Chapter 36
Moments of Weakness
Lyra snickered as Alistair shoveled food into his mouth. "So, what you're telling me is, they named it that because the rocks are red."
The Warden swallowed, grinning as he wiped a smear of mutton gravy from his chin. "That's what I'm saying. I know, it seems unbelievable."
Lyra giggled and shook her head, rolling her eyes as she turned back to her dinner. She'd just scooped up a spoonful of beans when a lump of blooded fur splashed onto her plate.
Shrieking, Lyra flipped the entire meal from her lap, the dish clanging to the ground and spilling stew everywhere. Kestrel leapt to the rescue, lapping up bits of meat and sauce.
Lyra scowled at Alistair, who'd begun laughing at her. The sound of a throat clearing drew both of their gazes to their favorite apostate, who regarded them with her hands upon her hips. "What, I ask," she said in a voice soft and menacing, "is the meaning of that?"
Lyra dug her tongue into her cheek, taking a moment to gather her patience. "That was my dinner. I might ask you the same thing."
"That," Morrigan announced in a haughty voice, "is a disemboweled squirrel."
"Ah." Annoyance flared. "If dropping a disemboweled squirrel into my dinner is your idea of a joke, it isn't funny."
"I agree, 'tis anything but funny. And when I found it in my things, 'twas anything but 'funny'." Morrigan's glare could have melted stone. "Your disgusting animal left that slobbery carcass among my personal effects. I don't know why you even keep him - and I don't know why he would hide a bleeding corpse in my things!"
The penitent mabari crept forward on his belly, his eyes big and his ears laid flat as he whined up at Morrigan.
Lyra sighed and folded her arms, transferring her ire to her dog. "Kestrel, did you do that?"
"Lighten up, Morrigan. It was a gift. He's showing you that he likes you, aren't you, puppy?" Alistair said lazily, and reached over to ruffle the mabari's ears.
"I prefer my food less than rotten when I eat it, hound," Morrigan said in a cool, irritated tone. "Not to mention cooked."
A pathetic whine sang from Kestrel's throat, his liquid eyes doleful.
"Oh, for goodness' sake. I'm not angry. Not truly. But the next time your furry little heart wishes to gift me with a dead animal, do not bury it in my bedding."
"Do you want me to wash everything for you, Morrigan? I can get extra blankets from Bodahn, and yours will be ready again in the morning," Lyra offered.
"Do not trouble yourself. I have already taken care of it." The witch turned to Kestrel, who hunkered in shame at her feet, his eyes turned up in mournful plea. "Do not stare at me like that, mongrel. Your supposed charms will not work."
Kestrel whined, then 'rowled' in the back of his throat. Mabari were supposed to be smart enough not to talk, but it sounded almost as if he was making the attempt.
"I have nothing you desire! Why do you keep looking at me so? Can you not tell when you are not wanted?"
Kestrel stood and worked his head beneath her hand.
Morrigan curled her fingers away from his fur, patting gingerly with the palm of her hand. "There. Now desist in pestering me, odious canine." She lifted her hands away from her body and turned to go.
Kestrel began to follow her, but Lyra signaled him away. The dog padded off sadly, his head hanging in dejection. He flopped down beside Leliana, who was tuning her new lute and strumming the strings quietly. One of the villagers had given the lute to Alistair, who had re-gifted it to Leliana, much to the bard's surprise and delight. She had played it for everyone the evening before, and the entire caravan had joined in for an impromptu evening of song and dance. Alistair had been passed from hand to hand, much to his embarrassment. Lyra didn't think there was a single woman in the caravan he hadn't danced with. She'd had many offers to dance, as well, but the attention she got was nothing compared to Alistair. Lothering had adopted him. It was lovely to see Alistair's estimation of himself rise, surrounded by people who wanted to love him.
Lyra threw a dirty look at the mage's retreating back as she flopped back down next to Alistair, her stomach grumbling over her lost dinner. "I can't believe she just dropped that thing in my lap. She's such a savage."
