Chapter 28
They were attacking tomorrow.
The knowledge had come to him as a whisper in his ear. He had been leaving the War Room, and had just made it out into the sunlight and down the steps when he felt hot breath brush against his neck. Andraste's husky, unmistakable voice ghosted down his spine as she spoke to him.
"Tomorrow. We are ready."
When he turned to look over his shoulder, to question her, she had already retreated to the darkness of the War Room. Her figure was a slim silhouette next to Serge's shadowy form, and it was almost as though she hadn't moved at all. Still, there was no denying her words; the army was ready, the Grey Wardens were ready, and she was ready. At dawn, they would begin their siege of the palace and either kill Marcus or die in the process before the Chevaliers arrived. There were no other alternatives, and there was no use waiting for reinforcements or hope from a different front. Val Royeaux was on its own to do what it had to salvage the reputation of the Grey Wardens.
Though it was well past midnight, Loghain could not sleep. The upcoming skirmish weighed heavily on his mind, as did the current course of his life. Loghain could claim that he slept better than most men at night, and truth be told, he would not be lying. He was a man who accepted and understood his actions. He could not indulge in "what-ifs" and alternate possibilities. For a man in his line of work, such a thing was not practical. He had regrets, an ocean full of them to be precise, but those he saved for certain times and places. Now was not such a time, but his mind, weary as it was, was unable to stop them. He tossed an arm over his eyes and let out a rough exhale of breath. He squirmed on the mattress, trying to find a comfortable position for his back and legs.
Days had begun to blur together for Loghain. It couldn't have been more than five since he'd lost the Warden and taken command of the Fereldan Grey Wardens, but it seemed longer. He suspected it was a mixture of the constant uncertainty and general uselessness that he felt. Loghain had been working with Andraste and Serge, as well as Zevran and Leliana, to devise a proper plan of attack for their assault on the Val Royeaux palace. However, his presence seemed superfluous. Andraste seemed to know everything about anything. All Loghain, and for that matter everyone else, could do was nod and agree.
This was, he surmised, exactly what she wanted (and needed). Andraste loved an audience. She loved being the center of attention, and apparently, she loved being right most of all. Or so he had overheard Leliana telling Zevran. His original assessment of her from Denerim had been right, though he couldn't fault her battle plans. She knew her way around Val Royeaux, possessed knowledge of structural weak points, secret entrances, and had already predicted how Marcus would respond to five of her seven strategies.
She had been thinking about this a great deal, which confirmed Loghain's suspicions that this had been planned in advance. Andraste had been waiting for an opportunity to do this. Serge had said that they had been trying to ferret out Marcus's motives, to not push him too soon lest he went to ground, but there was no doubt in Loghain's mind that this had always been the desired outcome. These Grey Wardens wanted a siege, and Andraste seemed to relish the idea of purging her compound. "Fresh air," she had claimed, "will do us all some good. Let us purge the stink from our homes!"
That being said, Loghain was not convinced that her delay had been planned. He had originally thought it too convenient, but Andraste's story had been…compelling. Talking Darkspawn would seem ludicrous, if not for the fact that the villain she spoke of, the Architect, was someone Loghain had seen. His spindly limbs and warped features had begged Loghain to be reasonable amidst a dark and barren dreamscape. Loghain did not understand what it had meant, and had thought him some warped, perverse demon brought upon by his own guilt. But learning of the creature's desire to make Darkspawn more human, to blur the line between what was right and normal, and what was blighted and sick, Loghain was glad Andraste had not "been reasonable."
He'd never gotten the chance to ask the Warden if she had dreamed the same dreams as he. In fact, he had not talked to her of Grey Warden dreams at all. She had asked him once, shortly after his first night as a Grey Warden, if he had dreamed. Loghain had replied gruffly that yes, he had, and at that she had chuckled. They'd never spoken about it again after that. They hadn't spoken much at all, really. Their time together before the Archdemon had been a haze of constant fighting against Darkspawn, long hours of planning, and then more fighting against Darkspawn. There was no time to form or expand friendships. Everyone had to be happy with what they had.
What Loghain and the Warden had had was a strange relationship based upon their shared histories. They were both nobles. They shared titles. They even shared acquaintances. As a result, they had memories of each other. Loghain's memories were perhaps clearer and more concise, having lived longer and been of an age to remember more of them. At one, Loghain had thought her rather endearing with her little woolen dress and tiny golden curls. At four, she had been amusing with her sing-song voice and grubby fingers. At eight, she had been somewhat tame and insipid, floating in her mother's shadow with gaunt cheeks and a persistent wheeze. At twelve, she had been feisty, running around the courtyard with a sword, chasing her older brother. And at sixteen, she had been a spitfire, tossing wine down the front of Lady Lorna's daughter's dress for slapping her servant during the Landsmeet. "You slap your servant for appearing slovenly," she had taunted, "perhaps I should slap you for being so as well?"
The curious amalgamation of moments made for a curious sense of familiarity. They were not quite strangers, not quite friends. They were not warm; he had never sidled next to her at camp and regaled her with stories. Nor had she done the same for him. But it was civil. And it was practical. He wanted nothing more than to do his duty to Ferelden and Maric. She wanted the same. "I need you to lead my armies," she had told him. "And when I am gone, I need you to lead the Grey Wardens. You will find your duty there." He'd brushed the comments off until that final night in Redcliffe. He hadn't understood until then. He thought she'd been planning for a worst-case scenario, not the best-case scenario. He certainly didn't think he had it in him to lead to glory an ancient order that he had fought against, but she thought he did, and where the girl was concerned, that was all that mattered to her.
Never in a thousand lifetimes would he have expected to be Commander of the Grey of Ferelden, and a key contributor in a potential Grey Warden coup d'état. He had always fought the notion of leadership, and when the girl was in charge, he'd refused to let her stand in his shadow. He could offer her advice and wisdom, but he would not force her to follow when she should lead. It had been good when she'd disagreed with him; it meant she had a head on her shoulders and was not afraid to take her own counsel.
Of course, she made mistakes. Had made mistakes. She couldn't make mistakes anymore, because she was dead. That in itself was a mistake. She'd made a tactical error in dropping her guard while in a vicious foreign land and had paid the ultimate price. None of the Empress's vaulted favor and legendary tennis serves could bring her back now. In his frustration, he threw his arm from his eyes and let his fist strike the mattress at his side.
Counting the cracks on his ceiling, Loghain wondered how he would broach the subject of the Warden's untimely death to Fergus Cousland, and the rest of Ferelden. If the King found out what had happened in Val Royeaux, would he retract Amaranthine from the Grey Wardens because they were too much of a political threat? Or would Eamon make the decision? Would Fergus Cousland push for Amaranthine to be given to the Couslands again because the Grey Wardens now owed him a blood debt?
