shook it. The horrified screams were muffled, and then silenced.

"Come on!" Bronwyn ordered, and raced back to find Fergus.

His velvet sleeve was torn, and his pale skin glistened with blood. Nonetheless, he was toe-to-toe with one of the assassins, and had knocked the sword from the man's hands. He was now grappling for his dagger. Sten, who had just killed his man, turned to hack at Fergus' opponent, when Bronwyn shouted, "We want to talk to that one!"

Sten reversed his sword, and rapped the man's head smartly with the pommel. Stunned, the assassin staggered, and was thrown to the ground.

Bronwyn pounced on him like a mabari herself, while Sten held Asala to the man's throat. "Are you a Crow?" Bronwyn demanded.

The man grinned up at her, defiant in the face of certain death. One of his handsome white teeth had been knocked out, and blood trickled over his lips.

Bronwyn grinned back, and asked, "Were you paid for silence?"

The assassin snorted, and shrugged as best he could with a warrior on his chest. "I was not paid to answer your questions."

Fergus asked, clutching his wounded arm, "Who hired you?"

The assassin shut his mouth, and looked stubborn. Bronwyn pressed her dagger to the man's face. "That's three questions you have not answered. This can be a great deal more unpleasant than it needs to be. Let us start again. Are you a Crow?"

No answer. Bronwyn hissed, and flicked the dagger tip up, slicing the man's nostril up to the bridge of his nose. He cried out, shocked. Fergus gasped, but forced himself to let his sister do as she saw fit. He had no use for the man himself. Even if the assassin were taken before the Landsmeet and testified openly that Howe had hired him, who would care? Everyone already knew that Howe had murdered his family.

The man winced, and sniffed away some of the blood in his nose. He ground out. "Yes. I am a Crow. The contract on Fergus Cousland was paid for by the Arl of Amaranthine."

"As was the contract on Bronwyn Cousland," Bronwyn told him, smirking. "That failed, too, by the way." The man's eyes opened wide, just for a moment, and he sighed. Bronwyn asked, "I understand that your master here in Denerim is a man named Ignacio. Does he still live at the House of White Flowers? In the Market District?"

"You are well informed. Yes. He lives there still."

"Really? How convenient." She looked at him a moment more, thinking of Zevran, and then decided she had shown all the mercy in her for one evening. Still, she asked, "What is your name?"

He smiled then, perfectly calm. "Taliesin. My name is Taliesin."

Bronwyn rose from his chest, and nodded to Sten. "That's all, then."

Sten stabbed down with his huge blade, and the assassin writhed briefly. He lay still, and they walked on. Tara hung back to go through the fallen assassins' pockets. Adaia crept up beside her, her eyes wide at the quick glint of gold pieces disappearing into the mage's purse.

"Here," Tara whispered, giving the girl a coin. "You helped." She hurried ahead to heal the teyrn's arm. She was nowhere as skilled as Anders, but she could do that much. He was as nice and polite as his sister.

"Thank you," he said, marveling at how quickly she healed his wound. Then he regarded his torn sleeve with annoyance. "So much for this doublet," he said, "Their Majesties will simply have to wait until I change."

"Fergus..." Bronwyn thought a little more as they walked, and then said, "I am going to write to the Warden-Commander in Antiva, and inform him that the Crows have been interfering with the Grey Wardens during a Blight. Considering how hard Antiva was hit in the past, I'm sure such behavior is quite unacceptable. I don't think the Crows want to have the Grey Wardens declaring blood feud on them. I shall send it before I leave in the morning. My friend Zevran tells me that a ship named the Siren's Call is leaving for Antiva City the day after tomorrow. Perhaps you should write to Oriana's family, and tell them what has happened."

He stopped dead, and suddenly had a very good idea. "I'll write." He smiled grimly. "Certainly. Oriana's family was...connected, so to speak. All the great merchant families are. I shall let them know what Arl Rendon Howe did to their daughter and to her child. I shall tell them that Howe has hired Crows to finish off the rest of their family, but that they might be amenable to the pressure of a higher bid. It would be extremely convenient if Rendon Howe were to die of natural causes as soon as possible. It would be most satisfactory if those natural causes were extremely painful."