"She's not so bad," Alistair demurred. "A little rough around the edges, sure, but as you said, she's not a bad sort."
Lyra gave him an odd look as she reached for her plate, planning on cleaning and refilling it. "I know you two have settled your differences, but that's just weird, to hear you say Morrigan's not so bad."
"She just doesn't understand a lot about humans. She grew up basically alone, you know. One step away from being raised by wolves."
"I suppose," Lyra said, shuddering again as she caught sight of the dismembered critter lying in the dirt.
"It was sort of funny," Alistair grinned. For answer, she smacked his shoulder repeatedly as he laughed and tried to block her hands.
.oOo.
At her fire, Morrigan kept her eyes on her book as she held out her hand. Kestrel's teeth took the bit of meat from her fingers, gentle as can be, before he wolfed it down with quiet doggy noises.
"If you tell anyone of this, I shall kill you in your sleep," she murmured, turning a page.
The hound licked her fingers.
.oOo.
Four days later, the caravan rolled into Redcliffe, the marchers tired and dusty and ready for roofs and beds. With the slow pace of the caravan wheels and the pack of humanity that straggled behind, it had taken longer than the Wardens had expected to get there. Alistair and Lyra scouted on ahead of the group to alert Bann Teagan to the coming horde, and Redcliffe rolled out a royal welcome for the refugees.
"I'm glad you thought of this," Alistair said to Lyra. "It almost seems like it was meant to be. Not that I'm glad so many died in the demon attacks, but at least we were able to save some folks."
The Wardens and their party were invited to guest in Redcliffe's castle, and they settled gratefully into comfortable rooms with hot water and plush beds. Arlessa Isolde was welcoming, although she made no further overtures of friendship toward Lyra or Alistair. Bann Teagan was happy to see them, though, and Connor gave an excited hug to all but Morrigan and Sten, who stayed out of arms' reach.
Alistair and Lyra asked quietly about Arl Eamon, and Teagan told them there had been no change. None of the knights sent in search of the Urn had come home to Redcliffe. The situation was growing desperate. Eamon was being kept alive somehow; Mother Hannah came to pray over him daily, but he was wasted as a skeleton, his eyes shrunken back into a taut skull. How long could he last?
"How went the search in Denerim? Did you find Brother Genitivi?" Teagan asked over dinner. They told him of Genitivi's journal and the false assistant Weylon, but Lyra tried to keep the descriptions of Weylon and the carnage to a minimum since Connor was listening closely.
"The Urn is still our best chance," Isolde said at last, resolved. "I will continue my prayers to the Maker. Surely not all the knights have been lost."
"Whether they have or not, we plan to go to Haven next," Alistair said. "We'll do everything in our power to help Eamon."
Lyra nodded. Though she wished to save Eamon for Alistair's sake, as well, the influence they would gain by having the Arl on their side made the errand irresistible. With her parents dead, the only person who held more political sway than Teyrn Loghain was Arl Eamon Guerrin. Stopping Loghain from strong-arming the throne would take all the help they could muster.
Bodahn needed only a day in Redcliffe, since the original population of Redcliffe was so small, and they agreed to set out for Lake Calenhad very soon.
"I was thinking," Alistair said that night after dinner. They were in his room, washing their clothing in a tub of hot soapy water they'd begged from the servants. Kestrel snoozed in the corner, his giant head resting on his paws. Tunics and smallclothes littered the room; every surface sported a drying garment. "Maybe we should go ahead of the caravan to Haven. According to the map in Brother Genitivi's journal, it's only a day and a half from here. We can split up; leave a few people with Bodahn, and we'll go to Haven to see what there is to see. Save time, you know?" Alistair wrung out a sock and handed it to Lyra.
