"And Dane he stood his ground,
The fanged beast approached.
He saw the rage within its eyes,
The wolf that was once there.
The sword he raised,
Merciful death be praised,
To the Maker went his prayer."
—from The Saga of Dane and the Werewolf, 4:50 Black
Chapter 29
Malcolm
Gethin hanged at dawn.
It felt strange to Malcolm to see Grey Wardens meting out justice to beings other than darkspawn. While at Weisshaupt it had seemed commonplace, it certainly wasn't in Ferelden, at least historically. Things were different now, though. The Wardens ruled the Arling of Amaranthine and the message sent this morning as the sun crawled over the horizon was that kidnapping, no matter who the victim, would not be tolerated. Most of the Wardens in residence at the Vigil had turned out to watch Gethin hang. None of them, it seemed, had taken kindly to what the man had done.
A good number of commoners and even nobles attended the hanging. Malcolm figured some came to see justice carried out, while others wanted to see if the Wardens would truly execute a human for kidnapping a Dalish child, while others, as always there were and always would be, merely came to watch a man die. Teyrn Cousland had explained that to Malcolm when he was a boy, when he'd asked about the crowds that showed up for hangings. As the child of a teyrn, he'd been expected to witness executions from a young age, and his foster father had brought him since the age of ten. A noble had to be sure enough of his judgement that when he sentenced a man to death, the teyrn had said to him, he could attend the execution himself and look that man in the eye before the sentence was carried out. This morning, Riordan had surprised Seneschal Varel by showing up to witness the proceedings. Malcolm wasn't surprised, as it seemed the sort of man Riordan was in terms of taking responsibility, but he felt badly, as this certainly wasn't the sort of thing Riordan signed up for when joining the Grey Wardens. Then again, at least they were seeing to the sentence of a man convinced of kidnapping a child, and not something that would tug at their heartstrings, like some poor sod who stole a food shipment from the Crown to feed his family.
"My father never attended the executions he sentenced criminals to," Nathaniel said from next to Malcolm. "I heard that your foster father always did. Once, I asked my father why he didn't and Teyrn Cousland did, and he told me that the teyrn enjoyed watching men die."
"Far from the truth," Malcolm answered.
"I know." Nathaniel paused for a moment, and then asked, "You were there when my father was executed, were you not?"
"Yes." Malcolm had gone to watch the man die for his crimes against his family and countless others, not just to witness a death sentence he'd helped pass. While Arl Howe's death had brought closure, it hadn't brought much in the way of solace. It hadn't brought back his family or the loved ones of others that had died in Howe's attack on Highever. "Yes, I was."
The other man sighed. "Whatever people say about him, he was still my father. And I just want to know if he... if he suffered."
Malcolm considered the question. Part of him wanted to tell Nathaniel exactly what Rendon Howe had said and done just before his death, to tell Howe's son that his father had fought with the guards instead of placing his head on the block with honor. The other part of him realized that it would be wrong of him to do so. He was a better man than that. Nathaniel, given the scant stories that the other Wardens had slowly drawn from him, had already had a hard childhood with Rendon Howe as a father. And like any other little boy, he'd idolized the man. He hadn't known any better then, nor was he really expected to. Just as Malcolm and Fergus had looked up Bryce Cousland, Nathaniel had done the same with Rendon Howe. "No, he didn't. The headsman was skilled and the blow was clean. It was over quickly and without suffering."
"Thank you. I just wish I had been there."
He couldn't let that one slide past. "No, you don't. Anora didn't attend it and Loghain was executed alongside him. It was for the better. And..."
"And what?"
"The crowd probably would've called for your head, too, just for being his son. I mean, even if you hadn't been a party to anything that he'd done, you would've been in danger." Malcolm shrugged. "You wouldn't have deserved it. You're a far better man than your father ever was, no matter what he made you think when you were growing up."
"Hmm. Maybe."
Then the doors of the recently repaired dungeon opened, revealing two guards flanking a shackled prisoner squinting in the weak light of dawn.
Unsurprisingly, Gethin did not go easily to his death. He struggled against the grasp the guards had on him, jerked with his arms to try and wrest them from where they were tied securely behind his back, even refused to walk at one point, forcing the guards to drag him to the gallows. His limp legs left long trenches in their wake and his eyes were red-rimmed and crusty, tears of fright still shining brightly in them. When the small contingent arrived at the gallows, Gethin renewed his struggles and the soft swears of the guards wrangling him carried on the sharp, cold air of the late autumn morning. Taunts rose up from the gathered crowd, jeers of cowardice and a pending fate worse than even that of the darkspawn. Two more guards joined the others and hauled Gethin to his feet up onto the wooden platform. Then the crowd could see Gethin's entire front and how the front of his trousers were newly stained from a recently voided bladder.
