Chapter 36
Situation Normal

The rim of the cup touched her lips before it was snatched away, and Lyra gasped as the crimson liquid sloshed, splashing her skirt.

"Tsk tsk, Lyra," Anders chided. "You think to stop me from drinking, and yet here you are, tossing back wine like a lush. For shame. Double standards, much?"

Lyra's eyes pressed shut, her tongue digging into her teeth in an attempt to retain control. "Anders. You spilled. On my dress."

"Oh. Whoops." Anders contemplated the spreading stain, then lifted the cup. "Oh well. Close to the same color, right? I'll just take care of this for you. Wouldn't want anything to happen, after all." The chalice was emptied in seconds as Anders gulped it down.

"Fine," Lyra snapped, her irritation soaring. "If anyone needs me, I'll be attempting to blot red wine out of pink satin."

.oOo.

Alistair sagged with relief as Anders took the cup from Lyra, but a whole new wave of fear washed over him as the mage drank, the chalice shining as he emptied the bowl.

"Such a shame." Celene's plush mouth caressed his ear. "But this is the nature of the game, and the thing that makes it so fascinating. One can never be certain how a plan will come to fruition."

"This... your plan," he slurred, his mouth stuffed with cotton. "Kill - Lyra?"

Celene shrugged. "She is in the way. I care not if she dies or if you merely divorce her. One way or another, I intend to join Orlais to Ferelden. Marrying you is the simplest and cleanest. Think of it as... a merger. Ferelden will benefit from all that Orlais can give... do not tell me you are not struggling after the Blight. Crops are scarce, meat is short. Will you let your people starve, when I can supply grain and beef?"

Marry Celene? Impossible - never! His addled brain raged against the possibility. He'd married for love, not for politics. Even if the future of Ferelden had depended upon it...

Alistair squirmed within his own mind. In this case, the future of Ferelden very much did depend upon it. If he didn't do as Celene demanded, he would have two choices: let her kill Lyra and take Ferelden to war, or throw Celene out on her ass and then take Ferelden to war. Such threats could not stand... but then, Maker knew that historically speaking, nations had been destroyed over the love of a woman. Could he demand that of Ferelden - that they lay down their lives for the love he bore his queen?

But if he didn't marry Celene and he didn't stop her, Lyra would die. The baby would die. Everything he loved, destroyed in one fell swoop.

So... a compromise, then?

All of this flashed through Alistair's tense mind as he watched Anders, worrying, waiting for the poison to take effect. Lyra had stormed off, the mage returned to the small circle of friends... and nothing happened. The music continued, and the four of them clinked cups and sipped Oghren's ale, talking and laughing.

"Not - poison?" he managed. "Wine?"

A soft laugh tinkled from the Empress. "Do you think I would actually kill Ferelden's queen in such a public manner?" Her sweet breath ghosted over his neck. "I have no need of such...base methods. With a simple look, I could end your life - and Lyra's too. Death could be anywhere... a hidden archer from a balcony, the sheets of your bed drenched in killing vapors. I must admit, though, I am surprised her guards allowed her to receive a cup from someone unknown. Are your men so inexperienced?" She pouted. "It robs the game of a certain amount of... fun."

Alistair's stomach lurched, his mind racing. So this is what Zevran spoke of, why he'd insisted on each of them having personal protection. Fury at himself bubbled as he wondered why he hadn't taken the threat more seriously. Only now did he understand how easily their lives could be snuffed out, that not all threats came from swords upon the field of battle. How he wished he hadn't scoffed at the assassin. Who better to know what sort of lengths could be reached?

"Why, Empress Celene. How lovely you are," a smooth voice said. Through the haze that had become Alistair's vision, a dapper figure stepped up beside them. Was that... Nathaniel Howe? "King Alistair. Thank you for the invitation to tonight's revelry. You remember my wife, Alfstanna." On Nathaniel's arm, Bann Alfstanna nodded with an open smile, acknowledging them both. "I wonder if I might cut in?"

Celene's face did not falter, but before she could object, Nathaniel had pulled her away, and Alfstanna took Alistair's hands in her own. "I suppose that leaves you and me, King Alistair," Alfstanna said in a cheerful voice. "Though I'm not much of a dancer, I'm afraid."

Alistair swallowed, his thickened tongue clogging his mouth. "Poison," he choked out. "Empress-"

"I know," Alfstanna cut him off in a low voice. "Don't try and talk. Nate saw the whole thing. He's having a chat with Celene right now."

