Chapter 34

"Although apprentices do not know the nature of the Harrowing, all of them understand its consequences: They either pass and become full mages, or they are never seen again. Those who fear to undertake this rite of passage, or those who are deemed weak or unstable, are given the Rite of Tranquility instead.

The actual procedure, like the Harrowing, is secret, but the results are just as well known. The rite severs connection to the Fade. The Tranquil, therefore, do not dream. This removes the greatest danger that threatens a weak or unprepared mage, the potential to attract demons across the Veil. But this is the least of Tranquility's effects. For the absence of dreams brings with it the end of all magical ability, as well as all emotion.

The Tranquil, ironically, resemble sleepwalkers, never entirely awake nor asleep. They are still part of our Circle, however, and some might say they are the most critical part. They have incredible powers of concentration, for it is simply impossible to distract a Tranquil mage, and this makes them capable of becoming craftsmen of such skill that they rival even the adeptness of the dwarves. The Formari, the branch of the Circle devoted to item enchantment, is made up exclusively of Tranquil, and is the source of all the wealth that sustains our towers."

—from On Tranquility and the Role of the Fade in Human Society, by First Enchanter Josephus

Malcolm

Their strategy session with Alistair and Anora was quick and to the point—Malcolm would walk in just behind Alistair and Anora, and then Nuala and Líadan would come in with Cáel and Kennard when summoned. The rest, in all reality, would be left up to the Fereldan nobility that comprised the Landsmeet. And as they knew from history, anything could happen. Duels, brawls, arguments going on for days, mabari put forth for the throne—the list went on.

"Armor," said Alistair. "Don't forget the armor."

Nuala raised an eyebrow. "For all of us?"

Alistair leaned back in his overstuffed chair. "Well, if you'd be more comfortable that way. Not sure if there's armor that'll work for a wet nurse, but I'm sure a good smith could come up with something appropriate. Probably have to get a smith for Cáel's armor, though. Not sure I've seen any armor his size. It's not a bad idea, though. This is a Fereldan Landsmeet."

"I was kidding, Your Majesty."

His eyes twinkled as he grinned at her. "I know. And you always call me 'Your Majesty' when you've had enough of my jokes. No, armor isn't necessary for everyone, or we'd have already had some commissioned for you and Cáel and whoever else we could think of. Might not be a bad idea in the future, though."

Nuala let out a frustrated sigh, and then deliberately shifted her attention to Anora. "If that's all?"

"That's all. We'll let you know if anything changes," Anora said.

Nuala dipped her head in a slight bow of acknowledgement, gathered up Cáel from the floor where he'd been rolling around, and departed. Malcolm could hear Kennard's heavy footsteps following her once the door had shut. Anora's gaze had drifted to the lone window, apparently having fallen into deep thought. Alistair shot her a confused look before turning to Malcolm with a shrug. They both glanced over to Líadan, questions written on their faces if she had any explanation for Anora's sudden silence, but Líadan also only had a shrug to give in return. After having paced the room for most of the meeting, she'd settled for leaning against the wall closest to the door, but when she took a second look at Anora, she moved to sit on the same sofa where Malcolm was seated.

Malcolm gently tilted his head toward the door, silently asking if it would be okay to leave, but he'd hardly started when Líadan almost violently shook her head and frowned at him. He gave a half-roll of his eyes. Clearly, she knew more than he and Alistair did and was holding out. Or something of the like. Then again, whatever it was, was most likely very hard to explain without using actual words.

Movement came from Anora's direction as she shifted in her chair to look at Alistair. "I have a request," she said, the volume of her voice much softer than usual.

Alistair eyed her warily. "What kind of request?"

"I know we've agreed on commending Cauthrien for her actions at Highever, but I would... I would also like to have her granted a surname."

Understandably, the wariness didn't leave Alistair's eyes, though he did sit up straight from his slump. "What brought this on?"