"He's already gone and pissed himself dry!" a man shouted, and then laughed. The rest of the people gathered joined in the laughter, and Gethin's previously pale face reddened in embarrassment. It took four guards to hold the prisoner in place while the hangman fit the noose around the condemned man's neck. At the touch of the rough rope about his neck, Gethin's struggles took on more vigor and the stool holding up his legs rocked back and forth. Three more guards ran up to the platform to help subdue the criminal and keep Gethin from inadvertently hanging himself early.
Varel took note of the danger, handed Riordan the written final sentence, and prodded him forward to make the declaration just in case matters did go awry. Riordan nodded, and then said in a strong voice that stretched from wall to wall of the yard, "Gethin of Navan."
The command in Riordan's voice compelled Gethin to stop his struggles and flick his eyes over to look at the Warden Commander delivering his sentence. Confident that he had the criminal's attention, Riordan continued, "For the crime of kidnapping a child, you are hereby sentenced to death by hanging. May the Maker have mercy on your soul." Then Riordan rolled up the decree, handed it to Varel, and nodded to the executioner.
Gethin renewed his struggle and knocked the stool away before the executioner could finished the positioning of the noose's knot and properly kick away the stool. His feet dangling, Gethin began to sway and twist his body as the rope tightened around his neck. Malcolm had witnessed this executioner's work before, and even though he used the stool, this particular hangman was well known for being able to mercifully cause the condemned man's neck to break right after the stool was kicked away. But Gethin's struggles had messed up the good man's work and now he would have to die a slow, incredibly undignified death. His face began to swell and red stains started to appear on his skin, his eyes becoming bloodshot and bulging out of their sockets. Agonizing minutes passed before Gethin's struggles lessened, becoming slow and lethargic before they stopped entirely. His tongue protruded from his mouth and he became completely still. It wasn't over yet—the body would continue to hang for a full hour, according to custom, to ensure that Gethin was truly dead.
"I would much rather kill darkspawn over witnessing that," said Nathaniel.
Malcolm couldn't agree more.
"The shem is dead, then?" asked Velanna, speaking for the first time that morning.
"So it would seem," said Anders. "They'll wait another hour before cutting him down, though, just to make sure." He took another look at Gethin and grimaced. "That could have been me, once. The hanging thing, not the crime. If I hadn't been conscripted, those templars would've seen me to the gallows."
Velanna raised an eyebrow in Anders' direction. "Why? What had you done?"
"Oh, I offended them greatly by being born, and then by not wanting to be locked up in their prison of a Tower. That's all," he replied. "I kept escaping and I, honestly, never really wanted much in the first place. I mean, all I really want is a pretty girl, a decent meal, and the right to shoot lightning at fools."
"I think you're aiming too low if you went to all that trouble seven times," said Malcolm.
"True. I want a harem, a banquet, and the ability to rain fireballs upon every templar in existence."
Líadan snorted. "The way the templars keep appearing out of nowhere, you very well might get that last wish, at least."
Malcolm glanced over at Gethin's swinging body, the rope creaking as it moved. "Let's get going to Amaranthine. Be at the stables in an hour." The others nodded their agreement and hustled off in different directions to get packs and any other supplies, and possibly breakfast, if they had any appetite left. Malcolm didn't, despite the normal hunger of the taint left him. He knew it would catch up with him later, but he'd just have to make sure he brought along trail food for whenever the hunger decided to hit on the road. That plan in mind, he stopped by the kitchens to pick up some rations. While they wouldn't have to worry about camping out until after Highever, it was good practice to be prepared for the possibility. Today's trip would only take a half-day, but then they had to find out what they could about the Tevinters in Amaranthine before they could take a ship over to Highever. At least by sea, the journey would take less than a day, as long as the weather held. There had been flurries last night, as the morning clouds had promised, but nothing had stuck yet. But those days were fast approaching, especially in the mountains.
