Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 35: To Visit the Queen
"My lord Teyrn!"
The shout, surprisingly, was audible above the hellish noise of Fergus' troops as they dug in around Vigil's Keep.
He turned to hear the exultant captain's report.
"My lord, the Packtons' manor is ours! Our raid took them completely by surprise. Lady Liza and her men are prisoners, and her cousin Lord Simon is dead. We found her granaries and cellars well-stocked. The teamsters are retrieving much of the supplies even now."
"Well done, Seyforth," Fergus replied. "We'll be glad of it, if we're here as long as I anticipate."
He did not expect this to be easy, but the brief clash along the Pilgrim's Path yesterday had raised his men's morale. Howe had set a trap for them, but had not reckoned on Fergus expecting it, and having sent out some excellent scouts the day before. Without alerting the enemy, they had reported back. and Fergus had sent some light-armed skirmishers out to surprise Howe's men, while he advanced with his main body.
The ambushers had themselves been ambushed, and Howe's foot soldiers were slaughtered. Thomas Howe and some of his knights had managed to break away, and there had followed a running fight north. A few brave men had sacrificed themselves; more of them were picked off by mounted archers. Fergus reckoned that only a handful had survived to reach the Vigil. He had not seen Thomas' body among the slain. Perhaps it was weak of him, but he was relieved.
Thomas had been the little tag-along brother: the one who had pestered everyone, wanting to join in all their fun. He was only a few years younger than Bronwyn, but she had managed to make herself part of the older crowd. They had never been close, but Fergus was sure that Bronwyn would not relish Thomas' death.
Nor Delilah's, for that matter. Fergus' spies were sure she was at Vigil's Keep, probably in the same tower chambers her mother had favored. Fergus wondered if some of Rendon Howe's ire had stemmed from Fergus rejecting a match with Delilah, and choosing for himself on that long, exciting journey to Antiva. Delilah was a nice girl, but marrying her would have been like marrying his sister—though without all the hot temper, swordplay, and competitive spirit, to be sure.
Howe's fortress was strong; but not so strong as Howe believed. Fergus knew the place well from childhood, and had made good use of his enforced wait in Denerim, thinking through a workable strategy. The inner Keep was strongly fortified, but the outer works were weak: too spread out, and too dependent on a low wooden palisade. On the other hand, Howe might be well fixed for water and food: Fergus expected nothing else. They would dig in here, build counterworks, and Howe would be trapped.
In fact, Howe was trapped already. There was no backdoor to Vigil's Keep. Fergus had learned the lessons of Ostagar well, and had taken on a team of dwarven engineers, telling them that he wanted the best siege engines his money could buy. He could not hold this force together indefinitely. He must make quick progress, or his mercurial King would be wanting his troops back.
After a brief consultation, and some sketches of what was being done at Ostagar, his engineers agreed that they could devise weapons that would make Rendon Howe's life very miserable indeed, and his tenure of Vigil's Keep briefer than perhaps he had planned.
The dwarves were gloating now, smirking at the stone defying them. Their foreman approached Fergus, grinning.
"Sandstone, lord," Galtak chuckled. "The place is built of sandstone. Proof against arrows and swords, but not against dwarven wit! After a week of our trebuchets, it will melt like butter. Granite would have been trouble, but this…" he shook his head.
Fergus gave a nod at the machines they were assembling, and asked, "That's all very well and good, but will you be ready for my signal today?"
"We'll earn our gold, my lord, no fear!" the dwarf gave a little bow, and went back to his men, still laughing
Howe's men were shooting from the palisades. Fergus shrugged. Let them. They were wasting bolts and arrows, and doing him no harm at all. He called for his squire.
"Tyrone!" Fergus smiled down at the eager young lad. "I'm going to change my armor. I want to look my best when I issue my challenge to Arl Howe."
In an old chest lay a suit of silverite plate, lovingly preserved and carefully reworked to fit him well. It had been worn by his father the day he refused a kingdom. It had been worn by his grandfather when he defied the Emperor of Orlais. It had been worn by his great-grandfather, Aonghas Cousland, to the tournament where he had won the heart of King Darlan's daughter. Fergus would wear it today. Rendon Howe would understand what it meant.
Within the hour, he was resplendent; sitting his warhorse at the outer gate of Vigil's Keep. A captain flanked him on either side; behind was his squire, holding his helmet. Above them, the banner of Highever fluttered bravely in the wind, held high by another squire.
"Rendon Howe, Arl of Amaranthine!" Fergus raised his voice to carry past palisade and curtain wall. "I, Fergus Cousland, Teyrn of Highever, your rightful lord, call you to account! I name you traitor and murderer. I name you oathbreaker and outlaw. Too long have you cowered in your Keep, evading rightful punishment for your crimes. Come forth! Come forth and submit yourself to the King's Justice!"