One thing that Loghain was certain of was that that no matter what he said, he would ultimately take the blame for the Warden's death.
Obviously, it was his fault.
Scheming Loghain had always sought power, and he would do anything, even murder a young woman to get it.
He could hear the reasons that held him culpable already. He had not protected her. He had not pushed her to be more cautious. He had not defended her properly. He had not saved her from her own pride and vanity. If she'd died of poison in her food, no doubt they'd blame him for not tasting it before she did. It made his head spin, and he realized why he didn't often think of the gossips in Denerim.
Returning home to give the news of the Hero of Ferelden's death was not something he was looking forward to. The Princeling would take great joy in lording it over him. Fergus Cousland would probably batter down the gates of Vigil's Keep to get at him. He could already hear the accusations and the curses, as if Loghain could have done something. Who did it insult more? The Warden had been a full grown woman and a hero. She had been an excellent fighter, and more than capable of making her own decisions. He had not been her keeper. He had not been her father, to scold and discipline her when she did something wrong. He had been her Second. Perhaps she would have taken his advice, perhaps she wouldn't have, but it had been her prerogative. She hadn't needed a guardian, hadn't needed the protection. If Loghain had assumed the role everyone expected of him, he would have undermined her authority as Warden Commander of Ferelden, and then all of their accusations about his power-hungry nature would be right.
He was damned, utterly damned, no matter what he did.
He hoped that Fergus, at least, would be reasonable and approach the matter of his "involvement" in her death in the same way that he had approached Loghain's involvement in the massacre at Castle Cousland. He had been lucky that the Warden had focused her anger, and her brother's anger, on Rendon Howe and his family. Howe had been the schemer, the one coveting their father's treasures. He acted on no one's directions save his own. Yet, by all rights, they could blame Loghain for the massacre of their family. He had given Howe the opportunity to act. He was guilty of the Cousland massacre by negligence.
"Your Grace," Howe had said, "I do not wish to trouble you overly much, since I know that you are busy planning for Cailan's 'glorious' campaign against the Darkspawn, but I have…fears."
Loghain had raised an eyebrow, asking for the Arl of Amaranthine to continue, which he did with the wringing of his hands and the knotting of his brows.
"Word has reached Amaranthine that Cailan plans to invite Orlais to help us at Ostagar. Is this true?"
"It is."
Howe had sucked in his breath sharply through his teeth, his long, narrow face tightening into a sour expression. "After all we have fought for, he wants to let them back in. Oh, but these are dark times, Your Grace."
"I understand your concern," Loghain had replied coolly, watching Howe grit his teeth and wring his hands in front of him in frustration. Loghain's fears were the same: if Orlesians came to Ferelden, they would never leave it. Loghain had taken the matter well into hand, however.
"I was wondering if you knew if the Grey Wardens of Orlais and the Empress's Chevaliers were going to come to our assistance by foot or by sea?"
"They aren't going to come at all." Stern letters and a promise of slaughter followed Cailan's delightfully charming missive.
"Oh, that is very good, Your Grace. Because if they came by sea, I am not sure that the northern territories would be able to say no to them. You see," Howe had the decency to look embarrassed, "Bryce Cousland has been…entertaining gifts from Orlais."
"What sort of gifts?" Loghain had asked, curious despite himself.
"Horses. Perfume. Fine silks. Weapons." Howe's lip had curled, though he looked to be trying to control its quiver of disgust. "They send him ships full of dresses and shoes for his wife. He even has an Orlesian tutor for his children. They are near fluent, or they were the last time I visited. He is very proud of the speed at which they picked up the language."
"And why are you telling me this?"
"Because," Howe's voice had dropped low and was no louder than a whisper. He had come close to where Loghain was standing at his desk, licking his lips anxiously as he leaned in, "I fear Orlais will come to Ferelden through the Couslands. Bryce is a strategic weak point."
"Explain."
"If Orlais should choose to defy our sovereignty and come with an armada, I have no doubt that their troops would find succor with Bryce Cousland." Howe's eyes had been bright in the dim light of Loghain's study. "Make no mistake, I do not doubt Bryce's loyalty to Ferelden, I only believe that his love for his family is stronger than his love for his country. By making friends in the Orlesian palace and thereby insinuating himself within the Orlesian court, I believe he realized that the Orlesian military is much stronger than our own."
"You are suggesting that he is aware of an attack?"
"No, Your Grace, I merely suggest that he is being…cautious. If Orlais should come visit, either by Cailan's invitation or their own gall, Bryce hopes that his family and his territory will be spared because of their sympathetic…and I hate to say it, sycophantic, nature. Bryce's father fought against the Orlesians, and," Rendon had allowed a pregnant, knowing pause to fall between them, "We all saw what happened to him. I have no doubt that Bryce is trying to stop history from repeating itself by…pandering to the Orlesians. He would probably harbor any Orlesian soldiers that came from the sea or the King's Road as a gesture of goodwill, and consequently, be their foothold within Ferelden."
"And what do you expect me to do, Rendon? There is little more here than your suppositions." Loghain had shaken his head. "And even if they are true, I don't have troops to spare to secure the northern ports." It pained Loghain to think of all the men and women Cailan had requisitioned for a grand and glorious assault on the darkspawn. The idea of an Orlesian armada sailing from Val Royeaux to the coasts of Highever or the ports at Amaranthine and West Hill, or even Port Fenn, unnerved him. Ferelden's navy was not particularly large, growth having been halted when Maric was lost at sea, and would likely not be sufficient enough to crush an invasion fleet on the open water. If the Fereldan fleet failed to stop the Orlesian ships, then they could unload an untold number of Chevaliers and troops in the north, and then sail straight to Denerim. They could capture the capital from both land and sea.
And if Bryce's "caution" would allow that to happen…
"I understand, Your Grace." Howe had bowed his head, "And I would not ask for you to divert your troops to assist us. Would you allow me to speak to Bryce on your behalf, perhaps? We could work out a new arrangement and leave men behind to protect the shores and ports from Orlesian ships. Bryce can be prudent when he wishes to be, I should be able to make him see reason..."
"How many men do you plan to leave behind?"
"As many as it takes, Your Grace."
The way Rendon had looked at him, it was clear that he should not be expecting any men. Why he shouldn't be expecting them was up to Rendon, though he could guess. And he had guessed. If Rendon saw Bryce as a threat, Rendon would act. Whatever motivations that had been driving Howe were not of Loghain's concern. He'd had a battle to plan, and a country to save from Darkspawn and Cailan's glorious ambitions. If Howe could keep the north safe from invasion, even an illusory one, then Loghain had no qualms letting him do what was needed and dealing with the consequences later. Ultimately though, Howe had been the villain when it had mattered. Perhaps Marcus, or the Grey Wardens, would be seen in the same light.