As the cook and her kitchen help prepared the food supplies, Malcolm ran up to his room to fetch his pack. He wondered exactly how long they'd be gone from the Keep. There were a lot of variables to consider—ferreting out what they could about the Tevinters in both Amaranthine City and the City of Highever. That could take hours or even days. And then there was searching for the Deep Roads entrance up in the fierce environs of Drake's Fall. That could conceivably take weeks if they had no good luck at all. Meanwhile, Kal'Hirol would be waiting, they hoped, anyway, and the templars and the other Wardens and the Tevinters and those strange darkspawn that were hunting Morrigan. His hand went to the ring hanging from his neck and he sighed. Best if he left the ring with Fiona, then, and let her keep working on it while he was away. As he hadn't seen her on his brief pass through the dining hall where the other Wardens were, he figured she must be in the library since she read more than any other person he'd ever known.
Though he tried to enter the room quietly, a floorboard creaked as soon as he passed through the door. Fiona sat at the table closest to the largest window, three books open in front of her, as well as a leather bound journal, quill, and inkwell. The quill's scratching at the paper paused when the board creaked. "Not hungry this morning?"
"Executions tend to make me lose my appetite for a while," he replied.
She looked up, a slight frown pulling down the edges of her mouth. "You've seen enough where you know this is a trait of yours?"
He nodded and shifted his weight from foot to foot, knowing the answer would most likely bring up previously unspoken subjects. "Since I was ten. Raised as the son of a teyrn and all. Teyrn Cousland always said that a noble had to have the courage to watch a sentence he'd passed carried out or he had no right to pass the sentence in the first place. He took both me and my brother Fergus, to make sure we knew what could happen at executions, and to know the gravity of things we might have to condemn another person to. He hated having to sentence a person to death, said it was such an act of finality, like you were entirely giving up on a person's ability to come around and do the right thing. But, at the same time, he said it was necessary, or there would be anarchy." The sudden memory of a talk with Teyrn Cousland when he was a small boy drifted into his mind, unbidden. The gravity of the subject written in the lines creasing the teyrn's forehead and the earnestness of his voice as he talked with Malcolm and Fergus about the intricacies of ruling justly. Then the swift change in subject to lighter things to cajole the two boys out of somber moods brought warmth to his eyes as he teased them. The anguish when he bled out on the larder floor, knowing he would die in minutes. The forgiveness as he looked at him in the Gauntlet. Malcolm had to blink back sudden tears, surprised that the memory of the Fall of Highever would catch him like this, after all this time.
But it hadn't been all that long. A year and a half, maybe. It felt like a whole lot longer.
"I'm sorry about what happened to him. He seemed like he was a good man."
He blinked again, refocusing, realizing that he'd been staring out the window, but not seeing anything. "He was." Seeking a subject change, he removed the ring from the thong at his neck and extended it toward Fiona. "Here. I don't know how long we'll be gone, so I figured you might want to work on it some more in the meantime."
She accepted it, but kept her warm eyes on him, the concern evident. But she didn't pry. "Thank you. Hopefully I can get it working better. Vague isn't going to give anyone much to go on aside from supposition."
Malcolm nodded absently, knowing he should excuse himself and go down to the stables. But the memories of his childhood had made him curious and almost courageous. He shifted from foot to foot again. "I want to ask a question but..." he trailed off and glanced over at the door.
Fiona studied him for a moment, and then nodded once in understanding. Without a word, she went to the door and cast a ward. For a moment, Malcolm had feared she would just leave rather than stay and talk. Apparently she also had extra courage today, too. Ward finished, the mage turned around expectantly, her arms folded across her chest.
He stubbed at the floor with the toe of his boot. "Did Maric ever talk to you about staying after Alistair? After me?"
Her arms tightened and her crossed arms became almost a self-hug. She began to pace between some of the shelves near the door. "Yes. He asked me to, with Alistair. With you, I didn't give him the chance to ask, because I wasn't sure if I would be able to say no."
"Why did you say no?" He knew nothing about what it was like to be an elf or a mage and he knew those were the reasons why she'd requested he and Alistair be raised without knowing about half their heritage. Was it so bad, to be an elf or a mage or both? Velanna and Líadan didn't seem to think so, but they weren't city elves, they were Dalish—something very, very different from their city-dwelling brethren.
She offered him a small, sad smile. "I would have had no place here. Like I told Maric, outside of the Grey Wardens, I am no one. Apostate mage, unless I give up my freedom and live at the Circle. Either that or I'm an elf without any other skills. There was no question if Maric and I could remain together. We simply couldn't. I was an elf and a mage and he was a king. At most I would have been his mistress with nothing else added to my existence—I wouldn't even have been able to raise you and Alistair—and I couldn't live like that."