A long silence, at last broken by Fergus' resonant voice.
"Rendon Howe, Arl of Amaranthine! I call you to account, in the King's name! Give yourself up, and you shall have justice. Give yourself up and your people will not suffer for your crimes. Give yourself up and your children will be spared. Prove yourself yet a man of some honor!"
Another silence. Fergus shouted, "Rendon Howe! For the last time, I call you to submit yourself to the King's Justice! Spare your vassals; spare your children; spare the kingdom the waste and evil of civil war!"
Above the wooden gate, a sneering face appeared. Howe glared down at the young man before him; the son of a man he had loved and hated and envied above all; a young man dressed in the ancient and noble armor of the Couslands: a man who should be dead.
"Young dogs bark loudest!" Howe shouted back. "Do you think me a fool, to go to my death like a sheep?"
Fergus frowned back, grim and dour. "Not like a sheep, but a shepherd: for a good shepherd will give his life for his sheep. I am here at the King's own command. Redeem your honor by your obedience to him, if for no other cause."
Howe stared at him, and finally said, "There it is, right there. That damned look in the eye that marked every Cousland success that held me back." Suddenly flushing with rage, he snatched a bow from a guardsman, and fired an arrow. It fell short, but not by much, and thudded into the ground a few yards away from the young teyrn.
"Sit by my gates as long your like, young fool, or take yourself off. It's all one to me! I can afford to wait, and you cannot! While you are waiting, reflect on this: I threw your brat and your Antivan whore into a midden to rot. The last thing your father saw was your mother kissing my foot! Those words are all you'll have from me! I have no alms for beggars or Couslands!"
Fergus stared at him, his face gone grey. His knights watched him anxiously. One squire swore softly under his breath; the other's eyes filled with tears. With no other words, Fergus lifted his hand.
"But I am not so ungenerous," he called back. "Take this from a Cousland, and know that I have much, much more for you!"
He dropped his hand, and the waiting trebuchet creaked and thundered. A round ball of stone arced out, ponderous and massive. It struck the tall stone gate of the Keep. and splintered the top corner into a thousand shards. Howe gaped, taken aback. Fergus granted him a grave and inscrutable look, turned his horse's head, and rode away; ignoring the futile arrows falling impotently behind him.
Riding to Denerim was exhilarating. Bronwyn enjoyed the journey, glad that she could travel without disguise.
She needed to get away. She needed to think about what had happened, because clearly nothing would ever be the same. The night before was a tangle of delight and awkwardness: nervous discomfort punctuated with bursts of intense pleasure. She had never undressed before a man, and her past glimpses of naked men had been matter-of-fact and unclouded by emotion—or had provoked fits of laughter. What had happened last night was nothing like that.
Had Loghain made a fool of her? Sometimes she thought he had, but he had also been kind—even tender. Did he imagine she belonged to him—that he could control her? She was still her own woman, but she could not deny that it had been sweet to nestle with him afterward, flesh to flesh, listening to his heart beating in the darkness.
He had wanted her to stay and sleep with him, but that was simply not tenable. She slipped from his bed, near midnight, and allowed him to help her clean herself before dressing all over again, and finding her own quarters. Fortunately, all her Wardens were already asleep or blind drunk by the time she returned. Most of them were still asleep by the time she rode away. Loghain had come to see her off, his eyes shadowed. Their public farewell was rather more decorous than the lingering kiss the night before. She needed time away from him in order to understand herself.
Her party was not as small as she had originally planned. Scout was with her, of course, and Tara, Jowan, Zevran, and Danith. Astrid had surprised Bronwyn by asking to join them. She was interested, it seemed, in seeing more of Ferelden. As she was a redoubtable warrior, it seemed to Bronwyn that she might as well grant the woman's request. She also liked the idea of the party including a representative of the dwarves, especially when she had her audience with the King. Alistair still had a large party remaining with him at Ostagar.
It was vital that they see the Queen as soon as possible. With Tara and Jowan's handy spells, they could make the journey in three days, first resting overnight at her cousin Bryland's castle at South Reach. They had gone cross-country from Ostagar to Bryland's arling instead of sticking to the Imperial Highway, hoping to shave yet more time from the journey. The horses—and Scout— needed rejuvenation and healing from the rough trip overland, but that was what mages were for.
They arrived: and found that the King's party had gone south on the Imperial Highway only a few hours before.
"You just missed him, my lady!"
Bronwyn was both glad and sorry. It was her duty to brief the King about the progress of the alliances, but she knew that it would be difficult not to let something slip about her knowledge of his secret alliance with Orlais. Now, she could speak freely to the Queen— in private—about the plots against her, with no fear of the King interrupting their too-interesting conversation.