"It is not an impulse, if that is what you believe. I have been considering it for some time, ever since she was given the teyrnir of Gwaren." At Alistair's confused silence—not to mention Malcolm and Líadan's—Anora sighed. "After the Blight, when I returned to Gwaren as its new teyrna, I had to go through my father's personal effects. His library had always been sacrosanct; no one except for him was allowed in it. Not servants, not me, not even my mother. Only him. It was... strange, to walk in. It felt like he would scold me at any second." She gave Alistair a rueful smile. "After he never appeared, it still took me quite a while before I dared touch anything. Eventually, I did sort through what he'd left behind. He had far more maps than I'd ever suspected, and I also found letters. Letters addressed to me, letters also left for the reigning monarch, letters left for the next teyrn or teyrna if it wasn't me, and a letter for Cauthrien. At first, I thought nothing of it. Cauthrien had been his second for a long time. Then I read the words he'd written to me, and I was caught by surprise. Though, looking back, I really should not have been."

Alistair raised an eyebrow.

Anora narrowed her eyes at him. "Surely, you've put it together by now."

"Possibly. But it could be one of two options. One of them scares me, and I'd rather not say it out loud, especially to you."

She nodded. "All right. That's fair." She nodded again, more to herself. Then she said, "My father was also Cauthrien's father. She's my half-sister."

The King let out a long sigh of relief.

Anora quirked an amused brow. "Did you think her my father's lover?"

"No! Of course not!" said Alistair.

At the same time, Malcolm muttered, "I'd hoped not." Líadan elbowed him in the ribs.

When Anora's look did not relent, Alistair shifted uncomfortably in his chair and shot a dirty look at his brother before returning to his wife. "It was a rumor! A rumor that I heard. More than once." He studied her for a moment before asking, "Does it bother you?"

Bastards, Malcolm knew, thought about such things. They always worried that the legitimate children would detest them or hate them or view them as less than nothing, for being something that stood the chance of destroying their family. When the child couldn't bring themselves to blame the parent, it was the bastard who often took the blame. He hoped, for both Anora's sake, and Cauthrien's, that Celia Mac Tir had already gone to the Maker's side before whatever relationship had brought forth Cauthrien had even begun.

He was also absolutely relieved to hear that Cauthrien had not been Loghain's lover.

"Somewhat," Anora said after she'd contemplated Alistair's question for a moment. "It would have more if Cauthrien had been a product of an affair conducted while my mother was still alive. He explained to me in my letter that Cauthrien was not born from infidelity, that she came about after my mother had passed. So my irritation then fell upon him, that he did not acknowledge her while he was alive. If anything, it would have put a stop to the rumors that she was his lover. Rumors that did her no credit, and were unfair." More than a hint of frustration crept into Anora's tone; she was not lying about being upset with her father for what he hadn't done. "She earned her place as his second. Since then, she has earned her place as teyrna of Gwaren, and has served well. She is a fine general." Anora paused, blinking back a strong memory. "She is very much like our father. I want that recognized. She is a Mac Tir. She has earned that, as well."

When it became clear Alistair was dumbstruck, Malcolm asked, "Does she know?"

Anora shrugged. "She does if she read the letter our father left her. If she has, and does know of her true lineage, she has not mentioned it to me."

"Will your Landsmeet object?" asked Líadan. "I'm not sure how this legitimacy thing works with humans. The Dalish don't really have such a concept in the first place, and humans have so many rules about it."

"The letter of acknowledgement he left is signed and sealed by both King Maric and Grand Cleric Elemena. The Landsmeet can quarrel all they want, but they cannot override it, even with both witnesses dead. The moment the letter is submitted and made public, Cauthrien is legitimate."

Alistair cleared his throat. "Well, then. Who am I to argue? Of course we'll grant her the name."

"You do not object, considering your views on my father?" Anora's question was posed without malice, but her look on Alistair was intense.

"I'll just keep my thoughts on the heroism he displayed during the Occupation," Alistair replied, slowly leaning back in his chair. "I idolized him, in a way, as a child. You know, like every other child in Ferelden. The stories of the Occupation are great, you have to admit."

Anora nodded, trading her intensity for the hint of a smile. "It would be good, to see honor restored to the name, and for it to be carried on."

