"Then the ptarmigan spoke up, and offered to find the god-chief's heart. The other birds laughed, for the ptarmigan is a tiny bird, too humble to soar, which spends half its time hopping on the ground. The Lady would not give the little creature her blessing, for the mountains were too fierce even for eagles, but the ptarmigan set out anyway.

The little bird traveled deep into the Frostbacks. When she could not fly, she crawled. She hugged the ground and weathered the worst mountain winds, and so made her lonely way to the valley where the heart beat. With all the god's terrible deeds, the heart was far too heavy for the tiny bird to carry, so she rolled it, little by little, out of the valley and down a cliff, and when the golden cask struck the earth, it shattered. The heart was full almost to bursting, and the pain of it roused the mountain god to come see what had happened.

When Korth neared his heart, it leapt back into his chest and he was whole again. Then Hakkon Wintersbreath bound Korth's chest with three bands of iron and three bands of ice, so it could never again escape. And all the remaining gods named the ptarmigan honored above even the loftiest eagles."

—from The Ptarmigan: An Avvar Tale

Chapter 36

Malcolm

As he squinted up at the sheer rock walls decorated with sparking rivulets of ice on either side of them, Malcolm's stomach growled. He smiled, remembering what he'd tucked away early that morning at their third camp in the mountains and fetched it from his side pouch. Then he happily gnawed away on the thick chunk of hard cheese he'd saved for a mid-morning snack. They'd consumed the last of the cheese that morning, aside from this last piece. Their supply, having not been planned for the addition of the king, had dwindled, and then disappeared with frightening speed.

"You're eating cheese," came Alistair's incredulous voice from next to him.

Since his brother's comment merely stated the obvious, Malcolm didn't bother to answer. Instead, he merely continued their hike up the narrowing path on the mountainside. Then he caught a flicker of movement at the corner of his vision as Alistair tried to snatch the cheese. Malcolm quickly jumped out of Alistair's reach and held the food as far away as he could. "It's mine," he informed his brother. "I'm the one who saved it from breakfast. You can't have it."

Alistair's gaze became as incredulous as his original inquiry had been. "What, you can't share? What kind of brother are you?"

"The kind who saves his food if he wants a snack later, that's what kind. I'm not sharing. You could've saved your own, you know. Now, off with you. Let me enjoy my snack in peace."

A scowl formed on the king's face as he made another move for the cheese. Malcolm dodged out of the way, cheese safely out of his brother's reach. "You're a horrible person," Alistair said, staring sadly after him.

"Try to take my food again and I will stab you in the face, king or no," Malcolm told him.

"You would commit high treason and fratricide over a piece of cheese?"

"Cheese is worth it. Especially when there isn't any more to be had."

"By the Creators!" Velanna exclaimed from behind the pair. "It's like being with children! Three days straight of this kind of behavior. Are they always like this?"

"Aye," said Oghren.

"How do you stand it, dwarf?"

Malcolm glanced over his shoulder just in time to see Oghren lift a flask in Velanna's direction, grin, and take a slug. "Ale. Want some? I'm willing to share. No strings attached."

Velanna's hand actually seemed to drift slowly towards the flask. Malcolm felt his eyes go wide in disbelief, that the elf would dare to try the ale, considering what mouth had been on that flask.

Alistair took the moment's distraction to grab the remaining cheese from Malcolm's fingers and run ahead of them on the trail, laughing with glee. "You!" Malcolm shouted, and ran after him. Behind him, Velanna muttered what he was certain was a curse in Elvish, and then in Fereldan she said to Oghren she'd try anything at this point and to hand over the flask.

Since he was wearing lighter armor, Malcolm managed to catch up to his brother, and without a moment's hesitation, tackled him. The cheese went flying from Alistair's hand when the two armored men hit the ground. They pushed and punched at each other as they tried to scrabble to where the hunk of cheese had landed.

A pair booted feet appeared in Malcolm's field of vision. "Oh, hey. Cheese! I thought we saw the last of it this morning!" a voice said brightly. Then Líadan's graceful fingers picked it up and popped it into her mouth. As she chewed, she gave the brothers a quizzical look. "Why are you rolling around on the ground?" Then her mind seemed to remember the past few days and she held up her hand as she swallowed her food. "Nevermind. I don't want to know. Just get up. Nathaniel and I found something interesting up ahead. Could be the Creators-damned entrance, which would be great. About a thirty minute hike from here." She made a face. "I liked the downhill much better. That was just ten. And had cheese at the end."