Nathaniel Howe was talking with Empress Celene? But... What next?

"See the ring he wears on his smallest finger?" Alfstanna whispered. "You should get one like it, Your Majesty... Nate could have one crafted for you. He presses a teeny button with his thumb, and a poison needle pokes through the crest. One scratch, and she'll drop like a drunken bronto."

"Kill her?" His mouth felt like he'd swallowed a spoonful of alum. Damn this sedative! Celene had been right, however - already the feeling was returning to his legs, and speech seemed a bit easier than it had a moment ago. He screwed his eyes shut, hoping to steady the wobbling room.

"No, just knock her out," Alfstanna reassured. "Though Maker knows those types of poisons do exist."

"Nathaniel - why?"

"He was a spy in Orlais, remember?" Alfstanna reminded him, one side of her mouth lifting in a quirky grin. "He's been keeping an eye on Celene all night... habit, I guess. A damned good one, in this case. Alistair, why don't you have guards?"

Alistair's eyes skimmed the room, taking in the household guards who stood around the perimeter, looking bored. They hadn't even noticed anything out of the ordinary. Zevran was right. "'Sposed to. Zevran - training."

"Ahh."

A passing servant wended through the crowd, bearing a tray of wine glasses. Alistair snagged one, praying not to spill it, thanking the Maker when his fingers closed around the cup and held their grip. The sweetness of the wine soothed his mouth, and after another few sips he almost felt normal again.

"She threatened Lyra," he managed in a low voice. "I thought she'd sent a poisoned cup over."

Alfstanna's brows lowered. "Why would she kill the queen?"

"She said she wants to marry me, and that Lyra was in the way."

A stifled gasp left Alfstanna's lips. "She wants to take over Ferelden."

"A merger, actually - that's what she said." Pressure pounded between Alistair's ears. What in Thedas was he supposed to do about this? War with Orlais was the very last thing Ferelden needed now - they were weak, and Celene knew it.

"Because of Cailan, right?" Alfstanna swore under her breath. "Would that he'd never made that deal with Celene... she feels slighted because with her marriage to Cailan Ferelden would have fallen neatly into her lap, and she isn't willing to let it go. Not after they held us for a hundred years."

Alfstanna was one of the only people in Ferelden - other than himself, Lyra, Nathaniel, and Arl Eamon - who'd been privy to Cailan's plans. The letters they'd found in Ostagar were in a trunk in Alistair's room. He tried to recall just what they'd said... Something about a permanent alliance, not a take-over.

"Alfstanna-"

"She's got another thing coming," Alfstanna hissed. "Ferelden will not bow! We beat them before, we can do it again!"

"Yes, we beat them back, after an age of occupation. She said alliance," Alistair emphasized. "And Ferelden could use it."

"Alistair..." Alfstanna peered up at him, her fingers tightening over his. They hadn't really been dancing, but now all pretense of movement stopped completely. "You're not actually considering this."

Alistair sighed, his headache spreading. Why were these decisions constantly thrust upon him? Why had he ever taken the throne? "I dunno, I need to think. To discuss. Will you and Nathaniel consent to advise me on this? If possible, I need to meet with more than a few people before I know how to go forward."

"How can you even think of marrying Celene?!" Alfstanna whispered furiously. "What about Lyra? Maker's tits, Alistair, she's carrying your heir!"

"She's going to die in a few years," Alistair bit out, his heart twisting. "And I might die, too. It's the Taint, and the Blight - Wardens don't have long lifespans. We really don't know. Maybe - maybe if I can get Celene to wait..."

Alfstanna's face was ashen, her lips parted in shock. "You and Lyra won't be here? Maker's breath... but what will happen to Ferelden if the two of you are gone?"

"Exactly," Alistair said in a grim voice. "Wouldn't a guarantee of peace be better than the chance of war? At least our child could grow up and inherit the throne, and with Celene on our side, Ferelden won't lack for help."

Alfstanna took a deep breath, her eyes hopeless. "This puts a whole new spin on things."

"Yup."

The music ended then, and all around them dancers parted, laughing and talking, unaware that the fate of Ferelden was being decided beneath their very noses.

"Here they come," Alfstanna murmured. "Faces neutral."

Nathaniel and Celene strolled over, her hand draped over his arm. "Your husband is a marvelous dancer, Lady Alfstanna," Celene purred. "Your Majesty, perhaps we should continue our discussion at another time. Say, tomorrow, before I depart for Val Royeaux?"