"You don't believe you can do so?" asked Alistair.

"Alistair, considering I've married a Theirin twice over, despite being my father's daughter, I am a Theirin. Were I to bear your child, he or she would also be a Theirin, not a Mac Tir. Someone else will have to carry my father's line."

"It's a good thing that whoever's family carries the higher rank in the nobility is the name that's passed onto the children," Alistair said with a nod. "If that weren't true, Maric wouldn't have been a Theirin, considering he got his name from Moira. I'm not even sure who his father was."

Anora frowned. "It was honestly never spoken of. Some minor bann, I assume. Properly Fereldan, of course."

"Of course." Alistair became solemn, even has he glanced briefly in his brother's direction. "Married, as well, to the Queen, before he died."

"Hey!" said Malcolm. "That was low."

"I was kidding."

Líadan crossed her arms and gave Alistair a pointed look. "Were you?"

Alistair squirmed, looking anywhere but at Líadan. "Mostly."

She sighed and stood. "We're done, I assume?"

"Yes." Anora's expression was one of silent apology when she looked at Líadan, obviously frustrated with her husband's inadvertent boorishness.

"Then I've other things to attend to. Excuse me." Líadan left, after a parting glare sent Alistair's way.

Malcolm wanted to stand up and announce that no, their child was not going to be illegitimate because he was married to the child's mother, but he couldn't. He knew he couldn't tell them and it was killing him the longer the secret went on. But there was nothing he could do, not with the Chantry watching them for the smallest slip-up. As long as the Chantry kept such a close eye on them, Alistair couldn't know. Which, of course, would mean more uncomfortable situations like this one in the future.

"You really need to think about what you say," Anora said to Alistair.

Alistair held his head in his hands. "I know. I'll apologize later by offering to spar with her. She'll beat the snot out of me with her tricky hunter ways, I'll tell her I'm sorry, and we'll be fine. That's how it usually goes. I just wish I could fix the whole situation by waving my hand or something. I mean, I'm the King, and my hands are tied."

"I remember Maric saying something about being king meant having far less power than anyone could ever think."

"He'd have the right of it."

Malcolm stood, not really angry with his brother, only frustrated with the situation and the things he couldn't change. "I'll do my best to get her to go easy on you. Wouldn't do for you to have bruises in the Landsmeet."

By the end of the day, Líadan was fine, having had a long chat with Alistair that didn't even involve weapons of any sort. Somehow, she managed to convince him to leave the issue of Malcolm not being bonded to her—to Alistair's knowledge—alone. When they went to bed, she claimed to be less troubled by the entire matter, but from the look in her eyes, Malcolm wasn't convinced. Maybe she had convinced herself that she was fine, but he wasn't buying it. However, he recognized that it wasn't the right time to confront the lingering fear. It probably wouldn't be the right time until they could do something about it, which could be a years-long wait.

The flames surrounded him, chased him, jumping from every corner, through every doorway, and he flung himself out a window to escape. He tumbled down from the first-floor window, rolling in the grass before he leapt to his feet. Around him, everything still burned. He made it outside the city walls to see Denerim burning behind him. Then he was in the air, flying like a raven, and he saw flames burning huge swathes of the country, scorching the Bannorn, turning the arlings and freeholds into cinders. Then he was indoors—underground?—again, and he could hear shouting, calls for him, to be rescued, scooped out of the fire. He flung open every door, blinded by the acrid smoke that scraped at his eyes and tore at his throat with every breath. But the voices calling to him, they compelled him like no others could. He was meant to protect them and he had to find them because they needed him and—

Malcolm woke up. He was surprised to find himself breathing normally, and not hot, or sweaty, or most importantly, on fire. He was even a little chilled by the drafts coming from around the window. Líadan slept next to him, not moving when he sat up, her light snores continuing even as he left the bed. With her needing her rest, he didn't dare wake her up to tell her he'd had a bad dream and needed to distract himself from it. Certainly not when they were both Grey Wardens and had nightmares regularly.