Floorboards creaked outside Loghain's door, and he heard the chattering of Grey Wardens beyond it. His fellows were retreating to their rooms, likely having just finished their time stationed atop the palace-facing gate. They would try and get some sleep before the assault, and would likely be more successful at it than Loghain.
The Commander of the Ferelden Grey Wardens sighed and rolled onto his side, struggling against his hard and lumpy bed. Dane was nestled on a couch by one of the windows. His dark eyes were closed shut in sleep, though he cracked one open when he heard the rustling of covers. He whined in the dark.
"Sorry," Loghain apologized, noticing the dog's eyes. "I did not mean to wake you."
Dane's eyes closed once more, mollified by Loghain's apology. He let out a small huff of displeasure before wriggling himself deeper into the couch. "Go to sleep," his little rumble of displeasure said. "Or get up."
Loghain opted to stay in his bed. There was nothing for him to do in this room, and rest was the most prudent course of action. The only time Loghain returned to his room was to sleep. He did not like to linger overly much there, since he was acutely aware of the silence down the hall. It might have been different if his room was the one closer to the stairs. But it wasn't. Every day he had to walk past an empty room, and doing it was as hard as removing chairs from the war table when commanders, lieutenants, and trusted generals died.
Each morning as he and Dane made their way to the War Room, Dane would stop and scratch a paw on the wood of the door as they passed, and at first Loghain had thought that he did it because he expected his mistress to be inside. However, Dane had not lingered at the door. It was only one scratch, and then he was back to Loghain's side. What he had realized was that it wasn't that Dane was waiting for the girl to come home; he was paying his respects. He had seen soldiers visit the Chantry and touch the marble Andraste's feet with reverent fingers before battle to gain her favor. He had seen loyal vassals kiss their lords' crests for good luck. Before he had left for Ostagar, Loghain had visited Maric and Rowan's memorial, and asked them for the strength to do what was appropriate. What Dane was doing was no different.
Dane's curious habit turned into Loghain's routine. Before man and mabari started their day, and before they finished it, they would touch hand and paw to the worn wood. No words needed to be spoken.
Loghain flipped onto his back and put his hands over his face. "Oh, but would the morning come already?"
Dane answered back with a growl and a large sigh of his own, which made Loghain chuckle despite himself. Even before the Warden's untimely end, the Mabari had been an ever present companion for Loghain. He loved the dog. He found him honest, happy, intelligent, and a link to his otherwise forgotten past. Loghain could see Adalla in the dog's face, and it brought him some measure of comfort. It also made him hate Orlais more than he thought was possible. Orlais had much to answer for, and he was looking forward to exacting his retribution tomorrow.
8-8-8
The mage lights that Serge had conjured in the War Room were beginning to fade. The little orbs of yellow and blue light that danced along the unlit candlesticks were dwindling down into faint starlight, and cast the room in deep, dark shadows.
Andraste Caron stood in the center of the War Room, resting both her hands on the edge of the large table that held the War Room's map. Across the table, standing rather demurely with her back to the open door, was Leliana. The bard's red hair looked brown in the midnight gloom, as did the hair of the self-appointed Warden Commander of Val Royeaux. Both women were looking at each other across the divide, and were speaking Orlesian in soft, whispered tones.
Andraste's fingers drummed on the table as she considered something Leliana said. Andraste was not very concerned with Leliana's descriptions of the palace's interior, and so was only half-listening to the younger woman's suggestions and comments. Her mind was dancing across the roof tops of Val Royeaux, stalking alleys, and ducking through sewer grates. She was in mental pursuit of someone, and was trying to plot their movements. At a pause in Leliana's reporting, Andraste raised a hand. "Thank you, Leliana."
"I have more information, if you want it," offered the bard. "I know a great deal about the palace."
"You know a great many things about Val Royeaux, yes? Other than the palace?"
"Well…yes." Leliana's head bobbed, sending the small braids at her temples bouncing. "I do."
"I need that expertise." Andraste straightened, pulling her leather jerkin down over her hips as she did so. She smoothed her gloved hands down her sides, the leather of her gauntlets scraping ominously against the armor she wore. "I need it right now, actually."
"Oh?"
"I want you to find someone for me."
Leliana raised an eyebrow. "Who?"
"A missing Grey Warden. His name is Vidar, Vidar of Hossberg, and I know he is hiding somewhere within Val Royeaux."
Leliana raised a disbelieving eyebrow at the Warden Commander's request. "Val Royeaux is a very large city…you want me to find a man I have never seen before and in the dark?"
"That is what bards do, yes? You do as your client asks?" There was little room to argue in Andraste's tone. "I am asking you to find a man who is greatly vested in the outcome of the assault on the palace. That should be information enough for you to determine where he is."
"Sounds delightful. I will do as you ask," replied Leliana, "but you will need to give me more information than that. I have his name, but what does he look like? Does he have any scars? Any distinguishing features? What color is his hair? What clothing does he wear?"
Andraste swept one arm down her body. "He will be dressed like me. This is a standard issue set of armor amongst the Grey Wardens. He will be wearing it. He will also be carrying a long bow, not unlike the one you have strapped to your back," Andraste's eyes darted to the whitewood bow that peaked over Leliana's shoulder, "but it will be red. It is a bow of dragonthorn, and it is quite distinct. If he finds you before you find him, and I have no doubt that he might, he will use it against you."
"I expected as much. Men in hiding often do not want to be found."
"Indeed. This man especially. What else can I tell you to help you," Andraste's lips puckered in thought, and there was a brief flash of teeth as she worried on her lower lip. "Ah, yes." She looked at Leliana, her gaze sly. "I told you of the wrapping, but not of the present. Tell me, did you get a good look at Marcus? Do you remember his face?"
"I think so," Leliana nodded, "I could distinguish that rodent easily."
"Good." Andraste's eyes pinned Leliana to the floor, their intensity bewitching in the gloom. She took careful, measured steps towards her. One gloved finger dragged along the edge of the table as she walked. "Because the man you hunt is not so different in looks. Vidar is very similar in appearance to Marcus. Vidar is younger, with fairer hair and darker eyes, but the rest of the characteristics they share. Nose, chin, forehead. Similarly striking."
"I see. I think then that I can find him then. It is not much to go on, but if his resemblance is as similar as you claim, then it shouldn't be too difficult. Are you sure you would not," Leliana's brow furrowed, "prefer my assistance in breaching the castle though?"