She had visited Castle Bryland twice before, but she had been very young at the time. It was quite old: a square, bare tower with a low curtain wall, protected on three sides by a bend in the River Drakon, and on the east side by a deep moat and a drawbridge. It was in the process of a vigorous housecleaning, in the absence of the Arl and his family.
Cousin Leonas, of course, was still on campaign at Ostagar. Habren was swanning about Denerim, no doubt basking in her advantageous betrothal to Bann Vaughan. Cousin Leonas' two young sons were also at the Denerim mansion, keeping safe far from the darkspawn, under the gimlet eyes of their tutor and their aunt, Leonas' widowed older sister Lady Werburga.
I shall have to pay a call on them. Cousin Leonas had made a point of asking her, and he had been very kind and friendly. That was the downside of not travelling incognito. Habren was insupportable, but Lothar and Corbus were practically unknown to her. They might be perfectly nice boys. It was important to maintain family ties, especially since Fergus was likely to need all the support in the Landsmeet that he could get, with his teyrnir contested by Rendon Howe.
Nonetheless, the seneschal and his staff made them welcome and paid them every attention, though the current state of the Keep meant that they would not have private rooms. The cook, especially seemed happy to have guests to feed.
Before they retired for the night, Bronwyn called her people into the chamber she was sharing with Astrid, and gave them further information about the mission.
"We are not going to look for the Dalish right away. We are going to Denerim first. I have a letter for the Queen that I must deliver. And considering our difficulties in the battle with the dragon, there is a master armorer in Denerim whom I wish to consult. We barely survived Flemeth. The Archdemon is much larger and more powerful. Obviously our current weapons won't do."
This change in plans was greeted with disappointment by Danith, and with interest by the rest. Zevran, especially, always preferred a visit to the fleshpots of civilization to camping in the wilds.
"The shemlen queen cannot wait until we meet with Zathrian's clan?" Danith asked, her voice cold.
Bronwyn looked her in the eye. "I cannot wait. I gave my word to Teyrn Loghain that I would deliver this message. Furthermore, we need supplies from the Warden Compound and to get Master Wade, the armorer, working on improved weapons for us as soon as possible."
Tara played peacemaker. "You'll find Denerim very interesting, Danith. I'm not saying you will like it, but it's very interesting all the same. Maybe this time we can get in to see the alienage. I might have some actual relatives there!"
Everyone slept for over twelve hours. Bronwyn was up earlier than the rest, and she was not terribly surprised to be joined by Astrid.
The dwarf woman had found getting away from Ostagar to be something of a relief, even if it involved riding ill-tempered four-legged beasts at incredible speed. Everyone in the dwarven army knew who she was. Many were sympathetic. Some were amused. Her brother's cronies were smug. Astrid had no use for any of those attitudes. It was not a very pleasant situation for her.
Therefore, a chance to get away and see more of this mysterious surface world was not unwelcome. She liked most of her fellow Wardens and found their company pleasant enough: Alistair, Cullen, and Jowan behaved to her with respect; Leliana was amusing and harmless; the elf mage was polite; the handsome blonde mage gave her no trouble, since he had eyes for not much else other than his dark-haired mage girlfriend. Danith was aloof, but her hostility to humans did not extend to those she called Children of the Stone.
In addition, the companions who had attached themselves to the Wardens were interesting people. Sten was an estimable warrior, though his beliefs made him more a curiosity to her than anything else. From what she could gather, his people, the qunari, were regarded as a serious threat. The elf girl Adaia had no manners of any kind, but had the sense not to pester Astrid with foolish questions. The blond elf assassin was impudently gallant, but he was not particularly interested in Astrid, so the tiresome gallantry was simply a reflex, and could be ignored. The boy Carver, the new recruit, seemed eager to prove himself, and was much like any other eager young warrior.
Brosca. It was very curious, associating with a Duster as an…equal…but Brosca was brave and skilled, and clearly well-meaning, despite her deplorably uncouth behavior. In time, she felt she could learn to live with Brosca. Oghren, strangely, bothered her much more. He was no Gorim, but sometimes associating with him tricked her into an illusion of normalcy. He was so like so many other warrior-caste types she had known. Nonetheless, her life would never be 'normal' again. She must resign herself to it.
And she had considerable respect for Bronwyn. It was not surprising that she would find common cause with another noble—even a human noblewoman from a surface land. Or perhaps it was that she was inevitably drawn to those in power…
At any rate, she would see this city of Denerim, and see for herself how the humans lived. She very likely would meet the Queen of Ferelden, and judge her palace for herself. That would be diverting.
"I hope you slept well," Bronwyn greeted her, already in the process of downing a large bowl of oat porridge.
Surfacer porridge was excellent. Astrid accepted her own bowl from a servitor with satisfaction. "Thank you, I did. My bed was very comfortable."