Then again, he'd almost choose the darkspawn variety over the one he'd just had.

His stomach growled, presenting him with an excuse, as well as a solution. Off to the pantry it was. He fended off Gunnar and Revas, telling the dogs to stay in the room, and when they didn't seem to listen, bribing them with the offer of food. That worked, and he stole out of the room before either of the mabari changed their minds about which of their masters to guard.

None of the household staff were up yet, to his surprise. He knew they got up earlier than even the palace staff in order to have enough food around for the Wardens, so he figured he wasn't awake as early as he'd assumed. The cloudy night meant he couldn't judge from the position of the moon. Without staff present to scold him, he easily liberated a loaf of bread and some hard cheese. Prizes in hand, he headed back for his room. At least if he woke Líadan up this time, he'd have food to placate her with.

On the way down the corridor, the peculiar light of a spell wisp—Wynne had used them quite frequently during the Blight to light her tent at night when she read—coming from the open door of the library caught his attention. Wondering if Wynne had been stricken with a bout of insomnia and had chosen to do some research as she waited it out, he took a detour to see. Maybe she could make some sense of the dream he'd had. Or, at the very least, make him feel better, though being a grown man, he'd never admit that part out loud.

Instead of Wynne, he found Bethany seated in one of the armchairs. The spell wisp he had seen illuminated a letter she held in her hand.

Malcolm leaned against the doorframe, bread in one hand and cheese in the other. "You have nightmares or something?" It stood to reason she might've, given she was a new Warden. Eventually, he knew, she'd be rid of them until her Calling, since she hadn't Joined during a Blight. He and Líadan, however, still had them at least once weekly, thanks to the strength of Blight Joinings.

She looked up at him, a little startled, but not scared. Her eyes were narrowed, as if she were upset, but it was a faraway look. However, it was still the angry kind of upset. The angry kind of mage upset that led to painful spells like lightning or fire. "My brother wrote me a letter," she said after a moment, her tone dangerously mild.

"And this makes you angry, why?" he asked, stepping inside the room. He could still make conversation safely. Grey Wardens could almost always be fended off with the offer of food, and he had bread and cheese to spare. "Is he a poor speller and you can't abhor bad spelling?"

Bethany glared at him after a slight roll of her eyes. "My twin brother became a templar after we all went in the Deep Roads with our sister. His letter is one nicely telling me that he's been promoted from recruit to Knight-Templar." She flung the letter onto a low table, where it fluttered to rest next to a stack of books. "That jackass."

"Brothers are usually jackasses. It's their job."

"Even your brother?"

He dropped into a nearby chair and shot her a grin. "Especially my brother."

She bit her lip as she mulled over the answer. Then she asked, "Which one?"

"Both."

"I bet they say the same about you."

He nodded. "I'd expect nothing less." It was, after all, the brotherly thing to do.

Bethany seemed to take this in, her fingers tugging at her shirtsleeve. Then she asked, "And what about sisters?"

"Not sure." He shrugged. "Never had one."

"You should be grateful. My sister is the reason I'm here."

Malcolm had no idea what to say to that, so he took a huge bite of the bread to keep from having to come up with something that'd likely get him into trouble. Trouble with mages was bad. He knew that much from painful experience. When she still hadn't spoken or even mercifully changed the subject by the time he was done with his bite, he sighed and offered her the other half of the loaf he'd taken. "Want some?"

Her answer was a half-hearted shake of her head.

He raised an eyebrow. "You're a recently-made Grey Warden, aren't you? Yes, you are. I remember that much. Well, I also remember that when you're that new of a Warden, you're even hungrier. So unless you fetched food from the larder before I did, you could use a snack." She sighed and accepted the bread, but said nothing more. Maker. It was screamingly clear she needed to talk about whatever bothered her regarding her becoming a Warden, and he would make a very convenient person for her to speak with if he decided to prompt it out of her. Judging by her expression, it wouldn't take much. But doing so would practically guarantee more awkward. Then again, it would delay his return to bed, which meant less a chance of waking up Líadan. Her getting more sleep, in the grand scheme of things, was good—or so Wynne had informed him several times, most within earshot of Líadan.