Glaring first at Líadan, and then at each other, Malcolm and Alistair slowly got to their feet and brushed the trail's dirt off themselves.

Four days ago, they had left Gunnar with the Highever soldiers at the camp in the foothills, as the mabari could sense the approach of darkspawn as well as any Grey Warden. With a lot of whining and barking, Gunnar had expressed his displeasure at being ordered to stay behind without a single one of the people he normally protected with his life, but eventually capitulated after promises of many treats from the soldiers. Malcolm knew the dog really understood what was going on, and not for the first time, felt incredibly grateful for the astounding intelligence of the mabari. The soldiers were also left with explicit instructions not to run and tell Arl Eamon about Alistair's whereabouts. However, Malcolm did tell them, out of Alistair's earshot, that if someone wanted to let Fergus know, that would be acceptable. It really didn't matter how they found out, though. What mattered was that when they did, they would be livid, both Fergus and Eamon. The teyrn would be more angry about having to deal with a surly Eamon for however long this mission took the Wardens, Malcolm knew. Eamon, though, he wasn't sure about. Recalling the arl's words when they'd discussed the idea of Alistair accompanying them to Drake's Fall, Malcolm wondered if Eamon really would resign. Part of him hoped the arl would, but the other wasn't sure who they could replace Eamon with. Alistair needed a chancellor and Malcolm certainly couldn't do it, not with all the Warden—and Morrigan—responsibilities he had. Teagan, maybe, but he was notoriously apolitical. Fergus had too many responsibilities with Highever and Malcolm still wanted to try and put forth that restructuring of Amaranthine that would revert most of it back to the teyrnir.

Then Malcolm thought of someone and he nearly burst into laughter. Anora. She'd do well, he thought, if she wouldn't be trying to take the throne while doing the job. Most likely, it was a horrible idea despite Anora's skills, but the thought of her being chancellor tickled him. Probably because it would be a fantastic way to get even with Alistair for this stunt of his in coming with them to the mountains and possibly forcing Eamon to resign before they knew who would be a suitable replacement—and amenable to the appointment.

"Out of curiosity," said Líadan, "whose cheese was it?"

Malcolm fired another glare at his brother. "Mine. Except Alistair decided to be a royal bastard."

"Came up with that one all on your own, did you?" asked Alistair.

"I hate you. You are not my favorite brother right now."

Alistair annoyed Malcolm further by chuckling. "See? It's just like old times! Want to yell at me? You haven't started the yelling yet. I must be getting rusty."

"Are you sure they weren't raised together?" Anders asked Nathaniel.

"Positive. Alistair was raised mostly in the Chantry. I can't imagine how much worse it would be if they'd grown up together." Nathaniel chuckled softly. "They're already worse than I was with my own brother and sister."

"You have a sister?" Velanna asked.

Nathaniel gave her a curious look. "My lady, you were there when I met her for the first time since I'd gotten back from the Free Marches. Previous to seeing her in Amaranthine a few days ago, I had thought she was dead. I never grew used to the idea that I no longer had a sister. I was obviously relieved to find her and one would think it would've been noticeable." Then a small, fond smile appeared on his face. "Though, now that I think about it, I'm not sure why I feel so compelled to be nice to her. When we were children, she put beetles in my blankets. She would laugh to hear me shriek."

Malcolm suppressed his own laughter, realizing that what Nathaniel had just said was probably the longest string of sentences he'd uttered at once since being made a Grey Warden.

Alistair rubbed at the scruff on his chin. "Beetles, I hadn't thought of those."

"I'd try spiders first, if Malcolm's your target," Líadan told him.

"Seranni liked to put sap in my hair," said Velanna, surprisingly joining in on the sibling memories. "She also pushed me into an icy river. Twice."

Anders gave Velanna a mock-surprised look. "I can't imagine why she would do such a thing."

She ignored the jibe. "Why did I want to rescue her, again?"

"Siblings are like that," Malcolm said with a sigh. "Blood or adopted, doesn't matter. They just get under your skin and you find out that you're fond of them, even when you want to—"

"Stab them in the face?" Alistair offered. "Or yell at them?"

"I'm not going to yell at you," Malcolm replied very slowly, like he was speaking to a small child, and then he sighed. "That would only guarantee darkspawn showing up if this is truly anything like old times. Líadan mentioned that the other day, actually, that you and I never once finished an argument because we were always interrupted by random attacks from bandits or darkspawn or werewolves or assassins or... pretty much whatever you could think of."