In fact she had found their quarters perfectly agreeable. Each of them had her own bed, and the room was spacious enough. It was still strange to see bright light slanting through the windows in the morning, but her room had a splendid view over green fields, given extra interest by the tall dark shapes in the distance that she had learned on her journey were called the Southron Hills.
Astrid enjoyed her first spoonful, and then asked, "You don't believe that we can be in Denerim by nightfall?"
Bronwyn shook her head, intent on her own bowl. "Neither the mages nor the animals can endure a day like yesterday. With luck and the mages' spells we should be there the day after tomorrow. If the horses aren't injured. I would like to be there as soon as possible. There is much to do there. We'll stay tonight at an inn on the West Road marked on my map—The Man-At-Arms. It's supposed to be fairly nice."
Astrid studied her commander thoughtfully. "I notice that your letter to the King was not of such moment that you ordered us chase after him. With that spell the mages used, we might have caught up to him quickly."
Bronwyn gave the dwarf woman a keen look. "That is true. Everything in my letter to the King he will learn from Alistair when he arrives at Ostagar. My letter to the Queen takes precedence."
"Teyrn Loghain is the father of the Queen, is he not?"
"He is."
Astrid thought about that for a little while, while they ate their porridge in silence. Then she said, "While Grey Wardens are supposedly apolitical, it appears that that is not so much a hard-and-fast rule as it is a…guideline."
Bronwyn reached for a cup of cider. "In a perfect world, Grey Wardens could be apolitical. However, all my experiences tell me that is impossible. Simply to obtain the support we need, I've had to play politics every step of the way. We are not numerous enough—obviously—to fight the darkspawn alone. Though all life on Thedas is threatened by the darkspawn, I've had to grant endless favors and do the bidding of kings and queen, of priests and clan chiefs. You saw for yourself what I had to do in Orzammar to get the dwarves to honor their treaty. It's like that everywhere. The King of Ferelden's support is necessary to our efforts, since the Blight is in his territory. However, I think that ultimately the skill and valor of Teyrn Loghain will be even more vital."
Astrid gave it more thought. "There is some division between the King and Queen, is there not?"
The former Aeducan princess was entirely too astute. Bronwyn hesitated, and then whispered, "There is, but she does not know it…yet."
Astrid's eyes lit up with the excitement of an Orzammar intriguer. This was the sort of thing she had missed. "Is he planning to divorce her? Or kill her?"
Bronwyn was ready to dismiss the first question, since she really did not want to talk about the subject at all, but the second question brought her up short.
"Andraste's nightgown!" She tried to look indignant, and tell the dwarf that Ferelden was not like that, but that would be a barefaced lie. Brownyn had studied too much of her own country's history to have any illusions. She did not think Cailan capable of murder—especially the murder of his beautiful young wife. Nonetheless, ugly things had happened in the past; in the pursuit of power, or for the greater good…
She lowered her voice. "I don't want to talk about it here, or anywhere where we might be overheard. Nothing can be allowed to disrupt our campaign against the darkspawn, and certainly not the personal affairs of kings. We must put a stop to anything that threatens the war effort."
That made perfect sense to Astrid. "Absolutely. I am looking forward to our time in Denerim. Would it be possible for me to be presented to the Queen?"
"I don't see why not…"
Tara came bounding down to breakfast, followed by Zevran, who was trying to flirt with a sullen Danith; and far behind, a quietly cheerful Jowan. The mage had not slept so well in…well, ever. At least he had once Zevran had gone to sleep and stopped quizzing Jowan about which of their companions he found most beautiful.
Bronwyn's polite queries about their rest were met by assurances—except for Danith.
"The bed was too soft," she declared ungraciously. "It felt like I was sinking into a pool of mud."
"How trying for you," Bronwyn said, on the edge of hard words. Zevran winked at her, and she managed to smile in spite of herself.
The breakfast was also not to the Dalish elf's satisfaction. Tara asked her all about the Dalish diet, which distracted Danith into a long lecture about the benefits of hallenansal, a soft, pudding-like substance made from the fermentation of halla milk. From Danith's description, it was not quite cheese.
"No, we do not add salt," she said stiffly, in response to Tara's question. "Excessive salt is unhealthy. Shemlen eat far too much salt. Hallenensal is eaten plain, or with fruit gathered from the forest. It is also sometimes sweetened with honey."
"In Ostwick I had clotted cream," Bronwyn said. "It's like a thickened milk, and it has a natural sweetness—"
"—The Gift of the Halla is far superior to anything made from the milk of shemlen beasts of burden," Danith declared, with cool satisfaction.
"I'm sure it's delicious," Tara said soothingly. "and very wholesome."