There had been glares. Possibly growling, but he hadn't been too sure, and hadn't cared to really speculate on it much.

He sighed and settled back into the chair. "All right, out with it."

Bethany gave him a faint frown as her brows drew together. "Out with what?"

A chunk of cheese grasped between his fingers, he waved his hand around. "What's bothering you. You seem to need to talk about it, and I haven't got all night. Eventually, I have to wander back into bed and manage not to disturb Líadan, lest I suffer Wynne's wrath. Wrath, need I remind you, that could kill a man when it comes to the health of her patients. And—"

"So it's true, then?" Bethany straightened from her slump and looked almost eager. Quite a change from earlier.

Malcolm narrowed his eyes, not sure this was necessarily a good development. "What's true? There's a lot that's true. Yes, Grey Wardens can sense darkspawn. Yes, the King really does have an unhealthy love affair with cheese. Yes, the Queen knows of the affair and is only slightly disturbed by it. Yes, griffons really are extinct—which is very sad, mind you—and..." He gave up when he realized the bright curiosity in her eyes had yet to dim even a fraction. "All right, I'll bite. What's it you've realized is true?"

"She's with child?"

"Wynne?" His eyes widened. "That'd be quite the miracle, from what I'm told, given Wynne's age. Well, maybe not if she snagged some of Andraste's ashes when no one was looking, but she usually isn't that sneaky."

Bethany gave him a withering look. "Líadan."

"Ah. Well, you're a healer. You tell me."

"Wouldn't you know?"

"I'm not a healer. That'd be you."

"She'd tell you."

"And if she hadn't? You totally just ruined her surprise. Shame on you."

Bethany clapped her hands together in glee, and a tiny squeal escaped her mouth before she quieted herself. "This is exciting!"

Malcolm barely kept from rolling his eyes. Funny how most others on the outside of the situation found their predicament to be awesome or exciting or fun and not the snarl of complications he and Líadan knew it to be. He shifted in his chair. "Yes, well. Maybe being a Warden won't be so bad for you now? If Warden babies can improve the moods of Weisshaupt Wardens, surely it'd help your outlook on your new career."

With how quickly Bethany's expression darkened, it was like he'd slammed shut a sunlit window. "I won't be there to deliver them if my sister ever has children. When I found my talent as a healer, I'd assumed I'd be the one to... but that can't happen. Not anymore."

He glanced longingly at his cheese, really wanting to finish the last few bites, yet knowing it would be rude of him to. Instead, he asked, "Were you conscripted or something? Usually, Wardens who are all bitter about being one were dragged into the order, kicking and screaming, sometimes literally. Or most times literally." He frowned. "Though I'm not sure what your sister would have to do with it, unless she's a Warden, too. But I assume I'd know that by now."

"She isn't a Warden, but it was partly her idea to go into the Deep Roads."

"She..." He stared at Bethany, wondering if he'd misheard. "She went into the Deep Roads on purpose?"

"Asking that when I mention my sister's idea seems to be a theme with Grey Wardens, I've noticed."

"You've been to the Deep Roads. Is it really that shocking we'd have that reaction?"

"Didn't say I disagreed. I was just making an observation."

"That's nice. Can we get back to the part where your non-Warden sister thought that going into the Deep Roads on purpose was a good idea? Whatever would make her think that the Deep Roads led to good things?"

"A dwarf. A few dwarves. Treasure. The chance to get ahead where there were no other ways out to be seen. We were lucky enough to escape the Blight as it was." Bethany crossed her arms and sat back in her chair, a frown once again marring her usually innocent expression.

"So, after the relative safety of Kirkwall, you and your sister chose to go where you'd find... more darkspawn?"

"Clearly, you've never been to Kirkwall." However humorously Bethany had said the comment, there was enough residual pain in her eyes from her time there that it really could have been bad enough to seem a better option than remaining in the city.

He hoped he never had occasion to visit Kirkwall, then, and was grateful he'd avoided it on Anders' advice. "Since you've heard from your brother, I take that to mean your sister and your friends also survived after you left them?"