Andraste shook her head. "No. We are not being subtle in our breach. We will tear the stones from the walls to make our point heard."
"Very well. When do you wish me to begin?"
"Right now," Andraste smirked.
"Oh," Leliana echoed the smile. "I will just get some supplies and be on my way. Before I go though, what exactly do you want me to do with Vidar once I've found him?"
"Bring him here. Be creative."
"I…see. I will do my best."
"There's a good, lass. Enjoy the hunt, because Vidar will!" Andraste gave her a fond pat on the shoulder and a wink before dismissing her. Once Leliana had disappeared into the night, she rubbed at her eyes with gloved fingers, and gave a low chuckle when she felt the small push of a familiar presence at the back of her mind. "It is not polite to eavesdrop, Serge."
"Well, if you should choose to hold conversations in the middle of the open, what do you expect?" the blood mage responded, stepping from the shadowy hallway that led to the Grey Warden offices and into the circular room where Andraste stood. He saw her silhouette in front of the open doors, a striking black figure amidst a sea of stars and grey stone. She was leaning heavily against the door frame, one arm extended to bear her weight while the other hung limply at her side. He crossed towards her, and placed a gentle hand on the small of her back. "But you have my apologies for listening and earning your displeasure."
"Ah, Serge, you know that I have no secrets from you." Andraste looked at her Second from over her shoulder, and gave him a tired smile. "I could not keep them even if I tried. You and your tricky blood magic."
"I would like to think," Serge replied, "that it is not my blood magic that makes you confide in me. Though I can tell," and he let his hand trail up from the small of her back to just below her hair line, "that someone is thinking a little too hard for their own good."
"I don't like it when you read my blood."
"No one does." He chuckled, the sound coming out in a long, low purr. "But I cannot help what I am and what I can do."
Andraste grumbled at that and straightened, letting Serge's hand fall away. "I hate waiting, having to hold this deep breath before the plunge."
"And how do you think Marcus feels?" asked Serge. "It is his calm before the storm too, and by all rights, you are the storm."
"No," she shook her head, sending her red braid swinging between her shoulder blades like a pendulum, "the Chevaliers are the storm. We are merely a gust of wind to rustle the leaves." She stepped out into the mild evening air, her boots scraping along the stones as she skipped down the stairs.
Serge was behind her, his robes whispering in his wake. "If need be," Serge said quietly, "I can always 'convince' our friends within the barracks to form a wall of bodies between their blades and us."
Andraste stilled when Serge's fingers tugged playfully on her braid.
"It would not be," he continued quietly, "so difficult to do. It would buy us time, should we need it."
"And we probably will," she replied, "if our friends do not get their troops together soon. I had hoped that the siege equipment would already be in place, and yet, they haven't even opened their gates. I'll assemble it for them, if I must."
"Patience, Warden Commander," chastised the blood mage, "I was there this morning, and things are underway as they should be. No doubt that when we awake tomorrow, everything will be as you commanded."
"You know," Andraste peered at him from over a pauldron, distracting Serge from the change of topic with the lowering of her eyelashes, "you sound so different speaking in Orlesian. It is such a…" She seemed at a loss for words. "Such a welcoming, thing. I am glad to be home. It was very lonely in Ferelden, Serge." She sent him a cautious smile, which he quickly returned.
He dropped his hold on her braid and moved to her side, tucking himself against her. His forehead was a hair's breadth away from hers. They were close enough to be intimate, but to onlookers, it appeared that they were merely deep in conversation. Their bodies did not touch, and the only physical sensation that passed between them was the soft and steady puffing of the other's hot breath across their cheeks. "It was also lonely," Serge said in a low voice, "in Orlais."
"Do you think that is how Warden Commander Loghain feels?" Her green eyes were at a level with his nose, and she playfully brushed her eyelashes against it. "Lonely?"
"I couldn't believe otherwise. He looks as though all the stars have gone from his sky."
"He was close with the Cousland girl?"
Serge nodded.
"Sad," said Andraste, and Serge didn't need to prompt her to know what the faraway look in her eyes meant.
8-8-8
From his vantage point, Vidar could see into the courtyard of the palace. He was high enough to see all he needed to see, yet far enough away to avoid being detected. He could not hear what the Grey Wardens and Antivan Crows below him were saying, but he had been watching their shifts, and their shift changes, since sunset and he was confident that he knew when they would next be on duty again.
A distant glint on a rooftop caught his attention. Vidar had been at this perch before, and had never seen any glinting previously. This anomaly spelled danger, and the tracker slowly lowered himself so that he rested flush against one of the roof's large support beams. The glinting was intermittent, a brief flash in the moonlight before it disappeared.
He guessed it was a buckle that was catching the moon's light and then being obscured again as its owner moved around the rooftops. Cloth or leather would obscure the metal clasp for a few brief moments, trapping it against limb or joint, before releasing it back into the air once more. Yes, that was exactly what the pattern looked like. The dark-glint-dark-glint had the definite rhythm of one who was climbing. The climber definitely knew what they were doing, however, for all Vidar could see was the glinting. He could make out neither form nor figure against the black body of the buildings.
It was not a Crow, he knew that much. Crows dulled their metallic clasps with paint. They spent enough time wandering the rooftops of Antiva to know the folly of reflective pieces. All it took was one well-aimed arrow after a little, unintended flicker of light to put a stop to a stealthy assassin. In this case, it would only take one arrow to stop an Antivan Crow, misguided peasant, or queer anomaly too.
Vidar drew his bow over his shoulder, and gently raised himself to a kneeling position. He pulled an arrow from his quiver, and trained it on the last point he saw the flashing. He waited, his arrow ready to be loosed once he had his target. And there he saw it. He released the arrow, letting it fly straight and true to its mark, just slightly ahead of the flickering light's last position. There was no more glinting and glimmering after that, though as Vidar watched the Grey Wardens in the Val Royeaux palace, he kept one eye trained on the rooftops.
Leliana, on the other hand, kept her eyes trained solely on the spot where the arrow had been launched from. Though the bard had a strong love for shoes, she also had a strong love for mirrors. Not only did they allow her to gaze at her lovely reflection, but they were also perfect diversions. This particular mirror, with its long, tapered handle and tiny face, was very useful in her line of work. As she climbed, she had held it above her head, flipping its face out to the moon for a few moments, before flipping it back to the side of the building she was scaling. It was bait, something to catch the attention of onlookers and force them to take action. It forced them to reveal themselves, while keeping Leliana hidden and protected. Arrows and bolts would always fall ahead of the mirror's last flash, and it did not take Leliana much to discern where the arrow had come from.