Lyra nodded, thinking about it. It made sense. With their party acting as guardians, the caravan was moving at a better pace than Bodahn had expected, but both she and Alistair were chafing at the delays. It was only to be expected when traveling with a merchant, but even so, the days were slipping away faster than Lyra liked to think about. The Archdemon would hardly wait until they were ready. She draped the sock over a length of rope they had strung between the bedposts. "So, you and I will go. Who else?"
"Morrigan, I think. And maybe Zevran, and Kestrel of course," Alistair mused. "Wynne, Sten and Leliana can go with Bodahn to Lake Calenhad. Sten can look for his sword while they're there, and Wynne can check in with the Circle if she needs to. She might want to pick up any magical supplies she needs, as well."
Lyra sat back and gazed at Alistair. His arms were slicked with water, the bar of soap in one hand as he brushed it vigorously over the last shirt in the tub. A speculative look was in his eyes as he considered the various attributes of each of their party members, mumbling to himself. He held up the shirt to inspect it a moment later, then plunged it into the water again.
"You know, you've grown a lot since we first met," Lyra said.
Alistair stopped scrubbing and cocked a brow at her. "What do you mean?"
"Here you are, making plans, deciding who should come with us. In the beginning, you told me you were scared of responsibility. And here you are, leading everyone." She smiled at him. "I'm so proud of you."
The happy grin he gave her brightened his whole face. "Thanks, I guess. It isn't that hard, really. I mean, if you can do it..." he teased.
"Oh, very funny." She dipped her fingers into the water and flicked droplets in his face.
"Seriously though, Lyra, you're not upset that I've been making some of the decisions?" His brow furrowed as he wiped the drops away with one arm.
"Not a bit. I'm glad we're both leading now. I said I wasn't afraid of the responsibility, but it was weighing me down a lot. Sharing the burden is easier." She planted a kiss on his cheek, then stroked the back of his head with her fingers. "Your hair is getting long again."
"I'll have to ask Leliana to trim it for me." Alistair wrung out the last shirt. He passed it to her, and she hung it carefully over the rope. "And now I'll just open the window so everything can dry, and we can sneak away to your room, which is beautifully free of wet clothing."
"Do you suppose Teagan and Isolde would be scandalized if they found out we're sharing blankets?" Lyra asked.
Alistair leaned down to kiss her on the nose. "Darling, I don't care if all of Ferelden finds out. What happens between you and me is between you and me, and the rest of the world can say what they like. I don't give two coppers for their opinions." Hooking his fingers beneath her chin, he urged her close for a kiss. Feeling blissful, Lyra threaded her fingers with his and followed him out the door. And when Valena saw them both go into her room, she shrugged it off. Gossip be damned.
.oOo.
The next morning, Bodahn pointed his wagon toward Lake Calenhad. Lyra, Alistair, Morrigan and Zevran set out for the village of Haven, with Kestrel in tow. The loose plan was for them to meet outside of Orzammar in a week's time. Bodahn was interested in Haven, but he hadn't known of the town's existence in time to include it in his trading plans. "Look around for me, and see if they'd want a twice-yearly stop. I'll work them into my route if they'd like," the trader said.
Bann Teagan hadn't been able to given them any advice about the tiny town. It didn't appear on any regular maps, and it seemed no one had ever heard of the place.
The first day of traveling passed without incident. After dinner, Lyra paged idly through Brother Genitivi's journal as they sat by the fire. "Morrigan," she began. "Have you ever heard anything about 'Dragon Cults'?"
"Why are you asking me?" the witch returned, sounding cross. "I am no expert on your country's traditions or religion. Ask your templar."
Alistair shrugged, and Zevran looked up from an inspection of his dagger. "I know nothing of this, bella flor."
"Me either," Alistair said.
Lyra held up the book. "Listen to this, everyone... Let us suggest, for the moment, that a high dragon is simply an animal. A cunning animal, to be sure, but in possession of no true self-awareness or sentience. There has not, after all, been a single recorded case of a dragon attempting to communicate or performing any act that could not likewise be attributed to a clever beast."
