Chapter 29
"Well," the Warden turned to the vanity and regarded the sword resting on it, "that is unfortunate."
"What're you going to do?" asked Mara, now pressed so close to the window that the tip of her nose was resting against the glass. "There are a lot of them out there. I could use magic, but I think that would be awfully bad."
"Mmmm," hummed the Warden, buckling her sword and scabbard around her waist. "Yes, very bad." She looked over her pauldron at Mara, whose eyes were darting from pennant to pennant.
"Looks like the Chevaliers from Val Foret and Val Chevin are here. Oh, oh, oh, and the Dirigeant is here too! He's the one in the gold armor with the black hair."
"Ruggedly handsome, by the sound of your voice," commented the Warden as she moved to slip on her shield. The slung it up over her shoulder, taking comfort in its familiar weight. She considered her course of action: did she hide, and wait for the Chevaliers to leave? Or did she go out and try to speak with their commander; the one Mara was so excited about?
"He wins every tournament. He is very good." Mara now had her forehead pressed to the glass. Her eyes followed the movements of the man in the center of the courtyard. He was shouting out orders from atop his black destrier, pointing at buildings to search. "He owns a large estate at the crossroads. Everyone calls it le Noir Crossing, even though it has belonged to the Durand family for centuries."
"Did he take it from them, then?"
Mara chuckled at the Warden Commander's question, amused about her lack of knowledge. "You don't know much about Orlais, do you?"
The Warden turned back to the girl and felt a muscle in her brow twitching. "Do you really want me to answer that question?"
"Probably not. The Dirigeant is part of the Durand family, so that's his home. They just call him le Noir because of his hair. No one in the Durand family has hair that black; they're all yellow-heads or some variation thereof, so when Geoffroi was born there was a scandal. His mother was rumored to be having an affair with Ser Henri Aucoin. He has hair as black as Geoffroi's."
"You mean to say that the Chevalier Dirigeant of Orlais is Geoffroi Durand?" The Warden laughed in surprise. "We ransomed him back to his father when Empress Celene took the Orlesian throne. He spent the better part of the Rebellion's end in a dungeon. Heh, he was just a squire at the time." Maker's breath, but this man would likely not want to speak with her.
"So you do know something after all," said Mara in an insolent little tone. "Yes, that's him."
Drawing her sword as quietly as she could, the Warden returned to Mara's side. She had originally been hesitant to strike the girl, but that feeling had passed. "Is there anything I should know about him?"
"Oh, there's lots to know," replied Mara dreamily, batting her eyes at the Dirigeant who couldn't see her, "every woman wishes to be courted by him and every man wishes to be him. He is pious, brave, and honorable. The Black Stallion, he is called in some social circles, and it isn't because that's what his standard is. His wife is an awful bragger, but I would brag too. He has eight children!"
The Warden sighed. "How you came across that information, I won't even ask."
"I am a very good listener."
"Mmm, yes." The Warden raised her sword, her armor creaking in the process. Mara didn't seem to notice; some listener she was. With a short, sharp blow, the Warden brought the bottom of her pommel to Mara's temple.
She crumbled sideways against the wall, eyes rolling back into her head and her body going limp.
The Warden sheathed her weapon and gathered the girl who had fallen to the ground. She placed her gently on the bed, and then rummaged through the lonely saddlebags in the corner of her room for some twine and her spare handkerchiefs. Collecting both of these items, the Warden bound Mara's hands and feet, and then gagged her. If Mara should awake, it would take her sometime to free herself because she would not have the luxury of her magic. The real trouble was finding a safe place to store the girl.
The armoire in her room was quite large, and also had a drawer that was wide enough and deep enough to fit the gangly Mara inside. She did not close the drawer completely, keeping a tiny sliver of space between the drawer's edge and the armoire so that the girl would not suffocate. She wanted to protect Mara's life, not end it prematurely. The Warden was sure that the Chevaliers would not bother checking the drawer of the armoire. Drawers were cumbersome to open from the inside, and a grown man or woman would not fit in its space.
The Warden considered what Mara had told her. Geoffroi was thought to be honorable… honorable at least by Orlesian standards, which wouldn't count for much if she were Loghain. He painted all Orlesians and Chevaliers in the same ghastly, vicious tones. Some of the Orlesians living in Ferelden had given the same descriptions. Leliana's view of the Chevaliers had been milder.
"They have absolute power," she had said. "And that power corrupts some of them. They are just men and women, and anyone in that position, no matter if they are Orlesian or Fereldan, will become a slave to it. But there is good in them too, just like there is bad in the Grey Wardens."
Hopefully, Geoffroi was one of those good Chevaliers. A winner of Orlais's famed tournaments, honorable in combat, virtuous, faithful to his wife, pious… he was a father, a husband, and a loyal servant of Orlais. If she could get to him before she was struck down (or was forced to strike down) by the other knights that were roaming the courtyard, then she could probably find some way to reason with him.
She hoped he wasn't bitter about his imprisonment by Maric, and for the sake of it, she would do her best to mask her blatantly obvious Fereldan accent. Her Orlesian was strong enough to carry her through a conversation, but she would be slow to speak it if she was constantly trying to mimic him. She could not hide the fact that she was a Grey Warden though. The crest on her breastplate was irrefutable evidence of her association.