"Survived, yes." Bethany picked up the letter again and checked it. "In addition to his news about his promotion, he told me I wouldn't believe a word about what happened after I had to leave with Anders and the Wardens. So, he informed me, he would not tell me at all, not any of it, and that Marian should be writing me with the whole story so I'd believe it." She scowled and tossed the letter on the low table in front of her. "Like I'd assume my twin was lying to me. I think he just wanted to avoid writing out the entire thing, the lazy git. It's Marian who might not tell me the whole truth, given she's going to have a guilt complex about my becoming a Grey Warden. She won't want me to feel bad for not being there. But she can't keep me from feeling something I already do." Her glare settled on the offensive letter, serving as proxy for the Deep Roads, Bethany's sister, or circumstance. Malcolm wasn't sure which, and for Bethany, it could've been all three, given her situation. "I should been able to avoid being tainted. Everyone else did. Why couldn't I?" Her gaze shifted to Malcolm, imploring. Begging for an answer he couldn't give.

"It could be it wasn't meant to be prevented. Maker's will and such." He shrugged, thinking of the similarities between Bethany's becoming a Warden and Líadan's misadventure with a tainted mirror. "I don't know. You should talk to my—you should talk to Líadan." Definitely far to late for him to be up and awake if he almost slipped about his bonding. He clapped his hands on his thighs before standing up, a signal that the conversation had to come to a close. "Maybe tomorrow? She likes you, so she'd probably be okay talking about it. Or at least open to the possibility. That's if I don't wake her up when I go back to bed, which I should be doing right about now."

"I'll think about it," she said, eyes back on the letter as she kept to her seat.

As Malcolm reached the doorway, he caught sight of Thierry walking past it, half a loaf of bread in hand, and heading for the barracks.

Bethany had apparently noticed it as well. She stood, her frustration with her sister and the Wardens and pretty much everything that'd happened to her before finding a target in the former templar. "Why are you lurking outside the door?"

Thierry stopped and slowly turned around, eyes tired and resigned. "Tell me she isn't talking to me. I just want to eat my bread and go back to sleep."

"Templar, I don't require supervision."

Malcolm met Thierry's gaze. "It's you." He kept to himself his relief that it wasn't him she was angry with, and that Thierry's appearance had saved him from a really uncomfortable end to his conversation with Bethany.

Thierry sighed and trudged to the door where Malcolm stood, who then stepped aside to allow the former templar to walk fully into the library, where Bethany waited.

"Well?" she asked. "What were—"

For the first time since Malcolm had known him, Thierry lost his patience. His fingers broke through the crust of his bread as his hands tightened, the empty hand going so far as to form a fist. "I live here, too, you know!" he shouted at Bethany. "I'm a Warden, just as you are! I just have a different skill set, one that you happen to hate. I'm not following you or watching you or keeping track of you or guarding you or anything!"

"Then why are you up at this hour?" The accusation remained strong in Bethany's tone, and her hands had moved to rest on her hips.

Thierry held up his ruined bread. "I was hungry!" Then he paused before turning the conversation back on her. "Why are you?"

"Nightmares," said Malcolm, choosing to jump in before either of them could truly lose their tempers, "which I was going to appease with snacks." He pointed at Bethany. "She was brooding."

"It's called insomnia," said Bethany.

Malcolm squinted, as if thinking very hard. "Pretty sure those are spelled differently. And are also different things entirely."

She still frowned, but some of the tension in her body visibly eased, her arms relaxing and hands dropping from where they'd perched on her hips. "Insomnia led to brooding."

"Ah, okay. Happens to the best of us." He smiled at her, hoping to continue to ease the tension with humor, because a shouting match—and possibly magical attacks and holy smites—in the middle of the night would mean everyone would be up. "You should've met Nathaniel. He was a champion brooder. Seriously the best."

"And I," came Líadan's voice from the doorway, partly blocked by Thierry, "woke up because someone was missing from the bed. Oh, and there was shouting."