Zevran gave them all a dazzling smile. "I have some acquaintance with it myself. In my time among the Dalish we had hallenansal for breakfast every day. And for supper. And for snacks. Sometimes it was mixed with herbs or with shredded raw fish. Or with roots and berries. Or seeds and nuts. Every day." The dazzling smile became a trifle glazed.
Bronwyn was amused back into composure.
Soon they were on their way, and Bronwyn considered where they should stay once they were in Denerim. There was the Warden Compound, of course, which she was eager to see for herself.
On the other hand, she could also stay at Highever House, which would be a little like home. She had not been there in years—not since Cailan and Anora's wedding—but she remembered it well. There was a room there that was hers, and might even have some things of hers stowed away.
No, it would have to be the Warden Compound. She was making an official visit, in her official capacity. Highever House was really Fergus' now, and she could not in good conscience bring guests there without his permission. Furthermore, the Compound was part of the Palace, and she would have easier access to the Queen. If time permitted, she would visit Highever House and look for anything belonging to her.
They were all exhausted by the time they clattered into the outer courtyard of the Palace. The Man-At-Arms Inn had been more than a bit grubby, and dealing with excited gawkers had been an irritant Bronwyn had not anticipated. Worse still was the innkeeper's assumption—which Bronwyn had taken some pains to correct— that Tara, Zevran, and Danith were servants, who would make do with pallets on the kitchen floor. Girl Warden or not, the innkeeper was not happy about elves in his best rooms, and had charged accordingly. Really, it was positively foul how some people treated elves…
There was impudent curiosity about Danith's clan tattoos, and even a few murmurs about "heretics." Bronwyn breathed a deep sigh of relief when she realized that Danith simply did not know what the people were talking about. The Dalish elf was too distracted, anyway, by her disgust at the "dirty, greasy" food they were served.
Worse still, the mages' staffs were a giveaway, and a number of country people had given them fearful looks and then slunk away, whispering among themselves. A pair of Templars arrived very early in the morning to investigate the rumors of "apostates on the loose." Ser Fillian and Ser Bors had been very polite, but they had their duty to perform. They demanded a signed statement from Bronwyn, affirming that these mages were Grey Wardens, and traveling on official business under the supervision of their commander. There was nothing in the Grey Warden treaties that gave the Chantry had the right to ask for anything of the sort, but it was sign the statement, waste time arguing, or simply kill the men. She quietly vowed to camp in future, or stay at the castles and manors of people whose hospitality and good breeding she trusted. Or perhaps the Grey Wardens needed to purchase some strategically-located land for a few bases around Ferelden.
And she would have to think of some way to make her mages look less like...mages. Jowan and Tara would wear light armor in future. With griffons on it. The Warden tunics were not well-known enough in Ferelden to deflect attention or garner respect. And surely there was a way to disguise a mage's staff. Could it be made to look like a longsword, or a spear? Did it have to be so bloody conspicuous?
As they neared the city, their progress was hindered by the thin but steady stream of refugees making their way along the West Road up to Denerim. Bronwyn sighed with relief at the sight of the spire of Fort Drakon.
No one was expecting them at the Warden Compound, and there was a tiresome wait until the grooms made their appearance to take the horses to the stables. Danith looked about, scowling at the great stone pile. How could shems choose to live with nothing green in sight?
Things improved considerably after that, however. Mistress Rannelly, the Warden's housekeeper, peered out of the Warden's entrance and gave a little squeal at the sight of their tunics. She ducked back inside and Bronwyn could hear her issuing quick, excited orders to the staff.
Alistair had told her about the woman. She really did look something like a cottage loaf: soft and comforting. Her face might be lined with age, but her eyes were bright as a young woman's, and she bustled out to greet her Wardens with a broad smile.
"The Girl Warden!" she exclaimed, taking Bronwyn's hand in one of her own and patting it all the way to the door. "You are the Girl Warden, aren't you? And your fine mabari, too! We've all heard about Scout! I'm Peridota Rannelly, and oh, I'm so glad you've come at last. We've been quite bereft here, grieving over our Duncan and all our poor boys. He recruited you, didn't he? I thought so. Such an eye for the best, our Duncan had. Oh, introduce me to all our new Wardens! Tara—such a pretty name. You are so young, my dear! Have you been getting enough to eat? Well, well, you'll find no such trouble in the Wardens' Hall! Danith! Am I pronouncing it right? Danith. Duncan so wanted to recruit more Dalish elves. He had such a high opinion of the Dalish, did Duncan. You are very welcome here. Jowan. Another mage? That's very exciting. The Wardens need all the mages they can get! You look tired, my boy. I have a tonic that will set you right-Zevran! Not a Warden? Oh, well… Nobody's perfect, and I'm sure you'll come around soon. Astrid! Duncan always said the dwarves made wonderful Wardens. Don't worry about your boots, my dear: Toby will see to them, and we can have the floor scrubbed again in a jiffy. Such a lot of Girl Wardens, really! I've never seen the like. Well, a new broom sweeps clean. How is our Alistair? A sweet boy and a dab hand with a sword and shield, too. Oh my, second-in-command…I suppose someone has to be. Warden-Commander, you'll want to see the accounts, and there is a pile of letters in the study for you, but what am I saying? You don't know where the study is, do you? The Commander's room is adjoining. We stored our poor Duncan's things in the west attic. Some of them, anyway…We'll have beds done up for your in a trice and food on the table. I suppose you'll want baths as soon as may be. Not that you're so very dirty, but still…"
Bronwyn let the tidal wave of words wash over her. It was pleasant, really, to be fussed over. It reminded her of home…of Nan—though Nan's fussing would have been mixed with more pointed criticism of Bronwyn's current appearance.