He frowned and stilled his foot's movements. "No, and no one should expect you to, either." He looked up. "You still wouldn't have been able to raise us?"
"No." She lifted her eyebrows. "Elf and mage, remember? People would have figured out very quickly who you and Alistair were. Putting two and two together wouldn't have been very difficult. You both still would have had to be raised by others." A sigh passed her lips. "At least one of you had a decent upbringing. I owe more than I can ever repay to Bryce and Eleanor Cousland. And I owe Eamon and Isolde Guerrin something... incredibly painful."
Malcolm chuckled despite the subject of his brother's poor treatment in childhood. "The Maker apparently has a sick sense of humor, because their only child is a mage."
Fiona smirked. "True. I'd forgotten that."
"You said you didn't give Maric a chance to ask you to stay. Did you not see him after I was born?"
"No. I... never saw him again. Duncan did me a favor and came back to Weisshaupt so he could bring you back to Ferelden once you were old enough to travel without me." A fond smile plied at her lips. "I'll admit, seeing the gruff man Duncan had grown into playing with a baby was an amusing sight."
Malcolm stared at her. "Wait a second. If Duncan had to bring me from Weisshaupt to Ferelden—a few weeks' worth of travel, that means... So your saying that Duncan once had to change my... really?" Good thing he hadn't known that during their travels from Highever to Ostagar or things would have been even more awkward. Duncan had known him since he was in swaddling clothes and he'd never known. Unbelievable.
"Probably, yes."
He wrinkled his nose. "Ew." Then after a moment, his amusement drained away in the face of another memory. "I thought I hated him for a long time, after he conscripted me." Knowing Fiona would want to hear the story, he told it without prompting. He explained how Arl Howe had betrayed the Couslands, how Duncan had convinced Bryce that it would be best if Malcolm became a Warden, how Malcolm had thought it pure cold-hearted manipulation on Duncan's part as he hadn't been able to see the subtext between Duncan and the teyrn, how Duncan had kept him alive and he'd resented him for it. The part about him trying to run made Fiona laugh and she relayed one of the times Duncan had taken off from their Warden Commander at the time. Then Malcolm explained how he'd changed his mind after Ostagar, but too late, as Duncan had already died, and that he wasn't able to forgive himself until months later, when he and Alistair and Riordan returned to Ostagar.
"You becoming a Warden wasn't something I wanted," she said after he told her about the sword and what Riordan had told him.
A crooked smile appeared on his face. "Wasn't what I really wanted either. Sort of. I mean, I wanted to, before the whole Fall of Highever thing, as they're calling it now. Then I didn't want to be, and then I just accepted it. And now I am one. Not much else for me to do, though. I mean, either as a teyrn's second son or where they have me now as a prince," and he scowled as he said that, "I don't have much in terms of things to do. At least as a Warden I have a purpose in killing darkspawn and stopping Blights. Otherwise, I'd have to listen to Eamon all day. I'd much rather live with the taint and have to deal with darkspawn."
"He is a bit single minded, isn't he?"
"Ha! That's an understatement. He is the biggest royalist I've ever met. But I'm not even sure it isn't just being a royalist as it is being a huge fan of the Theirin bloodline. You know, he was pressuring Cailan to leave Anora for someone else since it'd been five years they'd been married and had yet to have an heir. And he's already pressuring Alistair to get married and produce an heir. Alistair made the mistake of telling him how it's a lot harder for Wardens to have children. Well, I suppose that doesn't count for you, since you had two, somehow. Maybe that'll work in Alistair's favor whenever he does find someone to marry. I hope it does, because Eamon won't leave off on me, either." Malcolm stopped his rant before he blundered further into Morrigan and Líadan territory. "Someone needs to refresh that man on Fereldan history. About how Calenhad became king and how kings are actually appointed. It doesn't have to be a Theirin, even though he absolutely believes it does."
Fiona regarded him silently for a moment, and then said, "You know, Maric didn't want to be king. He hated it, for the most part. It sucked the life out of him for a long time. He explained it to me, once, when I asked if he could just give it up and walk away. I forget exactly what it was that he said, but people believed in his mother and in him and what they could do because of both their bloodline and what they accomplished. You and Alistair did end a civil war, did get a tyrant off the throne, and did end a Blight. I think Ferelden's faith in a Theirin on the throne is justified, whether or not any one of us likes it."