Alistair swallowed, then took her hand. "I look forward to it." Bending at the waist, he brushed his lips over her glove. The errant thought that it, too, was doused in some sort of poison flashed through his paranoid mind, but Celene merely bestowed a benevolent smile upon him before she floated away through the crowd.

"I stalled her for now, and I'll fill you in later. Where's Lyra?" Nathaniel demanded in a low voice.

"She went through those doors." Irrational fear gripped Alistair, and the three of them dashed from the room.

.oOo.

A sprawling chamber had been reserved for the ladies just off the ballroom, and it was here that Lyra took herself to repair the damage done to her dress. What a clod Anders was! And that comment about being a lush... Lyra seethed. A few sips of wine was different than a tankard of dwarf-brewed hangover-in-a-jar. Hoping to blow off a bit of steam, Lyra surveyed the room, frustrated to discover a few other women seated throughout, gossipping and laughing. Regretful. She'd have liked to have a minor tantrum, scream into a pillow, beat the back of a couch senseless...

Drawing a calming breath, she nodded hello to those who stood and bowed to her, then allowed an elven servant to lead her to a chair, leaning back against the seat as the girl fetched a rag and a basin of water. Deep breaths helped, and after a few minutes Lyra's anger had dissolved into depressed acceptance. So this was adulthood. When Bann Alfstanna tore into the room a few moments later, Lyra's heart sank further. What now?

"Queen Lyra," she breathed, relief spreading over her face. She hurried over, dropping into a deep curtsey. "I've been sent to find you. Your husband requests your presence."

"Certainly, Bann Alfstanna. But my dress-"

"Surely that can be seen to later?" Alfstanna's eyes were strained, and Lyra's annoyance evaporated. What could have possibly happened in the few moments since she'd left the ballroom?

The second she crossed through the salon doors, Alistair's hands gripped her shoulders, his eyes scanning her with thorough intensity. It was a bit frightening, truth be told. "Alistair..." she murmured, raising a hand to touch his face. "What is it?"

"We... well," Alistair hesitated, his eyes sliding to Nathaniel.

"We had a tip, m'lady," Nathaniel took over for him. "An assassin within the palace. We were afraid for you."

"Oh, Makers' ass," Lyra groaned. "Didn't we check weapons at the door? There shouldn't be a blade in that room!"

"Poisons are easily hidden," Nathaniel returned crisply. "And Alistair himself had a brush with reality not moments ago."

Fear iced Lyra's heart. "What happened?" Her eyes flew to Alistair's face, and now she inspected him, running her eyes over every inch of him in an attempt to calm her panic. Clothing in place, hair unmussed - no blood, no rips or tears, but Nathaniel had said... "Poison? Are you alright?"

"Uh..." Alistair flushed. "Can I tell you later?"

"No," Lyra exclaimed, incredulous. "Tell me now!"

Alistair's eyes flew to Nathaniel's, but the nobleman shrugged. "Tell her, Alistair."

He cleared his throat. "Right. See... Celene kissed me."

"What! What in the sodding void?!" Anger filmed Lyra's vision. "The Empress of Orlais kissed you? How many women do I need to kill before everyone realizes you don't belong to anyone but me!"

"What do you mean, how many women?" Alistair frowned. "Celene's the only one who's kissed me besides you-"

"Nothing, just - forget I said that." Berating herself, Lyra clasped Alistair's hand and pressed it to her cheek. Her plans for Morrigan were unformed as yet, though the idea that Morrigan's death had been in her mind at all was shocking. I wasn't going to kill her, she thought, a bit uncomfortable with herself. What else was her subconscious mind playing at? "So, she kissed you. But you said poison?"

"She wore a gloss on her lips that made Alistair woozy and paralyzed him for several minutes," Nathaniel finished for him. "I saw the whole thing; Alistair was taken by surprise. I've seen it before, though usually it's used by female pickpockets on the streets of Val Royeaux. The victim can't move or speak, and the thief gets away before anything can be done to stop them."

"How Orlesian," she said in a dry voice. Fishing in her bodice, Lyra withdrew a handkerchief and wiped it over Alistair's mouth, using her thumb to clean any last trace of the serum away. "You won't be knocking me out later."

The corner of Alistair's mouth quirked, the unspoken thought transmitting itself through his amber eyes.