She stuffed the mirror into a small pouch at her hip, and made her way cautiously over the rooftops, closing in on the perch where she guessed her quarry was resting. She moved slowly, methodically, picking her way through the city as one might cautiously step over messes or cracks. Her light and nimble legs carried her over the roofs and awnings. Leliana guessed herself fortunate that she found Vidar as soon as she did. It would be dawn soon, and the thick, clinging gloom of the evening would soon be burnt away. She could hear the stirrings of the city already in the whistling and the trumpeting of the army barracks as the men inside prepared for their long, grueling day.
As time passed and the sky began to pale, the stirring in the barracks became louder. She heard the groaning of gates as they opened, and the thick, heavy sound of wooden wheels against cobblestones. Being perched as she was behind a chimney, she could not get a good luck at its source, but she imagined that it must have been the battering ram that Andraste had been waxing on about. Leliana thought that the woman was in the wrong type of work; she was very dramatic. She loved exaggeration, hand waving, and speeches.
A movement on the rooftops from the corner of her eye signaled the movement of Vidar. Likely, he had caught a glimpse of the large battalion of soldiers and Grey Wardens that were making their way to the palace. He was either leaving to take refuge elsewhere, or finding a better vantage point out of sight of the Grey Wardens.
Leliana crouched low and watched as Vidar carefully plucked his way across the rooftops of the city, seemingly walking in midair from one roof to another. She saw the vague outline of a thin, narrow line stretching out between the rooftops ahead of her, and recognized it as a rope walkway. The thick cords of rope served as an inconspicuous aerial road, allowing a dexterous, sure-footed individual to avoid traffic and detection.
Being such an individual, Leliana waited until Vidar had passed behind an obstruction before dashing to the next rooftop using the rope bridge. Her feet danced over the coiled strands, and she propelled herself forward with each little jolt of the rope below her. It was fun. She had missed doing this. Running across the uneven terrain of a city's skyline was always exhilarating, and made her feel like a bird. The slip and slide of loose shingles or thatching below her boots gave an added sense of danger, as one wrong step meant she could fall to her death.
From one roof to another she flew, skipping along shingle and hemp. Behind her, the sounds of groaning wood and yielding stone rose into the morning air. Cries and shouts of heaving men soon swallowed up the noise, and all the city came alive with angry wailing and thunderous pounding. Looking down, Leliana could see men and women racing through the alleyways, scrambling to get to their destinations as quick as possible. She even saw a few people open their doors, step out, take stock of the commotion, and promptly return indoors.
With the tumult at the palace, the immediate area, perhaps even the entire city, was going to become lawless. In the confusion and chaos of attack, and the otherwise occupied minds of the garrison, thieves and cutpurses would be on the loose. The best course of action for most was to stay tightly locked in their homes and out of the way of opportunistic marauders. Those with shops could risk their lives defending their wares, or pray that their goods were not as enticing as their neighbors.'
Leliana's toe caught on the edge of a loose shingle, and sent her tumbling face forward onto the roof with a loud crash. Vidar halted, having heard the crash. She had fallen between the rhythmic pounding of the battering ram, and so was an irregular sound to Vidar's perceptive ears. He turned and looked across the roofscapes at her, and she, in the full light of the morning sun, stared back.
She had barely enough time to roll to her side and get on her feet when an arrow whizzed through the air towards her. It stuck with a dull sound into the shingles, and Leliana pulled her own bow free. She sent two arrows after Vidar, who was now dashing over the roofs away from her to put distance between them. Leliana guessed he would try and put enough space between them before dropping to the alleys below to evade her. If she could get an arrow into his leg, she could slow him considerably and do as Andraste ordered.
As it was, Vidar evaded both arrows and nearly gave Leliana the slip. Unfortunately, he also was not immune to the irregular terrain of the Orlesian rooftops. Having jumped onto his safe house, recognizing it by the deep groove he had whittled into the support beam's surface, he skidded along the decorative shingles. They fell to the floor, cracking and splintering at the impact, and revealed the thick wooden beams of the roof's substructure. The heel of his boot caught against one of the beams, and he tumbled backwards. He landed with a loud crash and slipped along the slanted edge of the roof. His hands scrabbled to find purchase, stripping more shingles as he slipped. He caught the edge of the roof with one hand, and then let himself drop the two stories to the alley.
If this woman wanted a hunt, Vidar would give her a hunt.
He just hoped he could lose her in time.
8-8-8
A loud thump and shake drew the Warden out of sleep, and the dust and debris falling from the ceiling caused her to cough. Her chest and stomach contracted painfully as her lungs heaved, and it was all she could do not to groan at the ache in her side. She put a hand to her side, covering the dressing with a rough palm. Her mind was catching up with itself…what was the last thing she remembered?
Vidar had been talking. He had called her a sheep. And then there was nothing. She had slipped off into a thick fog of dreamless sleep.
"Vidar?" she croaked. Her throat was thick and dry from lack of use. She waited for a snide reply, for the shuffling of feet or the rustling of clothing, but there was nothing. As one might fluff pillows or air linens and catch the scent of a long departed mother's perfume, so too did the Warden's senses catch a familiar presence. Her taint, shared with other Grey Wardens and Darkspawn, allowed her to sense both when they were in relative proximity to her. The tugging on her mind that signaled a brother or sister Grey Warden was growing weaker and more distant. Whether it was Vidar, or Loghain, or any of the others in the Grey Warden compound, she couldn't guess. All she knew was that whoever owned the consciousness was moving away from her, and she had no way of knowing when or if they'd be back.
The Warden decided to give her head a few minutes to clear before she decided to move around. She sprawled out on the small bed, and the minutes turned into hours as she returned once more to sleep. Whatever it was that Vidar had been giving her, it had a lingering after effect. Having become a light sleeper, the Warden could be roused from slumber and be ready for battle within a few moments. Here though, she passed in and out of sleep, her body too stiff and lethargic to move more than a few inches at a time. She battled the haze for several hours before she grit her teeth and heaved herself forward, swinging her legs over the side of the bed in a last ditch effort to remain conscious.
She scrubbed her face with a hand, plucking the sleep from her eyes and the cough from her mouth. Her body felt less cold, though that was not saying much since she was still naked from the waist up. That little fact decided her first course of action: shirt.
On very careful legs, mindful not to make too much noise against the floorboards, the Warden staggered from chest to armoire, searching for something to cover her nudity. In the armoire she found a dirty, bloodstained shirt that looked identical to the shirt Vidar had been wearing the first night she awoke in this place. She also found the long strip of cloth that served as her breast binding. She carefully rolled herself into it, layering it over the poultice and bandage that Vidar had dressed her wound with. The skin at the sight of the slice was warm and tingling, a sensation that the Warden associated with Wynne's spells. Tingling was good.