Malcolm didn't think Líadan sounded too perturbed, but he was fine with not being able to see her face right then to confirm, just in case. He remained where he stood, with Thierry's bulk breaking their line of sight. "I was going to bring you snacks, too," he said to her. "But they got eaten. Also, Thierry's feeling left out of the Warden bonding deal. You should be nicer to him. He might cry."

Then there was a door slam, and lumbering footsteps before Oghren could be heard asking, "Is it a sodding party out here?"

"It was," said Líadan. "Then you showed up, dwarf."

Thierry looked despondently at the remnant of bread in his hand, and then dragged his despondent look toward the hallway. Then he sighed and dropped into an empty chair, eyes still on his bread. Malcolm glanced at the last chunk of bread in his hand, decided he'd be fine with the cheese, and tossed the bread in Thierry's direction. He caught it easily, nodded a thank you, and tore into it.

Ah, new Wardens.

Malcolm gave him the cheese, too. He remembered that particular hunger.

With Thierry having moved out of the way, Líadan and Oghren moved into the library. Oghren made a show of searching the room before turning to Líadan. "You lie, elf. There's no ale. No ale, no party."

Líadan lifted her chin as she looked down her nose at him. "The Dalish don't need ale for their parties."

"Merrill did say they required wine, though," Bethany said quietly. "Or was that for frolicking?"

Malcolm's head snapped up to get confirmation from Líadan. "Frolicking? How did I not know about frolicking?"

"We don't frolic!" Líadan then frowned, seeming disappointed. "I didn't frolic." She turned to Bethany. "Merrill told you she frolicked?"

"Well, not me directly. She said it to Varric." Then it was Bethany's turn to frown. "Oh, I suppose she could've been having him on. It was always so hard to tell with her. She'd look at you with her huge, innocent eyes and say things that were at once scandalizing and yet naïve and entirely confusing if you thought about them for too long."

Líadan nodded, as if she knew exactly what Bethany was referring to. "Oh, she was having you on, if you thought her naïve. Her humor can be subtle, though, so I can see how it would appear otherwise."

Unimportant, at the moment, Malcolm decided. They had deviated from far more important matters. "Frolicking!"

"Aye," said Oghren. "I'd like to hear more about that and none of this sodding mage-templar business. You're both Wardens. So unless one of you mage-types gets all twisted and turned and mutates into an actual sodding abomination, no former templars should give a nug's arse what you do." Oghren gave a significant look to Bethany, and then followed up with the same look in Thierry's direction. "Right? Right. You look like you need a drink, Orlesian. You ever had dwarven ale? It'll put hair on your arse. Everyone needs a bit of hair on their arse."

"Maker," said Thierry.

Oghren chuckled as he fetched his flask from his beard. Then he extended it to Thierry. "Come on. You'll need a head start. I'll get you back to the barracks, and we can pretend the twitchy mages aren't so twitchy."

After giving the flask a dubious look, Thierry accepted it before standing up and following Oghren out of the room.

Malcolm had to admit he was impressed at how his friend had handled that situation. Right to the point, yes, and falling back on alcohol, yes, but he'd finished defusing everything, and had even managed to get former templar and touchy mage into different rooms. If Oghren didn't get into his cups so much, he would've been a fine commander either for the Denerim compound or even the Fereldan Wardens in Hildur's place. But Malcolm still couldn't bring himself to blame Oghren for the drinking. One, it helped his berserking. Two, the man had to help kill his own wife. A lifetime of drinking probably couldn't wipe away the memories and anguish of that. Malcolm had no idea how he'd react if he lost Líadan. And he couldn't even imagine what he'd do if he were forced to end her life.

"I'm going back to bed," said Líadan. She paused at the door and gave Malcolm an expectant look. "Are you coming with me?"

He started to nod, and then his stomach growled. With all his food sharing, he hadn't gotten enough to eat. "After another trip to the pantry, I'll be up."

She smiled at him, and he felt the familiar warmth spread in his chest that he was lucky enough to have her as his wife—and desperately hoped that nothing would take her away like had happened with Oghren's wife. "Make sure you bring enough to share," she said, and then left, her steps silent on the stone floor.