Alistair shaded his eyes with his hand and studied the looming gap in the cliffs ahead of them. "Or you punched me."

Malcolm rolled his eyes. "I never punched you. I pushed you. Besides, you were the one who punched me."

His brother started to laugh again. "Wasn't that the fight where Morrigan petrified the both of us and asked if we needed to be sent to opposite corners of the camp, and then threatened to leave us petrified like that all night if we didn't behave?"

That incident, Malcolm remembered vividly. Morrigan had been the angriest he'd ever seen her, though it had been early in their endeavor to end the Blight, just a short time after Ostagar. Her fingers had drummed impatiently and in a most threatening manner on her staff and her eyes had changed to burn in a golden fire. "She was pretty pissed that we woke her up," he said. "She glared daggers at us for days afterward."

Alistair scoffed. "She always glared daggers at me. You were the one who eventually got the moony eyes and kissy faces."

And the regret made its return, prickling into Malcolm's heart. He tried to foist it off using humor. "Are you saying that you wanted moony eyes and kissy faces from Morrigan?"

The king let out a very unmanly squeak. "Maker, no!"

The regret refused to leave and expressed itself as bitter anger in Malcolm's unbidden words. "Then. Shut. Up."

An awkward silence fell over the group and stayed as they continued trudging toward the narrow gap in the cliffs. Líadan and Nathaniel had done most of the scouting for the past four days, Nathaniel using the skills he'd picked up in the Free Marches and Líadan her Dalish hunter abilities that she far preferred using to her magic. As much as she professed liking being a mage, she often talked about how she found a certain artistry and satisfaction in good fieldcraft. As Malcolm had no fieldcraft skills of which to speak, he took her word for it. The temperatures had dropped the further up the mountains they got, making all of them thankful at night for the thicker, warmth-enchanted tents they'd pulled from Highever's supplies. When they passed on the north side of one of the taller mountains that comprised Drake's Fall, Malcolm hadn't much liked the clouds he'd seen over the Waking Sea. They threatened snow and he didn't want to be caught in the higher elevations when the storm broke. It held off for now, but every flurry that crossed over made him nervous that it would be the herald of the larger storm in the holding pattern off the coast. In fact, the last flurry had petered out not even half an hour before he'd tried to have a snack. Before the flurry, there had been some footprints on the trail, but worn enough where neither scout could figure out if they were from a man or darkspawn. Even a detailed footprint would've been hard to decipher, given that darkspawn boots were pretty much the same as human boots. And for some soldiers, that similarity included the smell.

Then Alistair said, "You know, you ruled out yelling at me, but you didn't say you wouldn't stab me in the face."

"Must have slipped my mind," Malcolm replied, the tightness in his chest easing as the regret faded to stab him again unexpectedly at another time. The tension in the air faded just as the regret did. Malcolm realized it must've shown on his face, then, and the others had noticed. For someone raised in the nobility, he really was horrible at keeping a straight face. The only time he was good at it was when it was part of a joke, and even then it was difficult. Malcolm slowly stepped through the gap, wider than they'd thought before from further way. Líadan walked next to him, mentioning the ruins she and Nathaniel had noticed when they'd found the gap earlier.

"I think those might be Tevinter," she said, touching him on the shoulder before pointing in the direction of one of the large towers in the small clearing.

Malcolm stopped just beyond the gap and studied the tower closely, his breath coalescing in white puffs around his face in the cold mountain air. They did look Tevinter, the soaring, fluted construction reminding him strongly of Ostagar and Kinloch Hold, among other places. Inaccessible, though, at least for now. Talus from rockfalls off the cliffs surrounding the clearing had collected around the entire tower, covering any readily available entrances. Moss and lichen covered the rock fragments, spots of color peeking out from under ice and snow. That would make for very slick going should they attempt to find another entrance higher up on the tower. No, they definitely didn't have time for that now. In the late spring, though, they could return and do some proper exploration. His eyes swept over the clearing, noting a second tower on the opposite side, but just as covered as the first.

The entire place felt familiar. Ruined pillars, ancient era buildings in the Tevinter style constructed into the bedrock of a mountain located in a cirque hidden deep within remote mountains. All they needed was a high dragon and some crazy cultists, and perhaps some ashes, and they'd be ready to run the Gauntlet again. Malcolm's gaze immediately shifted to search the sky, just in case, because that would be their luck, after all. He squinted at the waning sun just above the cliffs. It would be dark soon, meaning they would probably end up camping in this cirque. It at least kept a little of the wind out and, for the moment, had no darkspawn.