With the binding in place, she slipped the shirt over her head. Unsure of how much time she would have before Vidar would return, the Warden cut short her examination of the things in Vidar's room. She only gave the vials in the chest a cursory glance, not recognizing the names of the leaves and twigs within them. Nothing else in the room proved to be of any significant value, since the only other objects of note were the bed and the chamber pot. If Vidar had secret hiding places, and he seemed to be the type of man who would, the Warden could not guess where to look. None of the floorboards appeared conspicuous, and she was not about to knock on the walls.
Instead, she opted for a careful descent down the stairs into what she guessed was his kitchen and dining area. Like his bedroom, the downstairs living space was decorated sparsely and in drab colors. There was nothing in the room to even remotely suggest that Vidar lived there. The Warden had been expecting mounted animal heads or skins to be draped from the walls, but instead, the walls lay beige and barren, and the floorboards were dusty. Furniture was as sparse as the decorations, and consisted only of a small dining table, some chairs, a stool, and then another long table pressed against the wall by the hearth.
She found the remnants of her shirt and corset on the table near the hearth, having been sliced and stripped to shreds. Mercifully, Vidar had not done anything to her boots and socks, and it was with great joy that the Warden slipped her feet into both. Going barefoot seemed unnatural, and she was glad to feel the thick socks beneath her toes.
There was a half-eaten crust of bread on a plate next to her ruined clothing, and the Warden devoured it with relish. The bread was stale, but the crunch of the crust below her teeth was the sweetest sound the Warden had heard. Taste was nothing compared to the sensation of food rushing into an empty stomach. She licked every crumb from her lips and fingertips.
The ground floor's little cooking hearth was cold, and appeared to have not been used recently. The ash and soot in the fireplace looked old. In a corner of the room was a sack of some sort of meal, and there was a pail of water on a small stand beside it. The Warden dipped a finger into it and brought it to her lips to test its safety. Tasting nothing out of the ordinary, she cupped her hands and dipped them into the pail. She drank deeply of the water, her eyes half-lidded at the blissful feel of it on her tongue. A few handfuls of water were not enough to slake her thirst, but she felt much better.
Turning back to the room, the Warden wondered what to do with herself. She could stay, and she could wait for Vidar to come back. Vidar seemed to know what was going on, and likely had answers. However, he had drugged her, and there was no guarantee that he wouldn't do so again. He also wouldn't divulge his secrets if she beat him to a bloody pulp like she was considering doing. Grateful as she was for him saving her, she can't say she liked what she had woken up to.
She could also leave. Leaving seemed like a really good choice, because she wanted to escape in the most desperate way. However, there was the simple matter that Marcus's men were probably outside, which meant that she was safer indoors. Still, that wasn't saying much, since Vidar was dangerous and a wildcard. At least if she was out on the streets she'd be slain, rather than drugged and dragged away. She had no weapon, save for the knife that had been used to shred her clothes to tatters, and this she wrapped in scraps of the corset she had been wearing before stuffing it into her boot. Though her boot dagger was missing, the knife was too big to fit into its sheath.
The Warden considered her two options. In both situations, she was in danger. However, if she stayed with Vidar, her fate was less certain. She knew exactly what she was up against outside (or at least she thought she did). Though she might not be able to control what happened if she left Vidar's home, she would at least be spared someone's obvious machinations. And if it was one thing that the Warden hated, it was being manipulated. She had been a pawn from Grey Warden birth to seeming death, and now was the time to change that.
She crossed to the door, flipped open the latches that kept it locked, and gave a confident tug. The door creaked open, and the rancid air of Val Royeaux rushed over her features. It was glorious; the stench of sewage, piss, rotten meat, and fear smelt like freedom.
Shutting the door behind her, the Warden stepped out into the small street. The buildings here were close together, and the width of the street would only allow two men to walk abreast. The light above her was obscured by the overhang of the roofs, though looking up, she could see a bright blue sky that was reminiscent of midday. The Warden tucked herself against a wall, and made her way cautiously to the end of the narrow street. She took stock of the larger road that the street opened up to, noticing just how empty it was.
She had expected a bustle of activity, but the street was surprisingly quiet, as was the city. The constant hum and drone of busy people had been replaced by the wailing of the wind and the shouting of men. She turned her eyes to the sky once more, craning her neck to find the spires of the palace or the chantry. The palace was looming from the opposite end of the street she had walked down, and the Warden made her way quickly in its direction. She could navigate the city if she had at least one landmark. Knowing where the palace was, she also knew the relative location of the Grey Warden compound. She would return there and find Loghain, and together, they would confront Serge.
From alley to alley and street to street, the Warden made her way cautiously through the city. She moved ever in the direction of the palace, but was careful not to linger too long in the open. Her eyes darted left, right, and up, wary of Antivan Crows, and she kept her mind open to catch the little blurs of consciousness that signaled nearby Grey Wardens.
Closing in on the palace, the Warden began to feel a buzzing at the edges of her mind. Whenever there was a group of Darkspawn, or Grey Wardens, the Warden felt the hornet's nest in her mind spring to life. Darkspawn had songs that were red, yellow, and angry. Grey Wardens had songs that were white, grey, and very pale green. The presence of brothers and sisters of the taint sounded like the breaking of waves on the shore. It was a quiet, pleasant droning that was easy to ignore.
This buzzing could not be ignored, but it did not irritate and make her clench her jaw in the way that that Darkspawn's might. There was some discord in the sound, a disjointed humming that was jarring to listen to. The peace had been fragmented, and her blood ached at the distress of her fellow Grey Wardens. Something told the Warden that she would be lending her own voice to this cacophony soon enough.
Mixed with the sound in her head were the cries of battle. She could hear the clash of steel and the calls of men floating above the high walls. The roaring of fire and the heavy gusting of wind also carried across the air, as did the smell of magic. Something bad was happening in the palace. Loghain must have survived, which meant that Serge must know what Marcus was up to. Had the Grey Wardens launched an assault?
Finding an empty Grey Warden compound, it seemed that they had.
"Maker's breath," the Warden whispered, noticing just how lifeless the place was. No Wardens were in the training grounds, the shops were all closed, all the doors were locked, and there was not even the whisper of a voice on the wind. The Grey Griffon's sign creaked in the quiet air, mixing with the Warden's shuffling footsteps as she darted from building to building. The only sign of life was the Warden. If there was anyone else within the compound, they were keeping inside their homes, or had evacuated elsewhere. She assumed it was the former; surely, there was no reason for the Grey Warden families to leave?