"Baths would be wonderful, Mistress Rannelly. I need to apply for an audience with the Queen as soon as possible, but I certainly can't go before her as I am now."
"Certainly not," the housekeeper agreed. "The Wardens have standards to maintain. The Queen is not well, poor soul, but I have no doubt she'll see you. The King left only three days ago, you know…"
"Yes, we missed him on the way, but I promised Teyrn Loghain to give Her Majesty a letter …"
"Well, give Tamsin the gown you're to wear, and she have it brushed and pressed for you by the time you're clean enough to wear it!"
Bronwyn paused. "Actually, I don't have a gown. I'll wear my clean breeches and a fresh shirt. If a clean tunic could be found, that might be a good idea."
"Of course we can find you a tunic, but…" the good woman looked a bit flustered. "We have far more in the storerooms for men than women, but surely there is something suitable. Why don't I have a look, while you're taking your bath? But first, let's get you all something eat. I know about Warden appetites! We always have some soup on the simmer in the kitchens, just in case…"
As they walked, Bronwyn took the opportunity to look around. The entrance to the Warden Compound was a low, arched doorway. A barrel-vaulted passage of stone led past an empty guard post and some closed doors, and then into a kind of ante-room, furnished only with a candlestand and a bench for waiting visitors. A maidservant, running ahead, pushed the doors open on a high, wide, and airy chamber. The lofty ceiling boasted heavy beams, and from them, silken pennants dangled down: standards of the nations of Thedas, of noble houses, of the Grey Wardens. A long table, rubbed and polished into a mellow shine, ran down the middle of the room with benches on either side. A splendid chair whose arms and feet were carved into griffon's claws was placed at the far end, in between a pair of fireplaces. Above each of the fireplaces hung a portrait. Even at this distance, Bronwyn could recognize one of them as that of Duncan.
"The refectory, Warden-Commander," Mistress Rannelly said, with a proud gesture. Her eyes dimmed in a moment of grief. "We put up our Duncan's picture just as soon as we heard. And we moved Commander Genevieve's picture from the study, so the two of them could look down at the Hall. It seemed right and proper, somehow."
So that was Warden-Commander Genevieve of Orlais, who had brought the Grey Wardens back to Ferelden. Bronwyn went closer to have a look. It was not a very good portrait, being too generic to tell much about the woman herself. For that matter, it had probably been painted after her death by someone who had never met her.
The woman in the portrait was certainly not very glamorous. The portrait showed a stern, middle-aged face, pale and worn, under short-cropped, no-nonsense grey hair. The burden of duty had carved deep lines around her eyes and mouth. The background was dark and shadowy, reminiscent of the Deep Roads where Genevieve had met her end, leading a mysterious mission that had included King Maric himself. Nothing much was known about the mission. It occurred to Bronwyn that Teyrn Loghain, the confidant of the king, might be the only one left who knew anything about what had happened. She must remember to ask him. She felt herself blush hotly, thinking of him.
Her people had scattered and were themselves looking about; admiring the weapons stands and the armor stands and the various curiosities on display. Tara was in conversation with a busy elven maid, and they were both gesticulating in an excited way. Bronwyn smirked. At least Tara was gesticulating: the maid was attempting to set the table and serve them a meal. Tara then drew Danith and Astrid into the conversation.
Mistress Rannelly led Bronwyn to a door off the refectory. There was another, much shorter passage. At one side was a narrow spiral staircase leading both up and down: on the other was an arched doorway.
"There's the study, Warden-Commander dear," said the woman. "And through that door beyond is your bedchamber. I'll just open them up right now. There."
The study was more than that: it was filled with bookcases, chests, and cupboards. In addition to a big desk, the room was furnished with a settee in front the fireplace, and a chess table was pushed up against the wall, with chairs set primly on two opposing sides. From the curved wall to the outside, it was clear that the room was a section of a round tower. Two arched windows lit the room brightly. The sills were deep enough to curl up in with a good book. There was no reason not to share this pleasant place with her companions. The desk, she saw, had a lock for anything that needed to be kept secret. Most of the cupboards and chests could be locked as well.