"No matter how much fun it would be." Lyra pressed a confident kiss to his lips, covering her apprehension - her knees weakening with relief when she didn't pass out. "So, what now?"

"We stay together for the rest of the night," Nathaniel said. "Don't eat anything, don't drink anything, and we keep alert. Once the ball is over, I can help you with security measures, though to be honest I'm a bit surprised at your lack of guards."

"We didn't think it was necessary," Alistair mumbled, his eyes bleak. "Zevran's been training some for us, but... he's busy tonight."

"And Leliana's not here yet," Lyra finished. Remembering her worries of before, she turned her gaze back on Alistair. "Shouldn't she be here by now? Do you suppose something's happened in the Alienage?"

"Right, because that's all we'd need," Alistair sighed. "Let's not jump at shadows. Give it some time."

Lyra nodded, tamping back the worry that blossomed in her gut. Something occurred to her then. "Alistair, why did Celene knock you out? Did she mean to kill you?"

Alistair hesitated again.

Lyra's eyes narrowed. "What aren't you telling me?'

Her husband's eyes darted. "It was a power play," he blurted at last, his eyes wide. "She wanted to prove to me that she could do anything she wanted, that if I didn't listen to her proposal that something bad could happen."

"Her proposal? Which was?"

"Uh... She said we'd talk about it tomorrow," Alistair finished, his tone pleading. "That was when Nathaniel showed up and saved me."

Lyra's thoughts galloped, her logical mind combing through the possibilities. What could Orlais want of Ferelden? I never should have sent her that invitation, she cursed to herself.

"For now, let's just get back," Alfstanna urged, her eyes flicking between the monarchs. "Your absence will be noted, and it's best that everything look normal."

Lyra nodded, tucking her hand into the crook of Alistair's arm. They would dance, laugh, socialize, act like nothing was wrong, and then tomorrow this little Orlesian issue would be all cleared up. And after that, she would tackle the problem of Morrigan.

And Alistair would never need to know.

.oOo.

Lyra never needs to know, Alistair thought as he twirled her around the floor. I can make the arrangements with Celene for our marriage - maybe send a diplomat back to Orlais with her, someone who'll reassure her that I intend to keep my word. The baby can be born, we can have a last few years together... and then Ferelden will never have to worry about invasion from Orlais, or anyone else, likely. With Orlais' army at their beck and call, Ferelden would be stronger than ever. Their little nation wasn't the smallest in Thedas, but it wasn't the biggest, either, and Tevinter, Nevarra, the Free Marches - any of them could be a threat. But with Orlais in their pocket...

Eamon would be supportive, Alistair thought, agonizing over the decision. Though out of everyone in the older generation, he's probably the only one... Orlesian hatred still runs deep. No wonder Cailan didn't tell many people. I bet Teagan would understand, though.

Teagan!

His eyes lit on his uncle where he stood at the side of the room, speaking with Prince Eumann Vael of Starkhaven. Teagan was a fine diplomat, and his little bannorn of Rainesfere practically ran itself. As Alistair's uncle, he would be the perfect person to send to Orlais to keep Celene happy.

If she'll wait, Alistair thought. All of this hinges on Celene being willing to delay things for a few years.

Lyra rested her head against his shoulder, and from across the room the Empress' eyes bored into his. One blonde eyebrow arched, her keen eyes observing the way he held Lyra close. Alistair tensed, resisting the urge to search the shadows for hidden assassins. Celene's mouth curved, a satisfied smirk teasing the corners of her lips, and Alistair purposefully turned away.

Who does this? Alistair thought, sickened at the clear way Celene was playing with him. Who threatens to kill a nation's queen - in a public place - on the heels of a marriage proposal to its king?

A woman who's never made a losing move, he answered himself. She's a master player of "the game" - that much is obvious. Nathaniel can tell me more. His own survival might soon depend on it. And Lyra's.

For now, though, all he wanted was to hold his wife close. Time enough for more political intrigue on the morrow. This was already more than he felt he could handle. Sighing, Alistair leaned his cheek on Lyra's hair, cuddling her closer. She was so soft, her rounded figure precious in his embrace. The idea of being married to anyone else...

Morrigan's face crept through his thoughts.

Irritation coursed through him. Andraste's lacy panties! NO ONE ELSE!

The thought startled and fled.

Alistair blinked in surprise. It was almost as if the thought had come from... elsewhere? How did one frighten a thought?