Bronwyn smiled darkly and nodded, very pleased. However great a satisfaction it would be to kill Rendon Howe in a fair, public fight, it was more important simply that he be dead. If he died of what appeared to be natural causes, it might not even be necessary to pursue the feud with the rest of the family. She only suggested, "Whomever they send should take Howe's private papers as well, and forward them on to you."

Highever House loomed ahead at last, tall and black above the other roofs of Denerim. Lanterns burned in the courtyard. Bronwyn looked at it longingly, thinking of her room and her bed and her things stored in her own chests. Fergus clapped her on the shoulder.

"I wish you could come in."

"I wish I could, too. I hate leaving you here in this pit of vipers, but our day will come." She whispered, "Be careful, Fergus. Go armed and armored everywhere from now on. There are hands raised against you in secret. Beware of the Kendalls, since they have some sort of alliance with a traitor. Beware of the King, whose mood shifts with every passing breeze. Above all, beware of Howe." She embraced him, hoping it was not for the last time. "Maker watch over you, brother."

He squeezed her hard, heedless of the stout chainmail. "Maker watch over us all."


They dragged themselves to the Gnawed Noble, bloody and sweaty and filthy. Leliana had managed to wheedle a great deal of hot water from the innkeeper Edwina, thinking that baths their last night in Denerim would be pleasant. They were essential, as it happened.

Their new addition was greeted with bemusement, and Leliana and Tara threw her into the bath to plane off the crust of filth, heedless of her protests. Adaia's hair proved to be a fine dark gold, and not dirt brown, as they first thought. Leliana produced some scissors, and cut it a little more neatly. The girl's clothing was fit for nothing but rags. Tara thought she had seen something in the cache that would fit her. It involved going out again, since there would be no time in the morning, so the light hunting leathers were gathered up and brought back, and Tara gave the girl clean smallclothes of her own. The armor was designed for a man. Luckily, Adaia had almost no breasts, and it fit well enough. Some pillows and a blanket were arranged on the floor of the bedchamber for her, and she curled up by the fire and was asleep instantly. Scout went over to sniff at her, and then whuffed and lay down at her side.

"Think she's all right, do you, boy?"

He blinked calmly, and his eyes closed, too.

There was still work to be done. Leliana could imitate Marjolaine's handwriting very well, and wrote a message to Rendon Howe, warning him to stay in Amaranthine. Bronwyn wrote her own indignant letter to the Antivan Warden-Commander.

With first light, they had reclaimed their horses from the stable, packed their gear, gave the first letter to the barkeep of the Gnawed Noble, and delivered the second to Captain Isabela. After that they made their way through the Great Gate, and were soon riding hard on the West Road, on the first leg of their journey that would lead them back to Ostagar, and war.


Notes: Yes, I know I said that the Tabris Origin was dead, but I thought again. If Bann Vaughan wants a dead girl's body to display as an example, he already has one: Nola, who was killed begging for mercy. Duncan was not in Denerim to provide Soris with a sword for her, so his rescue was only of limited effectiveness. He was able to get Tabris out, but no one else, and they were insufficiently armed to fight their way through the Arl's estate. You'll get the rest of the story eventually.

Thanks to all who have read, favorited, and alerted. I am very happy at the response to this alternate universe of mine. Special thanks to my reviewers, who have such interesting and thoughtful things to say: NuitNuit, mutive, Sash'Rahaal, Lehni, Zute, Shakespira, Amhran Comhrac, demonicnargles, Notnahtanha, Josie Lange, Judy, Halm Vendrella, White Ivy, JackOfBladesX, Dante Alighieri1308, Enaid Adery, cowerd22, almostinsane, What Ithacas Mean, Piceron, Aoi24, Sarah1281, Windchime68, Gene Dark, fifespice, chocolatebrownie12, Paladin of Farore, derko5, mille libri, Epiphany sola Gratia, Quair, sinpareil, Jenna53, and Have Socks Will Travel.