The adjoining bedchamber was smaller, and furnished simply and without ostentation. Still, it was hers by right, and hers alone. Scout trotted ahead of her, sniffing.
"—and Niniel will make up the bed for you and put away your things. We'll find a warm blanket for your mabari. I thought that we could make up two of the rooms here in the tower for the others, rather than opening up that big drafty dormitory. How long will you be staying?"
"I'm not sure," Bronwyn told the housekeeper, distracted by her pleasure at having a private room. "It largely depends on the Queen. Not more than a few days, I expect. You said Her Majesty was unwell…"
The older woman sighed deeply. "Off her food, she was. We hoped we knew what that meant, but we were wrong. Under the weather, she is, and the King riding away, merry as you please, to see the elves! Of course, there is a war on and we all have to sacrifice, but it's a heavy burden on her, poor lass."
Bronwyn thought quickly, "Send one of your people to the seneschal directly, to inform Her Majesty that I am here with dispatches from Ostagar. Meanwhile, I shall try to make myself fit to be seen…"
She caught the fragrance of cooked food, and ducked out of the room quickly. Whatever it was, it smelled very good. Fruit was heaped on a huge silver salver, and crusty bread in baskets. To her surprise, her people were standing by the benches up near the grand Commander's chair, and they were waiting for her…
Tara grinned. "Tamsin informed us that we weren't to sit down until the Commander did. She was scandalized at our greedy manners!"
"Then I'm sorry to keep you waiting," Bronwyn laughed, and after a brief moment of hesitation, seated herself in the Commander's chair. Instantly her five companions thumped themselves down on the benches and were eagerly devouring bowls of good pea soup.
Mistress Rannelly herself scrubbed Bronwyn's filthy hair, and then patiently combed through the tangles. It took some time to have enough hot water for everyone, but the pleasure of proper baths put even Danith in a mellower mood.
"And we found you a gown!" The housekeeper toweled Bronwyn's hair again, anxious to get it dry before the royal summons came. "Tamsin, show the Warden-Commander what was in the stores!"
Bronwyn caught her breath as yards of the most shimmering, sumptuous grey velvet was spread out on her bed for her examination.
"We had our work cut out for us to find something that would fit a tall, broad-shouldered lady like yourself, but there was this, and I don't think it has ever been worn. It was brought from Orlais by Commander Genevieve twenty years ago, but you see it's like new!"
Bronwyn put out her hand to stroke the fabric. It was the finest Orlesian silk velvet: the costliest of dress fabrics. Either Genevieve had been independently wealthy, or, more likely, she was a warrior whose concessions to pomp and ceremony went only as far as having the one gown, but that one the best to be had.
The Orlesian style would have been strange to Ferelden eyes twenty years ago, but was now pretty much what was worn by all Ferelden woman who could afford it. Heavy silver braid trimmed the high neck, accented the shoulders, and finished off the sleeves. The skirt of the gown was straight and split in four parts, much like a Warden's tunic, with the splits in front over the thighs. The bodice was embroidered in silver, picked out with black, with a griffon, wings outspread. This was not just a woman's only gown, it was the gown of a woman who defined herself totally as a Grey Warden.
Tamsin had found all the rest of the trimmings that went with it: a double belt, black velvet set with crystal, and a black silk underskirt.
"I could simply wear my breeches and boots under it—" Bronwyn began to suggest, and then saw the look in the other women's eyes. She desisted. She could wear it as it was meant to be worn, at least this once. Once her hair was dry enough to be braided up—more elaborately than her usual style—they set about lacing her into the gown, and adjusting the fit with pins.
"Commander Genevieve was broader in the chest and hips than you, my dear, but of course she was no longer a young girl," Mistress Rannelly remarked. "And her preferred weapon was a greatsword. That certainly puts muscle on anyone, man or woman! I'll take a few stitches in the dress tonight, and it will fit you like it was made for you."
"Let me see!" Tara cried, She peeked into the room, barefoot, in a man's too-big shirt, her own hair sopping wet. "You look splendid!"
Astrid was waiting for Danith to finish in the bath, and came to look as well; carefully not touching anything in the clean room. It would be good to bathe again. She admired the dress in a more measured way.
"It's as much a…uniform…as a gown," she judged.
"True," Bronwyn agreed. "It's very official-looking, but for my audience with the Queen, that's all to the good."
She studied herself in the long Tevinter mirror, and decided she liked what she saw. The length was a sensible one: the gown's skirt ended just above her ankles. The underskirt could be adjusted to the same length, or pulled down to sweep the floor. She liked her hair too, and paused, regretting the indelible scar. At least her hair covered it somewhat. She liked the sensation of being dressed up once again so much that she was reluctant to take the dress off.