A ripple of excitement at the edge of the ballroom stole his attention, his head lifting from Lyra's as he tried to identify the disturbance. Sergeant Kylon of the city guard - though he'd stopped at the door, and Eamon had intercepted him...

"What's going on?" Lyra murmured, having apparently seen the same signs of disruption. Her fingers closed with his, and they left the floor, crossing to Eamon and Kylon.

A few guards stood at attention behind Kylon, whose voice was low as they hurried over. "-why I brought it to you directly. Especially considering one of the parties involved is a friend of theirs."

"I understand," Eamon said, his voice grim. "Ah, Alistair, Lyra. Perhaps we should take this conversation elsewhere."

"What's going on, Kylon?" Lyra's hand tightened around his. "It's the Alienage, isn't it? Is Leliana..."

"Leliana, the bard? I... don't know, my lady," Kylon said, confused. "But there has been an incident. Not in the Alienage, precisely, but with an elf."

"We should really move this elsewhere-" Eamon began, but Isolde chose that moment to pass by and take interest in what was happening.

"Eamon?" she questioned, her fine eyebrows drawing together. "Is something wrong? Why are you leaving?"

"It's nothing, Isolde," Eamon said, his voice sounding tired. "Just a problem with the elves. We'll be back shortly. Alistair, Lyra, follow me."

Eamon led them to the monarch's office and shut the door, allowing Kylon to begin an official report.

"The guard received word about an hour ago that there was a disturbance at Arl Urien's estate. When my men arrived, they found a bloodbath... they called me in at that point to oversee everything. Arl Urien is dead - murdered in his bed. His son Vaughan is dead as well, and several other young men; friends of his I assume. The culprit is a young elven woman by the name of Kallian Tabris."

Lyra gasped, her hand gripping Alistair's. "Kallian Tabris?" Her eyes flew to lock with his. Kallian Tabris, the elvehn lass Zevran had fallen in love with, the one he'd made plans to run away from Denerim with. And now - murder?

"Yes, m'lady. She claims it was self defense, that Vaughan Kendalls kidnapped her and the other women we found in the home with her, but her story doesn't hold water. As I mentioned, Arl Urien was found in his bed, stabbed to death - clearly, he was sleeping, and the girl snuck in and murdered him, probably as some sort of a political move. I would wager money that she was discovered by Vaughan and his friends, and that she cut them down before they could stop her. Aside from the women, there were a few other elves there as well - Soris Tabris, and your friend Zevran Arainai."

Alistair's heart sank. What had Zevran gotten himself into?

"All three of them are in custody now, though Kallian insists that she was the only one who did any killing. Soris has said nothing, but Zevran..." Kylon shook his head. "Zevran had to be restrained, and eventually we had to use force. When Kallian said she'd killed Vaughan, he went berserk, claiming the blame for himself in what I would guess is some noble attempt to save her. He even fought my guards when they tried to arrest her. I'm afraid he'll have a mighty headache when he wakes."

Lyra's eyes had gone wide, her fingers curling around Alistair's in a death-grip. "Where are they now?"

"At Fort Drakon, my lady, in the cells. I will deliver a full report tomorrow, but for tonight, I thought you should know immediately."

"Thank you, Sergeant Kylon," Alistair said, and Kylon bowed and left the room. "What do you think, Lyra - should we go?"

"You can't." Eamon's tone brooked no nonsense. "Alistair, I know Zevran is your friend, but you have a roomful of nobility in there who don't need to know about this yet. Think, lad. You've only just changed the laws to allow the elves to carry weapons. This... incident... hardly puts that decision in a good light."

Alistair groaned. Maker save him, he'd forgotten about that! Only days since the law had been changed, and now a noble murder at elvehn hands. Definitely not good.

"The best thing you can do now is go back in that room," Eamon said firmly. "Tomorrow, Kylon will make a full report, and this can be handled quietly. Urien was ill; I wasn't surprised when he didn't show up this evening, and no one else will be, either. In a few days, we can release the news, and the law can be changed back. Perhaps we can even spin the idea that it was meant to be a probationary period, and the elves clearly couldn't handle it."

"That's hardly fair," Lyra argued. "Kallian claimed self defense. How do you know she was lying? Vaughan had a history of harassing the elves - who's to say he wasn't the instigator? Why are the elves at fault here?"

Eamon's mouth thinned as he pressed his lips together, his eyes turning to granite. "After such an incident, you would actually think of allowing the elves to retain the right to carry weapons?"