"No dragon yet, thankfully," said Alistair, apparently having felt the same familiarity. "Though it really does remind me of that dragon-infested area in the Frostbacks, that's for sure."

"Yes, well, I don't really fancy fighting a high dragon, anyway." Malcolm returned his gaze to the clearing.

"Not unless you're trying to kill the mother of a woman you fancy," his brother replied. Since he'd been absent for many of the recent developments concerning Morrigan, he was oblivious to the undercurrent of frustration regarding the witch. His continued attempts at humor while invoking Morrigan's name only gave more evidence to the face of his obliviousness.

"Alistair, leave it," came a sharp reprimand from Líadan.

"Is that some sort of strange shemlen courting ritual I'm unaware of?" Velanna asked.

"What? No, no," Alistair said. "I was talking about Morrigan's mother. Which, now that I think about it, I shouldn't have brought up. But, I'll tell you this—"

Malcolm strode further into the clearing as Alistair told Velanna about Flemeth and her demise. Well, what they thought had been her demise, back then. No longer were they so sure that the ancient abomination was truly dead. Slowed, maybe, but probably not really dead. Right now he was just happy enough not to have to listen to the story again. The flurry from earlier that day had blanketed the area with a thin layer of fluffy white snow and it crunched underfoot as he walked. In the middle of the clearing was some sort of collapsed stone structure, apparently having fallen from the cliff face centuries ago, as the scar left on the cliff was worn by the weather. Malcolm brushed off some of the snow, studying the blocky lines of its construction, in direct contrast to the circular and arching lines of the Tevinter architecture. No, he thought as he revealed more of the structure, this had to be dwarven. His conjecture was confirmed when his efforts unveiled a stylized dwarven face. A statue, then, like they had near the gates of Orzammar, and ones found outside the abandoned thaigs in the Deep Roads.

"Dwarven," said Oghren. "Though I don't know how fine dwarven engineering could have collapsed after only a few centuries."

"Looks like it was probably more like a thousand years, not a few hundred," said Malcolm.

The dwarf gave the blocky statue a good kick. "Still no excuse, not when those pansy Tevinter towers are still standing. Dwarven stuff's built to stand forever."

"Maybe the missing dragon knocked down the dwarven statues out of spite, then." His eyes followed the cliff wall from where the statue had been to another talus slope nearby. But this slope had a large opening tunneled through it, gaping wide and black into the clearing. He rose and looked on the ground for more evidence of darkspawn passing through.

There it was. The newly fallen snow had drifted into the churned up frozen mud at the mouth of the opening. Clear signs of high traffic in the area fairly recently. Frowning in concentration, he walked over to the opening, reaching out to see what he could feel with the taint. There was a twinge, but an incredibly faint one. Whatever darkspawn were there, they were far away, or far below, depending. No danger at the moment, he knew that much. He shucked the pack from his back and leaned it up against some of the broken rocks outside the tunnel. If he was going to do any more investigating, he'd need a torch. As his hand closed around one, he heard a sound of amused disapproval from behind him.

He turned to find Líadan and Anders standing there with grins on their faces and the ends of their staffs brightly lit. "Torches are so last year," said Anders. "Seriously, you brought three mages with you and you still assume you need a torch?"

"I can't personally light a staff on my own," Malcolm replied, returning the unlit torch to his pack.

"Bet you could've lit that Antivan's," said Oghren. "Course, anyone could've."

Malcolm motioned for the mages to lead the way, and then said, "Not anyone. I doubt he would've had anything to do with you, Oghren."

"Good thing he didn't try anything or I might've had to hurt the swishy nug-licker."

Anders looked from Oghren to Malcolm and Líadan. "Who is he going on about?"

"Zevran," Líadan answered.

"He was Antivan," Malcolm said, as if that would explain everything, which it did.

"Bloody Antivans," muttered Oghren.

"Right." Anders didn't look entirely convinced, despite his words, but left the subject alone. "So what are we looking for, exactly? I mean, an entrance to the Deep Roads, yes. But how far in are we going?"

Malcolm shrugged. "I guess until we're sure it's the Deep Roads and we know there aren't many darkspawn around. Then we mark it and get back to the valley and get the dwarves Riordan hired. Not sure how they'll shut the entrance, exactly, but that's the general idea."

The mage poked his stave partway into the entrance and waved it around. "So should we really be going in there now, just before nightfall?"

"It isn't like it'll be any darker down there," said Oghren.