Coming to the residence that the Warden and Loghain called home, the Warden put a hand to the door handle. The door was locked, but Coralie had mentioned that she always kept a spare key in the earth of one of the flower pots that rested on the common room's window box. The Warden dug her hand into the earth, feeling around for the edges of the key. Her fingernails, chipped and dirty, scrabbled against a metallic outline. She snapped a nail in the process of procuring the little thing, and blew the dirt off the key before slipping it into the door. She returned the key to where she found it, and patted down the soil and rearranged the flowers before entering.
The common room was dark and cold, but not empty. There in a large chair by the fireplace was Coralie's daughter and only child, who the Warden recognized as Mara.
"Mara?" the Warden whispered, shutting the door behind her.
Mara turned weary eyes to the Warden. The girl was not older than fourteen, but she had already taken on a world-worn look. She walked with an apathetic gait, and was prone to slouching. She was actually quite a pretty girl, with lovely black hair and dark eyes ringed with sinfully long eyelashes. "Oh. It's you," the girl replied back in her accentless common. She was also remarkably bright, knowing four languages fluently. "Ma said you'd gone missing."
"Well, I have returned."
"I can see that. Are you going to join the other Grey Wardens?"
"I plan on it," replied the Warden, "I just need my weapons and my armor. I've come back for them. I don't have my key with me though…"
"I have the keys." Mara reached down to her belt and pulled out the ring of iron keys that opened all the doors in the building. "Here."
The Warden crossed to the girl's side, and then slowly lowered herself to a knee so that she could better look at her. "This place is empty, Mara. Why are you still here?" She took the keys from the girl's hands.
"I'm waiting. Not too long though, because I don't want to be here when the Chevaliers come."
"Chevaliers?" The Warden raised an eyebrow. "Why would you think they'd come?"
"Because the Empress is in danger, and they think the Grey Wardens are behind it. They'll come here first, and slaughter everyone they find, and then they'll go to the palace, and kill all the Grey Wardens who deserted."
The Warden rubbed her forehead. "I think I've missed quite a bit."
"Ma didn't tell me anything, but I overheard some of the other Wardens talking. They said that Marcus had summoned all his supporters to the palace. Andraste called them deserters, and she plans to kill them. She isn't very subtle."
"Andraste s back? When did she get here?"
Mara shrugged. "Awhile ago. I'm not sure. I haven't really been paying attention."
"I see. Where is everyone else, then, if all the Grey Wardens are at the palace?"
"They left," replied Mara in a bored tone, "they didn't want the Chevaliers to catch them, so they went elsewhere in the city this morning."
"Wouldn't they notice you were left behind?"
"No. Ma was busy getting into her armor and left early with the other Grey Wardens. It was easy to hide from everyone else as they left. Don't have a Da, and it was easy to avoid Irmae. She's Haren's wife."
The names meant nothing to her, but the girl's motivation did. The Warden's eyes narrowed. "All right, Mara, be honest with me. The Chevaliers are coming and intend to kill everyone, and you stayed behind?"
"Yes."
"You intend to die?"
"No. I intend to run away."
"Why?"
"Because I hate it."
"Hate what?"
"This." Mara extended her hands and mumbled something under her breath, and soon blue fire was trailing along the sleeves of her dress.
"Magic. You're a mage." The Warden couldn't help her surprised laughter, and she settled back on her haunches. "That's wonderful, Mara."
"No, it isn't. I hate it. No one knows; no one is supposed to know. But you can know, since you're the last one I'm going to talk to anyway."
"Why do you hate your magic?"
"It hurts me when I don't use it, and when I do use it, I can barely control it, and I don't want to go to the chantry and live like some slave always watched by the templars. It sounds awful. But now that everyone is gone, I can leave. I can be an apostate in the woods somewhere and use my magic and not be bothered by anyone."
"Why not become a Grey Warden?" asked the Warden. "You could practice magic freely and not be a slave or watched by the templars."
"That's just as bad. And you're still slaves. You just don't know it yet." The girl spoke as though this was an obvious fact.
The Warden shook her head. "I disagree, but you are welcome to your opinion."
Mara just crossed her arms over her chest.
"You won't miss your mother?"
"I will, but its better this way."
"Well," the Warden frowned, "have you packed? I don't see any bags."
"I packed a little." Mara gave a sheepish laugh, "I don't really have much anyway. It's easy to pack."
"I see." The Warden eyed the girl critically, turning the iron key ring over in her hands. "Mara, might I have your help before you go?"
"Depends on what you need," replied the girl. "What is it?"
"Two things. Are you at all proficient in casting healing cantrips?"
Mara shrugged. "I can try."
"Well, that doesn't sound very reassuring, but I can take a risk on it. The second thing, would you mind helping me into my armor?"
"I'm not your squire," Mara replied back curtly, "but I suppose I can. I'm not doing anything else, right? Like packing?"
"You're a cheeky girl, Mara," the Warden grinned at her, "I like you. Come along with me, and then I'll leave, and pretend I never saw you." That was a lie, of course. The Warden planned to beat the girl over the head with her sword pommel and lock her in a cabinet somewhere so that she couldn't escape. A fourteen year old girl on the run as an apostate? While she appreciated and admired the young girl's spirit, she didn't want to have the girl's eventual rape, death, and dismemberment on her hands. Or the lives that were lost because the girl couldn't control her magic and either used it for ill, or became possessed by a demon. She'd hide the girl, bind her hands, and bind her mouth. If the Warden died, well, she was sure that the girl could find her way out. And if the Warden lived, Mara could tell everything to her mother. Better that the templars take her, or she join the Grey Wardens, than run about a world that was cruel to pretty, young girls.
Mara sullenly followed the Warden up the stairs, taking dainty steps in comparison to the Warden's bounding of the stairs two-by-two. "So where did you go missing to?" she asked as the Warden tried each of the keys in the lock.
"I was with Vidar," replied the Warden absently, though not absent enough to miss the girl's sigh. The Warden turned her head to Mara. "You like Vidar?"
"He is so handsome, and such a bastard."
"Mara, that is not proper language to use," scolded the Warden, turning the key in the lock and smiling when it clicked open.
"Well, it's true. He is a bastard. Ma calls him that. He's a pretty bastard."
The Warden ushered the babbling Mara inside. "And why does your mother call him a bastard?"
"She says she doesn't like the way he looks at women, but I wish he'd look at me in that way."
"He's a bit old for you," the Warden shut the door, "don't you think?" It made her uneasy to think of Vidar looking at Mara the way he looked at the Empress, or worse, the way he looked at the Warden.
"Only by twenty years."
The Warden chuckled. "Only twenty years."
"Pfft." The girl flicked her hair over her shoulder. "As if you're one to talk."
"I can talk because I'm older than you." The Warden went to her armor stand and admired her beautiful plate. She had missed it. She also missed the sword that was resting across the vanity, and the shield that was propped against the mirror.