Malcolm sighed. "You have a point. I just... I just don't want it to control everything."
"Being your father's son or Eamon's attempts at influencing you and Alistair?"
"Hmm. Eamon, I guess, because he makes it so much worse. He hated Morrigan before we really had a reason to hate her, and now I so much as look at poor Líadan in a way other than anger and he flips out. There's no reason for him to be like that, except for his whole 'the Theirin bloodline must continue' load of crap."
"Which you just acknowledged wasn't a load of crap."
He narrowed his eyes. "Whose side are you on?"
She smiled, brushing off his suspicion. "I'm not on anyone's side. And you know I'm not exactly Eamon's biggest fan."
"Yeah, your glares at him are pretty impressive, I must say. I'm surprised he hasn't been reduced to a pile of ash already. And if that happened, I'm not sure many people would complain." He glanced out the window, taking note of the sun's position. He needed to get to the stables. "Time to go. The others will be waiting." At the door, he paused and turned to Fiona again. "Thanks for the talk. I know you didn't have to. And I know it isn't pleasant relive." He found himself unable to look at her again, his eyes dropping to the floor, which really didn't deserve all the attention it seemed to be getting from him. "I just wish..."
"I know. I do, too."
He managed to look up and saw the same trepidation in her eyes, and the same tears that threatened to fall. Neither of them were ready for that in front of the other, and Malcolm quickly left before it happened. He didn't feel any magic dispel the ward behind him and knew that Fiona probably succumbed to her tears while he pressed back his own with the heel of his hand.
After a few minutes, they were sufficiently repressed and he stopped by the kitchens, picking up the supplies. That done, he rushed over to the stables to discover he wasn't the last to arrive. Anders, Oghren, Nathaniel, and Velanna stood impatiently by their mounts, Velanna having formed an uneasy alliance with her horse. Gunnar ran in circles around the horses, as impatient for the journey to begin as the humans, elf, and dwarf near him.
"Where's Líadan?" Anders asked.
Malcolm barely refrained from rolling his eyes. "How should I know?"
Oghren held out an expectant hand to Anders. "Pay up. Two sovereigns, Sparklefingers."
"Oh, Andraste's tits," said Anders, digging the coin out of a pouch. "I thought for sure, with the both of them being late..."
"Both too stubborn for their own good, I already told you that. I traveled with them during the Blight, I know these things. You never should've taken that bet. Not that it'll stop me from taking your money, though. That's a few flagons of good ale right there." Oghren jingled the gold coins in his hand for a moment before dropping it into his own coinpurse.
"Fine, but that means you're buying everyone a round at the Crown and Lion."
"Eh. Fine. But still worth it."
One of the stableboys brought out Malcolm's horse already saddled. The horse stood placidly as Malcolm secured his pack. By the time he finished and mounted the horse, Líadan came running through the yard and to the stables, offering no explanation and no apology for her lateness. Malcolm studied her for a moment, hoping for an answer, but she merely studied him back. There was no hostility, but there certainly wasn't anything forthcoming, either. He shrugged, deciding it wasn't worth the effort of a potential argument, as Líadan wasn't normally a tardy person, and started his horse toward the gates.
The journey to Amaranthine City was without a single darkspawn, templar, or bandit attack, much to everyone's surprise. They shared a late breakfast on the road and little conversation. Velanna spent the time scowling at everything in existence, while Nathaniel seemed to be taking in the current state of his family's former arling. Líadan seemed in her own little world, Oghren concentrated on remaining astride his horse—despite all the travel by horseback during the Blight, he'd never become a good rider—and Anders seemed to revel in his newfound freedom. They passed by a decent number of travelers on the road. At first the other people were wary, as was normal when seeing an armed party on the road. But once other travelers got closer, they were able to see the rearing griffons on their tabards, robes, or cloaks and wariness turned to warm smiles and cheerful waves. Somewhere inside, it made him feel good to elicit that kind of response from the people of Ferelden, that what he did was worth something. It was a nice feeling, one that he hadn't had in a long while.