Lyra continued to read from the journal, which went on for several paragraphs about Dragon Cults and the high dragons they worshiped. "From Flame and Scale, by Brother Florian, Chantry scholar, 9-28 Dragon," she finished.
The fire snapped and crackled as sparks lifted. "Why does Brother Genitivi have notes regarding Dragon Cults in his journal about the Urn of Sacred Ashes?" Zevran asked.
"And why has no one heard of this town we are traveling to?" Morrigan wondered. "If you ask me, we should be more concerned about that."
Lyra tapped the spine of the journal against her lips, considering. "I've got a bad feeling about this whole thing," she said. "None of the knights came back from looking for the Urn. There was a man posing as Weylon in Genitivi's home in Denerim, and a decaying corpse in his back room. Genitivi himself is missing for months. And now, this entry about Dragon Cults..."
"It doesn't seem good, whatever it is," Alistair said.
.oOo.
Wynne rode in the back of the wagon, as usual. She was looking forward to checking in with Irving and seeing how things were at the Tower. It would be good to see Petra again, as well, and Irving would be interested to hear about Aneirin. Though, that conversation would be best had in private, away from the ears of the templars.
The cheery bard hummed to herself as she strolled a dozen feet behind the wagon. Her musical laugh drew Wynne's attention from the tome she'd absorbed herself in.
"Sten... I saw you," Leliana's voice caroled.
"What?"
"You were picking flowers." Teasing.
"I was not," Sten replied, but his voice held a note of panic.
"You were! I saw you! You like flowers, do you Sten?" The girl sounded delighted.
"I... they were medicinal. The healer sent me after them," Sten muttered.
Wynne chuckled to herself. She'd done no such thing.
"Oh, come now, Sten. Wynne isn't making potions today. You're nothing but a big softie, aren't you?"
"I am a soldier of the Beresaad. I am not a 'softie'."
"Softie..." Leliana sang.
Sten sighed.
A few minutes passed in silence. Wynne had gotten lost in her book again when Leliana's voice perked her ears.
"You were picking flowers. There's nothing wrong with that. Men are allowed to like beautiful things, too. Or is that not something that is accepted by your culture?"
"I was not picking flowers," Sten said stubbornly.
"Softie," Leliana teased again.
The qunari growled.
"You don't scare me," Leliana said flippantly.
"I should. Your Fereldan ways are changing me. This would not happen in Par Vollen. A little girl had the nerve to ask me for a piggy-back ride as we walked to Redcliffe. How can I be a good soldier if even a child is not afraid of me?" To hear the stoic giant, one would think his world was ending.
"You can be a good soldier and still enjoy beauty, Sten," Leliana said. "When the land is not at war, men must lead regular lives... raise families, farm crops, and find beauty in the world. Isn't that what you do in your Seheron?"
"A soldier is always a soldier," Sten insisted. "A farmer is always a farmer. An artisan is always an artisan. Fereldans are confusing. Your farmers wish to be merchants, your merchants wish to be nobles, your nobles take up swords. Is no one happy to be what they are born?"
"People can change," Leliana said, sounding surprised. "They can change what they want, they can change their lives."
Silence for a moment, the creak of wheels and the soft thump of their boots the only sounds. Wynne had kept her eyes on her book, lest the young people think she was listening. Of course, she was listening. But if they thought she was, they might stop talking.
Keeping her eyes lowered, Wynne turned a page, though she was no longer interested in the advanced preparations of canaveris.
"Your commander. Lyra. She is a woman, yes?"
Wynne bit back a snicker.
"Of course!" Leliana seemed shocked. "She doesn't look anything like a man - why would you doubt she was a woman?"
"I was not sure. Women are not soldiers. Soldiers are not women. So it seemed to me that she must either not be a soldier, or not be a woman. She could not be both."
"Here in Ferelden, women can be both," Leliana said firmly. "It is the way we live. Anyone can be anything they want, as long as they have the means to do it."
Sten sighed. "I find it all very confusing."