"Even if she did it, Kallian is the one to blame - not the elves as a race," Alistair agreed. "The law stands, Eamon. I'm not changing that decision."

Eamon's eyes closed, an exasperated breath leaving his nostrils. "And the political fallout - how do you intend to deal with that?"

"Uh... Tell them the truth?"

At his side, Lyra nodded, and Alistair sat up a bit straighter, his off-the-cuff answer seeming not so silly now.

Eamon looked away, a sort of hopelessness settling onto his face. His back slumped against the chair, his hands rising to scrub his face. "Maker save me from the antics of young fools. This is suicide, Alistair. I cannot condone this decision. If you do this, you may lose the throne."

"Then maybe I'm not meant to be king, Eamon," Alistair shot back in a defeated voice. "Maybe the politicking and the stress and the constant decision making has completely boggled my brain, and you'd be better off just leaving Denerim to let me drown. Because Maker knows it would be easier for you not to be my regent - if I'm making the messes, I ought to be the one cleaning them up, right?"

"That isn't what I'm saying-"

"Then what are you saying, Eamon?" Alistair scowled at his regent. "Frankly, I'm tired of the lecturing and the not-believing-in-me. You said once you thought I was doing well. Haven't Idone well? Everyone makes mistakes - am I not entitled to a few?"

"You're no longer a boy doing sums. This is the country we're talking about," Eamon stressed. "You're the king. One wrong decision could doom your people to starvation or war. I'm trying to prevent both!"

Alistair sighed, palming his eyelids against the dull ache gathering behind them. "I just think the man who's my regent should be more supportive of me. Lately all you've done is tell me I'm crazy. I don't know if I can work with someone like that."

Eamon's brow lifted, shock coloring his gaze. "Are you dismissing me from your service?"

Alistair paused. Was he?

Could he do this without Eamon?

The last few months flashed through his mind - the honeymoon, the decisions he'd had to make, how things seemed only to be getting harder, not easier. Eamon had done much to smooth the way for him, had taught him an impossible amount in only a few months. But on the other hand, so had Lyra, and she'd been encouraging and supportive while doing it. She'd stood by every decision, talked with him for hours over the risks and ramifications, held his hand while he wrestled with conundrum after conundrum. What had Eamon done, except told him he wasn't doing well, that he needed to be more staid, less risky, to hold the throne rather than use it to improve Ferelden.

"Are you going to get on board with me, or fight me at every turn?" Alistair countered. "Because right now you're not really in my service, Eamon. You're against my service."

The arl gave an incredulous laugh, as though he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. "Lyra," Eamon reasoned, turning to address the queen. "Surely you see where I'm coming from on this. Think of your parents - would they advise this path? Alistair has a good heart, but he's too idealistic! His upbringing hasn't prepared him for this life! That was one reason I wanted him to marry you. Because yours did. You know how things work... If anyone can make him see reason, it's you. Tell him."

Alistair held his breath as he faced his wife. She'd always been quiet during his sessions with Eamon, and now Alistair wondered why. Eamon was right - she had the training, he didn't. He'd been learning, but her years of governing experience couldn't compare with the scant months he'd been struggling along. Why hadn't she been taking more of an active role?

Lyra's eyes cast downward, her fingers working the fabric of her skirt as she pondered. "As I recall, Eamon," Lyra said in a low voice. "You didn't want Alistair to marry me."

"What? Of course I did," Eamon huffed. "The Cousland family is a fine old line, and you were the most suitable one for Alistair to marry. I merely wanted to be certain you could produce an heir before he made that commitment. The Theirin line must be continued. You know how important that is!"

"Indeed," Lyra said, seeming thoughtful. "As a woman, it's the most important thing I can do for the throne."

"A job only a woman can do," Eamon agreed.

"However..." Lyra paused, one hand resting on her belly. "If I hadn't been able to give him an heir, my political ties and capabilities would have meant nothing. Am I right? No matter how much power and influence the Cousland line could have lent Alistair - without a child, I was useless to him."

Eamon shifted, looking uncomfortable. "Alistair requires a partner who can do both. Provide him with children, and advise him."

"And yet you never address me in these talks. Not until it's time to convince Alistair of something..." Lyra's mouth twitched, her amusement almost masked - almost. "So, if I'm just a breeding woman, why would I advise him on anything? I think my husband has a fine grasp on the situation, and if he sees fit to dismiss you from his service, then I certainly won't question that decision. I'm simply his wife, after all."