"Well, personally, I'd rather sleep up here over sleeping in the Deep Roads," said Anders.

"Were Oghren not a dwarf, you'd have a point," Malcolm said.

"Hey now, just because I'm a dwarf and I like normal things like having some sodding stone over your head instead that big open danger you surfacers call a sky, doesn't mean I like sleeping in the Deep Roads. Who do you think I am, Branka?"

"I don't recall your ex having a beard," said Líadan.

Oghren's eyes lit up under his bushy eyebrows at the opening and Malcolm spoke quickly to stop him from taking advantage. "Not one word," he told the dwarf. "I don't care if your insides implode and you die, you are not to go any further with that line of thought. Anyway, Anders does have a good point. We'll just have to make camp for the night and go exploring in the morning. We'll have to bring everything with us, though, because I'm not sure how long it'll take us down there to find the actual connection with the Deep Roads."

Líadan crossed her arms and dubiously studied the talus slope. "Or... we could just make another cave-in happen, not go in the Deep Roads at all, and call it a day."

"They'd just tunnel through again if we do it, and not the dwarves," said Malcolm. "And we do need to figure out if this is the entrance or not."

"Obviously it's an entrance to something," Velanna said, coming up behind them.

"Something ominous." Alistair stood with the other Wardens and peered at the opening for a moment. Then he asked Malcolm, "You feel it?"

Malcolm had wondered if anyone else had, since no one had mentioned it yet. "Yes. Just... twinges. Peripheral. Nowhere close, but the darkspawn are around-ish, somewhere down there."

"That is such a fantastic tactical appraisal," said Alistair. "There's enemies! Somewhere! Somewhere in the deep!" Then he frowned. "Unfortunately, that's as accurate as we can get right now. I can't feel anything beyond that, either."

Not bothering to answer his brother, Malcolm rolled his eyes, dug his tent out of his pack, and looked for a spot to pitch it. The others followed suit and they had a camp set up and a fire crackling cheerily in the middle of the clearing by the time full night fell. Nathaniel set traps at the gap to the mountainside and the entrance to the tunnel, with Velanna following him and setting wards. They'd keep watch, too, but having things that would slow down any sudden darkspawn appearances always came in handy. Even though he wanted to kill his brother, Alistair paired himself with him for the night watch, mostly because he didn't often get to see him and he figured he should take the opportunities he could. Even if he ended up committing fratricide. It came with the territory. Then to irritate Alistair and be nice to everyone else, he assigned himself and his brother midwatch. It was Anders' turn to sleep the night without watch, which left Malcolm to figuring out who would partner up with whom and have the lesser chance of a spectacular argument.

Nathaniel could quietly endure anyone, because pretty much all Nathaniel did was quietly endure. But if he assigned Oghren and Nathaniel together, then Líadan and Velanna would... no, that would be bad. He chuckled at the idea of Oghren and Velanna, but that had the possibility of being even worse. That left Nathaniel with Velanna and poor Líadan with Oghren. Then again, she could give the dwarf as good as she got, so it should turn out okay.

Or they'd wake up to a dead dwarf. But, if she hadn't killed Oghren by now, she probably never would. Same went for everyone they'd traveled with during the Blight. Well, except maybe Morrigan, but she was a hard case.

After they'd eaten the evening meal, Malcolm pulled out the map of Drake's Fall that he'd taken from Highever's library and marked where they'd found the cirque and the possible entrance. He really did want to have people come up here in the early summer, when weather was mostly reliably fair, to try and get into the Tevinter towers. The cold continued to sap at each person's reserve of bodily warmth and Malcolm huddled further and further into his woolen cloak. Eventually he gave up on the map and put it and the writing implements away before his fingers got frostbitten. While knowledge and exploration were important, he'd rather keep his hands intact. That idea in mind, he said good night and retreated to his warm tent and bedroll before he found himself climbing into the fire just to get out of the cold. Sleep stole him quickly.

Dragons fell from the sky. Throngs of people scattered, running in every direction as they tried to avoid the falling beasts. Some pitched forward into gaping maws cracking through the ground below, tumbling in just before a plummeting dragon. The beast's iridescent scales caught the last vestiges of sunlight as it twisted and writhed in an attempt to stop its fall. It made no matter and it—and the six others that had flown with it—plunged out of sight, into the dark depths. Screams echoed from the open pits as they closed up, cries for help in children's voices. As the last crack sealed closed, another dragon, its maroon scales dark against the bright sky, flew in tight, angry circles above the now-sealed ground. The cries from within fell silent, and the dragon shouted in rage, opening its great jaws and setting fire to everything below in its agony of helplessness. Another swoop, and then it transformed, its shape withdrawing and becoming smaller, growing feathers and a beak. It cawed as it arced across the sky. Then its head snapped up and its golden eyes saw him—

"Wake up, you nughumping son of a whore!"