That proved to be convenient, for the royal summons soon arrived, and Bronwyn set off for the front gate of the Palace, feeling feather-light without her armor and a layer of grime.
Anora looked up wearily at the quick sound of boots on stone. They came to an abrupt stop at the door of the Little Audience Chamber, and there was muttered conversation. It all made her head buzz painfully.
"Majesty," murmured Erlina, "It is the Grey Warden."
"Send her in here," Anora whispered, trying not to aggravate her headache. "I don't need to leave my sitting room for Bronwyn Cousland."
Anora had been dully surprised by the message that the Grey Warden Bronwyn was in Denerim and requesting an audience. Everything was so difficult nowadays. What did the Girl Warden want? Everyone always seemed to want something. Perhaps she had brought a letter from Father. The idea irritated her further. The gossip about the two of them, dutifully related by Erlina, was scandalous. What was Father thinking, carrying on so? The thought of Father carrying on with anyone was disturbing enough, but doubly so with a girl younger than his daughter! Father had been alone so long that he should be used to it by now.
"The Commander of the Grey, Your Majesty," a guard announced quietly. He had a soothing voice. Anora would make sure he stood guard at her rooms more often.
She was a little startled by the person bowing, then advancing toward her. This woman bore little resemblance to the Bronwyn Cousland she knew. She had grown taller and older, certainly, and she was almost gaunt, with a serious expression that was not at all like Fergus Cousland's lop-sided, endearing grin. She had alarmingly green eyes that surely Anora would have remembered. For a brief, frightening instant she believed that an assassin had penetrated the Palace.
But the tall figure in the grey velvet gown blazoned with a griffon merely bowed again.
"Your Majesty. I come from Ostagar with news of the campaign and a private letter from Teyrn Loghain."
Anora stared at her for a moment, and then extended a pale, languid hand for the letter.
She read, her befogged brain struggling with the code. Then she read it again. It was the most distressing letter she had ever received.
Cailan was planning to divorce her. He was planning to divorce her and marry the Empress of Orlais, the most glamorous woman in the world.
Had she not been so weak and miserable, the little moan of despair would not have escaped her. But it did, and Bronwyn started forward in concern.
"Your Majesty—"
"Sit!" It was rude, but Anora was too wretched to care about her manners. "You know the contents of this letter. You brought my father the evidence. He credits it."
"Your Majesty, this should be private—" The green eyes glanced sharply at Erlina, waiting demurely for Anora's commands.
"I trust Erlina implicitly—" Anora paused. This was too serious a matter, and while Anora knew and trusted Erlina, Bronwyn did not, and might not speak freely if Erlina remained in the room. "Erlina," she said instead, "fetch my tea. The Commander will join me."
The maid seemed displeased, but left the room. Bronwyn took the moment to speak. "Yes. I regret to tell you it is all true. I brought the wedding treaty to your father. The King believes that it is on its way to Orlais." She spoke quickly, giving the Queen the affair in brief, not dwelling on the murder of Marjolaine, but not pretending it had never happened, either. She mentioned the Orlesian plot to kidnap Alistair and herself, at which Anora raised her brows and then nodded thoughtfully.
"Yes…Alistair is Cailan's bastard brother. The son of a serving maid. I have heard of him."
That Alistair's mother was a Grey Warden, and no serving maid was none of Anora's business, so Bronwyn did not dispute her words.
"Marjolaine was also the agent who lured Rendon Howe into murdering my father. Her goal was to destabilize the north, just as the south of Ferelden is under attack by the darkspawn. She seems to have succeeded."
"Your brother took his forces north four days ago," Anora told her. "His men have invested the area around Vigil's Keep, and he has sent his challenge to Howe."
Bronwyn sighed, wishing she could have seen him first…wishing she could be with him. "Maker give him strength," she said. She looked at the white-faced woman opposite her, and said, "And you, too, Majesty. I am sorry to see you so unwell. When did this illness come upon you?"
"About ten days ago," Anora replied, no longer bothering to pretend she was perfectly well. "It has rather crept up on me…" She paused. She was not a fool, even with her brain in a fog. She was not a fool…
Bronwyn was staring at her, alarmed, the poison-green eyes boring into hers. Perhaps she, too, had realized that Anora began feeling ill shortly after the King had signed a treaty setting her aside…
"No…" Anora whimpered.
The maid appeared with the tea tray: her trusted, valued Erlina.
"Your tea, Majesty."
Anora reached out a trembling hand, and clutched at the fragile little cup. Such a delicate thing… She looked up into Erlina's face. and saw something she had missed.
The cup fell to the floor, scattering shards of painted Orlesian porcelain.
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Wow. Over a thousand reviews… I'm so glad so many of you are enjoying this story. It's far from over.