Eamon sputtered.

"Please, Eamon, enjoy the rest of the ball," Alistair said, unable to prevent the gleeful grin that broadened his mouth. "No decision needs to be made yet. You've done well as my regent, after all. We can discuss your eventual exit from Denerim on the morrow, and you would be welcome to visit at any time. Your service as my regent has been most appreciated, but the people of Redcliffe need you as well. It would be unfair for us to keep you here at the capitol longer than you were needed."

Eamon surveyed them both, his face arranged in a careful expression, then gave a stiff nod. "With your permission, Your Majesty."

Alistair waved him out, and as soon as the door clicked shut he turned to Lyra with a delighted grin. "You amazing woman."

"That ought to teach Eamon to manipulate me politically," Lyra chuckled. "He's being an awful stick in the mud, isn't he?"

"Do you think he's right?"

Lyra lifted her pinkie finger to her mouth and bit down on her fingernail. "I don't know," she admitted around the finger. "It's a bad situation. If it weren't for the ball, I'd say we leave for Fort Drakon now and find out exactly what happened from Kallian herself."

"Why can't we do that again?"

"Because we're sort of the hosts?" Lyra giggled, then leaned over to slide her arms around his waist. "I think I'll hand Satinalia off to Isolde. I wouldn't mind visiting Redcliffe once a year for a party like this." She nestled into him, and Alistair's eyes slipped shut as he savored the feel of his wife in his arms. Dropping a kiss on the top of her head, he rested his cheek on her hair, hands caressing over her back.

They lingered in the empty room a few more moments before braving the ballroom once more. Perhaps if they'd been quicker, the scene they walked into would never have occurred. Or maybe they should have followed Alistair's first instinct, and simply gone to Fort Drakon - Alistair was never certain. Perhaps the whole incident could have been prevented. Or perhaps not.

Pandemonium met their eyes and ears. Shouting and squabbling echoed from the high ceilings - King Endrin had climbed atop a chair to bellow in Bann Franderel's face, Lanaya of the Dalish had her hands planted upon her hips as she hissed at Arl Bryland, and a group of nobility had surrounded Valendrian, who'd been backed into a corner with Fiona and Larkin. Fiona had taken a protective stance before Valendrian, her chin upthrust in defiance. At her side was Pascal, his face red with fury as he shouted back at the ones who dared to browbeat his fellow Wardens.

"Maker's holy ass, what in the void..." Alistair whispered. Eyes darting, he lit upon a solution, and grabbing Lyra's hand, he shoved his way through the crowd to one of the pages who stood along the wall. A shining trumpet hung around the lad's neck, and half a heartbeat later a bright blast of sound pealed through the chamber.

The arguing died a slow death, and Alistair gestured for the boy to blow his horn once more. Another tuneless shriek of the trumpet, and the nobility shut up, realizing their king had gone to desperate lengths to gain their attention.

"Enough!" Alistair roared over the fading din. "What in blazes is going on in here?"

"The elves have killed Arl Urien and Vaughan Kendalls!" a female voice cried.

"Maker-cursed knife-ears!"

"Alienage scum!"

"You have no proof of that!" Lanaya shrilled back. "Harel shemlen! A man lies dead, a girl is accused - it means nothing!"

"Not a week ago King Alistair changed the law," a male voice called through the crowd. "And this is how the elves show their gratitude!"

"Nothing is known yet," Alistair shouted, attempting to calm the voices that rumbled in displeasure. "More information is needed. Sergeant Kylon of the city guard will be making a full report for me on the morrow-"

"They don't deserve the Hinterlands," a nasty female declared. "The Maker cast them out of his favor! They don't even worship Him properly - there's a reason elves are doomed to wander!"

"The Hinterlands were a gift," Alistair returned in a hard voice. "And the Dalish are hardly at fault here."

"Are all humans so mad?" Endrin exclaimed in an incredulous voice. "What makes you think you're so much better than anyone else - Ancestors save me. I hardly think I want such insanity in my city, King Alistair!"

"And I don't want their trees on my land!" another voice declared.

"The Blight has ravaged Ferelden, and the Vhenadahl have healing properties-" Lyra said desperately.

"Heal this!" a final insane voice shrieked, and a blade flashed. Lanaya's guardians tackled the young upstart, Alistair shouted for guards, and the ball dissolved into chaos.