"I'm awake!" said Malcolm. "Don't make me defend my mother's honor this late at night. It's way too cold to fight a duel."

"You couldn't beat me anyway, not on your best day," Oghren shot back, his head poking through the tent flap.

Malcolm wondered how long the dwarf had been trying to wake him up. "I wouldn't even dare try to best you in a fight, Oghren. You're just that good."

The dwarf nodded. "Sodding right." He disappeared from the tent and Malcolm quickly pulled his armor on, threw his cloak around him, picked up his sword and shield, and went outside. Alistair was already up and desperately trying to warm himself at the fire, Oghren and Líadan standing nearby. Oghren grinned at him as soon as he stepped out of his tent.

Malcolm came to a dead halt and frowned. He knew that grin. That was a bad grin. It meant Oghren was about to say bad things. "What?"

"With the moaning going on in there, I wasn't sure if you were having a nightmare or dreaming about some girl," said the dwarf. Then he leered in Líadan's direction. "Or with some girl."

She smacked him on the back of his head for his effort. "I was standing watch with you, you ass," she said. Muttering to herself and shooting more than a few dirty looks at Oghren over her shoulder, she ducked into her tent.

"Huh," said Oghren, rocking on his heels. "Guess it was a nightmare, then."

Malcolm shook his head, trying to stop the image of the piercing golden eyes from staring at him. "You could say that."

Oghren grunted. "Archdemon?"

"No."

"Good. Not a Blight then. I'm off to bed. Wake me up if you see an archdemon." Oghren stumbled off and disappeared into his tent.

Malcolm went to studying the fire as he sat down on one of the larger rocks they'd drawn close to the firepit. "At least I don't think it's an archdemon," he said a few minutes later.

Alistair peered at him curiously. "You don't think it's an archdemon? What's that mean?"

He sighed. "I dreamed about dragons again." Admittedly, the dragon dreams were somehow much less frightening than the archdemon dreams from the Blight, but they were still unsettling in their own way. There weren't really many ways to dream about dragons in good ways, after all.

"Again?" Alistair scowled. "This is another reason why I hate being king. I have no idea what's going on with you or the Wardens or anything. You're really dreaming about dragons? I hope you at least told Riordan." When Malcolm nodded, Alistair prompted, "And what did he say?"

"That it can't be good."

"That is... really not helpful advice." Alistair looked away from the fire and directly at his younger brother, his eyes concerned and serious. "So are you going to tell me everything that's going on or do I need to drag it out of you?"

"No, I'll tell you." Then Malcolm proceeded to bring Alistair up to speed, including everything that'd happened with Velanna, the advancements with Morrigan's ring and the possibility of narrowing down her exact location and the involvement of the Dalish, and the dreams about dragons. And werewolves. As a properly educated Fereldan, Alistair seemed fairly nonplussed at the idea of werewolves. And as a survivor of the Blight, dragons didn't much phase him either, except for what sort of thing they could herald, such as a Blight. Or Flemeth. And he wasn't even sure which was worse. Alistair already had the latest information about the templars and the Tevinters, as they'd told the templars at Highever about the Tevinter blood mage after running the idea by him. The rest, though, took a few minutes to really sink in, and the king remained silent and studied the flames as it did.

"Riordan was right. This can't be good," Alistair finally said. "The question is—is the dragon Morrigan or Flemeth? Or both? And who or what are the others?"

"I don't think it's Morrigan. Not the dragon. There were enough bad fights during the Blight where any of us was in enough danger that if she had the awesome advantage of being able to turn into a sodding dragon, she'd have done it." His mood darkened as he realized that it could be justified in a couple of ways: either because she loved him too much to let him die or because she needed him too much for her plan to have the Old God child.

"True."

Then Malcolm asked, "Would the templars kill her if... if she is truly with child?" There was some hope that they might not, he'd supposed, after learning of Ser Ava's actions. It proved that there were templars who weren't entirely blind to compassion and basic humanity.

Alistair stared into the fire for a long time. "Yes." Anticipating Malcolm's next question, he said, "They wouldn't even hesitate." Then he looked over at his brother. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

The flames blurred in front of Malcolm. "Me, too."