The morning of the Landsmeet found Malcolm bleary-eyed and stumbling from an empty bed. By he time he managed to get himself down to the dining hall, the only Wardens left were Líadan and Bethany. Malcolm was hungry, but the two of them seemed to be having an intense conversation, and he wasn't sure if it was one to be interrupted. Once he heard the topic, he was certain it shouldn't be interrupted. They were talking about how they'd become Grey Wardens, and both of their stories had a painful similarity: Grey Warden or death.

"I didn't choose, not exactly," said Bethany. "Well, my choice was either dying or being made a Warden. Not much of a choice, really."

"More than I had." Líadan's statement was said mildly, and she didn't even look up from stirring the Dalish tea Ariane and Panowen had gifted her with before they left.

Bethany's eyebrows drew together in confusion. "I'd heard your circumstances were the same as mine. You were tainted before the Joining, and you had to become a Warden to save your life?"

Líadan stopped stirring her tea, but elected to trace the rim of the mug with her finger instead of taking a sip of the steaming liquid. It was something Malcolm had watched her do when in deep thought. "I was tainted, yes, but I wasn't given the option of dying. I was kept alive, and then I was forced to join, very much against my will. Kicking and screaming, I was told. I did both. Made no difference. The choice for me to live wasn't my choice to make." She gave the other woman a rueful smile. "Took me a while to be grateful."

"My sister really wasn't going to let me die. She would have—no, she wouldn't. Wasn't a real choice, I don't think. She wouldn't have been the one... I don't..." Bethany trailed off, the darkness of her expression hard to read, as if she hovered somewhere between angry outrage and disbelief, and then there was a hint of another emotion Malcolm had trouble identifying. Before he could figure it out, Bethany was on her feet, muttering some sort of excuse, and stalking out of the room through the door opposite the one he stood in.

Líadan looked straight at him as soon as Bethany had gone, telling him she'd known he was there the whole time. He gave her a lopsided grin, and then sat down next to Bethany's abandoned chair, across from Líadan. After casting a glance where Bethany had disappeared, he said, "I have the feeling she really doesn't like her sister."

She stopped her mug halfway to her mouth to tell him, "She loves her sister. You need to pay more attention."

He started gathering food as fast as he could to keep from gaping at her, but knew he was doing so anyway. "It's times like this when I'm glad I never had a sister. I have no idea how that even makes a lick of sense. The things she says about her, how she goes on about her being the reason they were in the Deep Roads and why she had to become a Warden... I just don't understand how that could be construed as love."

"The reason why it makes her so angry, and why she's so conflicted, is because she loves her sister."

"If you say so." If he kept thinking about it, he was certain he'd go cross-eyed. Better to agree and move on rather than risk the consequences. He focused on eating as quickly as he could, instead.

"She's right," Nuala said from the doorway. "And just to remind you, the King and Queen did request you meet them in the King's study a half hour prior to the Landsmeet. You've five minutes to go before you're officially late."

Malcolm stood, resisting the urge to stuff extra bread in a pouch. He'd opted to wear his dwarven armor this morning instead of his Warden armor, because that was the armor he'd worn through the Blight and the civil war. It would serve to remind the Landsmeet of everything he'd done. At least, that's what Anora had advised him, and he hadn't disagreed. It also gave him an excellent excuse to wear armor to the Landsmeet. Alistair had also lent him Maric's sword to wear instead of Duncan's, as another reminder, that one for Malcolm being from the line of Calenhad, and that any issue from him would be of the same lineage.

Líadan was on her feet right after him, wearing her Warden leathers, but her stave left behind in their room. No need to remind the Landsmeet that she was a mage, not when she'd be first walking with Nuala and Cáel, and then representing the Grey Wardens in the actual Landsmeet proceedings. She did, however, carry her daggers. One also did not walk unarmed into the Landsmeet in Ferelden.

Armed, armored, and walking beside a mabari through the mud, that was the Fereldan way.