"Not by much." Mara circled around the room. "You're still carrying on with an older man. He's got to be more than twenty years older than you too."
"But I'm a Grey Warden, and you're not. Grey Warden years are like animal years, Mara."
"That's really silly."
"Well," the Warden traced her finger down the Grey Warden crest, "it is true."
"I heard you and the Warden Commander, you know." She was completely unbothered by such a thing too, by the dry way in which she spoke. "Ma was really mad."
"Being the Warden Commander," the Warden gave the girl a sidelong look, "I can't carry on with myself."
"You're not the Warden Commander anymore." Mara's eyebrows raised in challenge.
"I will be, once Loghain knows that I am alive."
"Maybe." Mara shrugged. "I doubt it though. Ma always says that people in the Grey Wardens have trouble giving up power."
"Then it is a good thing that Loghain is not a traditional Grey Warden," the Warden tucked that piece of information away for future use. She had written Coralie off as nothing more than a house keeper, but apparently, the woman was a Grey Warden and had some very strong opinions. She deserved a proper meeting. "Now, let's see what you can do with that magic of yours." The Warden extended her arm, and gestured to her wounded side. "I'm hurting in this general area, since I was stabbed there. Do you think you can close the wound?"
"Erm…maybe?" Mara chewed on her lip as she considered the fabric of the Warden's shirt. "Can you take it off so I can see it? Seeing it would help me, I think. I've never casted a healing spell before, so I don't know what to do. I don't want to do what feels natural, before you suggest that, because you'll probably be on fire if I do."
"Oh," the Warden smirked, "You want to set me on fire? Well then. Lend me a hand please?"
Mara assisted the Warden in taking off Vidar's shirt. The Warden's breast band had ridden up her side as she'd walked and taken the fabric that held the poultice in place with it. "It's all green." Mara wrinkled her nose.
"That's Vidar's poultice."
Mara made a noncommittal sound and plucked the dressing fabric away from the Warden's binding. She dabbed away at the poultice, scraping away the green paste to get a good look at the wound. "His stitches are so precise. His hands must be so steady. What did it feel like to have his hands on your body?"
Disgusting was the first word that came to the Warden's mind, but that would be lying. "Strong." It was an honest response, if not a slightly titillating one. The Warden didn't want to feed the girl's fantasies too much. "And callused."
"Oh, Maker's breath," Mara whispered. "I am so in love with him."
The notion amused and frightened the Warden Commander. "If you heal the wound," said the Warden, "I'll introduce you to Vidar. But only," she continued sternly, "If you heal the wound."
"Done." The incentive was so strong that the spell was already on Mara's lips. Her fingertips traced the Warden's wound, and flesh slowly began to knit and mend. Ignoring the winces of the Warden as the skin grew around the stitches, Mara admired her handiwork. "Try to move."
The Warden pulled her arm over her head, swung it back and forth across her body, and then bended and twisted at the waist. She gave a satisfied grin. "Excellent. When you come of age, I'll make sure that you get your proper introduction."
Mara gave a disappointed sound. "You're a cheater."
"No, you have just never made bargains before." The Warden winked. "But I'll introduce you, on my honor. That is," the Warden gave the girl a knowing stare, "if I can find you. Remember, you'll be out hiding in the woods. I am not a tracker, and though Vidar is, unless he has met you, he is unlikely to go looking for you."
Mara shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not."
Turning to her armor, the Warden began removing pieces from the stand and placing them on the bed. Mara was sitting on the bed as she did so, talking about her mother's leather armor and how the materials were different, but their general design was the same. The Warden merely nodded her head and hummed her appraisal. Slipping Vidar's shirt over her head again, the Warden gestured for Mara to come to her side. She propped one leg on the edge of the bed and began pulling the corresponding armor pieces towards her. Mara knelt at her feet and slipped her armor into place, as the Warden did the same.
Then came the laborious task of lacing the Warden into her breastplate. Gambeson in place and padding secured, the Warden expected the inexperienced Mara to take a long time to tie her laces. However, Mara's little, quick fingers made short work of the Warden's breastplate, and the Warden found herself surprised at the girl's efficiency. "Excellent job, Mara," praised the Warden, to which the girl replied, "I do this for my mother too."
With the breastplate in place, the rest of the Warden's armor was attached easily. Tasset, pauldrons, and the like completed her set, and the Warden appeared to be the spitting image of a Warden Commander. Mara was staring at her with a curious expression.
"It is a very impressive armor set, isn't it?" the Warden gave a small twirl before turning to her vanity. The Warden's hair had been pinned haphazardly to her head at some point during her stay with Vidar, but going into battle required a more secure style. "Do you know how to braid, Mara?"
"Yes."
"Do it." The Warden perched herself on the edge of the bed and held out the necessary things that she had gathered for the girl in the palm of her hand. Little by little, the Warden's hair absorbed all the pins and ties as Mara brushed and worked. "So, erm…" Mara's face wrinkled as she neared the end of the braid.
The Warden saw Mara wince in the mirror.
"What is it?"
"Whathappenedtoyoureye?"
Reflexively, the Warden touched a gauntlet to her fake eye. "This?' She sounded more confident than she felt. "I lost it in a fight with a templar."
"Oh." Mara said nothing for a long while, and only muttered a quiet, "done," when she had finished.
When Mara's hands were gone from her head, the Warden immediately rose and went to her vanity. She opened its top drawer and plucked out the eye patch Celene had given her. Vidar had somehow managed to take hers, and the eye patch helped the Warden feel more secure. She would not go into battle without it, if she could help it. She slipped the patch over her head and settled it into position. As ridiculous as the pearl encrusted eye patch was, it would serve its purpose.
"Well, Mara," said the Warden, "you have fulfilled your obligation to me." She reached for her sword, and felt the familiar weight in her hand. A quick blow to the temple would do it. "And now it is time for me to fulfill my obligation to…" The Warden frowned. "Mara, do you hear horses?"
Mara nodded.
Going to the small window, the Warden looked out into her view of the courtyard. Sure enough, there were horses, and riders, and standards and pennants in a variety of colors. Men were wandering around on foot, and others were charging their horses through the streets of the Grey Warden compound.
Mara gently nudged the Warden with her hip, giving herself some room to look. "Oh," she breathed, her dark eyes round and wide. "The Chevaliers are here."
A busy chapter with a lot going on! Hopefully, everything makes sense. I'm sorry Chapter 28 took so long to get out, but the last few weeks have been mind-shatteringly busy, and I don't expect them to get any easier until Christmas. That being said, I'll do my best.
Thanks go out to the readers and to my beta Lady Winde! You guys make it all worthwhile.