The behavior continued all the way to Amaranthine, the stablehands happy to help them outside the city as they arranged boarding for their horses for the duration of their journey. Malcolm first intended on securing them rooms for them at the Crown and Lion, the inn Nathaniel had recommended, so that they could stow their gear. He strode next to Nathaniel, letting the other man lead because he had no idea where the inn was, as he'd never been to Amaranthine City. The dog trotted nearby, eyes roving at all the different activity. Anders and Oghren weren't far behind, already arguing the expense of the drinks allowed for the round Oghren would be purchasing. At first Líadan walked with Malcolm and Nathaniel, but almost as soon as they'd left the stables, Velanna started muttering about being dragged into an awful shem city. With frustrated sigh, Líadan dropped back to the rear to either placate or reassure Velanna, or so Malcolm assumed.
Then he heard a hushed conversation from the right, one that Nathaniel, Anders, and Oghren didn't seem to pick up on. A male elf had told another elf named Nella to come see the Dalish elves. Maker help him, Malcolm realized, it had already started. They were going to assume that Velanna was Líadan. He hoped the two Dalish elves with him had been caught up enough in whatever conversation they were having to not hear what the city elf had said.
Then he heard, a bit louder, "Oh, the blonde one, she's very stern, isn't she? What's she doing here, do you think?" He know there was no way they hadn't heard.
Velanna's immediate and irritated reply confirmed his fear. "I'm right here, you slack-jawed oafs. At least have the courtesy to speak when I pass by." Unlike the two city elves, Velanna felt no compunction to lower her voice, so her statement caused all of the Wardens to turn around to witness the coming argument, as well as most of the people milling outside Amaranthine's gates. Yes, there was going to be a scene, and Malcolm had no idea what to do.
"Oh, we're sorry, great lady," the male elf replied, bowing to Velanna in apology. "We didn't mean to offend."
"Look at how you're cowering!" Velanna snapped at them. "Your'e like frightened animals. The sight of you sickens me—"
Malcolm turned from the city elves over to Velanna just in time to see Líadan grab Velanna by the back of her robes and haul her off to the side. Alarmed, he raised his arm and started saying, "What are you—"
"No, no," said Anders, placing a restraining hand on his shoulder. "Let them fight it out. I've been waiting for this for ages!"
"Not your day in the pool, mage," Oghren said.
"I really don't care at this point. I just want to see it happen."
Malcolm looked between the dwarf and the mage. "You started a betting pool?"
"Aye," replied Oghren. "Want in?"
"Well, I suppose I could... wait, no! No, I don't want in!" Malcolm ran a weary hand over his face and gave up the conversation, heading down to stop Velanna and Líadan from possibly hurting one another with magic. Otherwise, he was sorely tempted to just let them fight it out and hope they'd let the matter drop after that.
"...if you hadn't yelled at them," Líadan was finishing saying to Velanna, letting her hand drop the bunch of fabric it'd held.
"Then what would you have me do?" Velanna asked. "Encourage their cringing ways? Who will stand up for them, or respect them, if they allow themselves to be terrified by passersby? It shouldn't make a difference who yells at them. Human, Dalish, dwarf—no one should be able to tell them their place. They would do well to learn that."
"They didn't have the same advantages we did," Líadan practically growled at the other Dalish elf. "They never had the strength of a Dalish clan behind them. They don't know our language or our ways or our history. They live with what they're given, and if you or I were born into their situation, I doubt we would be any different. In fact, we would be worse off, because those shemlen templars would have either killed us or hauled us both to that prison they call the Circle Tower. And how is yelling at them going to give them courage to leave the city and everything they've ever known behind to go and join the Dalish? You and I both know how hard it is to leave everything behind. So have a little heart for our city-dwelling kin, will you?" After a final searing glare, Líadan spun on her heel and strode away, towards the other Wardens, leaving a confused, almost contrite, Velanna behind.
"Thank—" Malcolm started as she passed him by.
She held up a hand. "Don't."
He held back a sigh. So that was how it was going to be. Right. Ignoring the strangely angry at everyone Líadan, he walked back to Nathaniel, and they resumed their walk toward the main city gate. Once they reached the portcullis, Nathaniel's pace slowed, and he slowly looked up at the stone barbican with its massive iron spikes jutting out about the archway.
"They used to display heads of traitors over this gate," Nathaniel said. "I suppose my father is lucky his didn't end up there."
"He received a proper Andrastian funeral," Malcolm told him.
"And you suppose I should thank you for common decency?" came the snapped reply.
What in the name of the Maker had made suddenly made everyone so cranky? Malcolm didn't even bother replying, unwilling to get into an argument. Instead, he bit back a curse, exchanged a confused look with Anders, and headed into the bustling port city.