Still, when it came time for her to cast open the door of her home and step out into the golden sunlight of the day, she did so with no fear.
"Geoffroi Durand, Ser, I would speak with you!" she called at the top of her lungs. Boldly she strode on the street, Chevaliers and their men drawing their weapons and readying themselves to charge at her. With her sword sheathed and shield on her back, she was not an outright threat, and while that did not stop them from attacking her, something was staying their hand.
The Chevalier in question turned his head to stare at her. "Who are you, Shield Maiden?" he called back to her, his voice deep, hoarse, and rich. "Who are you to address me such?"
"I am a Commander of the Grey," she replied back, hesitant to reveal her country of origin and her name, "newly come. I would discover the fates of my brothers and sisters."
"That is unfortunate," Geoffroi shifted on his saddle, "for it is my duty to purge the Grey Wardens from Val Royeaux. They have threatened the safety of the Empress and the sanctity of my beloved city. Tell me why I should spare you, Shield Maiden."
The Warden was close enough now to see Geoffroi's face clearly. He was indeed handsome, in a careworn way. His hair and beard were black, though his temples were beginning to grey. His nose was broken, likely from a stray blow to his face by an opponent in a tournament, and his eyes were a piercing shade of blue. With each step the Warden took, more details, such as the fine embossing of his armor, came into focus. However, more and more men began to line themselves in front of him, forming a wall of bodies between her and the Chevalier Dirigeant.
She was also close enough to be inspected as well, and she saw Geoffroi's eyes dart around her face, down her person, and then over her shoulder to where she'd come from.
"You should spare me," the Warden said, close enough now not to yell, "Because my goals are the same as yours."
"I thought I saw a Shield Maiden, but it appears a young lady has come before me," Geoffroi said, completely ignoring her words, "I have daughters older than you, child. Come, tell me truthfully: who did you steal the armor from, and how is it that you can stand its weight?" He spoke to her like her father might.
"It was made for me, Ser," answered the Warden, swallowing the irritation she felt, "It will fit no other."
Geoffroi chuckled, and not unkindly. "I see. So, you enjoy playing dress up, then? No doubt your father spent a fortune to make you such fine armor. Today, though, I would advise you not to wear it. This is a dangerous time to be alone on the streets, child. I'll arrange for you an escort to bring you home, if you should give me your father's name."
"I do not need an escort," the Warden replied back, "and my father is dead. I am Aurora Cousland, Commander of the Grey of Ferelden. I slew the Archdemon, and I would slay Marcus, Commander of the Grey of Orlais, for his crimes against Empress Celene, Ferelden, and Weisshaupt."
The Chevalier Dirigeant's eyebrows rose and he eyed her up and down once more, as if to verify her identity, as if by looking at her he could somehow know her. "You could have great reason to lie to me about who you are." He swept his gaze across the courtyard, and the men that had circled around them.
"Why should I lie to you about my identity, Ser?" She noted the way his eyes surveyed the many men at his command, and by all right, she should have felt fear at the prospect of what would befall her if the Dirigeant did not believe her. But she was the Warden Commander of Ferelden; she had escaped assassination attempts, survived slaying the Archdemon, and had killed honorable and dishonorable men alike. She had been tortured, beaten, maimed, drugged, and poisoned, and still she scrabbled to her knees, staggered onto her feet, and managed to press onward. "Fear is not a luxury that a Grey Warden may possess," the Warden responded calmly, catching Geoffroi's gaze and holding it. Nothing had stopped her yet, and these Chevaliers would not break that trend. "For you, this choice is simple. If you do not believe me, then slay me." She rested her gauntlet against her heart, placing her fingers over one of the griffon wings. "But," she continued confidently, "If you do believe me, then let us work together. Let us be allies."
"And say we work together then, my lady," Geoffroi's eyes darted darkly towards her, "and I am displeased at the end of our partnership. What happens then? What happens if I do not like what I find?"
"If you are displeased with whatever resolution we come to," she tilted her head back, raising her chin in the air, "then you may slay me." The Warden mentally amended the statement: then you may slay me, if you can.
"You are very brave, Lady Cousland," he said quietly, "or very foolish."
"I think," the Warden let a wry smile escape her otherwise placid mask, "that perhaps I am just very young." She watched with some satisfaction as the Chevalier Dirigeant blinked in surprise.
"I am taken aback by your honesty and humility. Both are virtues I greatly admire." Geoffroi looked at her in an almost fatherly fashion, unable to separate the young woman from the warrior. "You remind me greatly of my youngest daughter. I would be sad to slay you for that reason alone, but I will hold you to your word. If I do not like what I see in the palace, then you will submit yourself to my judgment."
"It is the least I can do to right the egregious wrong that Marcus and his faction have done here." The Warden could not help how very Fereldan her Orlesian sounded, but she no longer felt the need to mask her accent. "I will do as you ask, should you come to ask it of me."
He nodded, satisfied. "Then, Lady Cousland, Commander of the Fereldan Grey, tell me what you know. Listen now, men, all of you." From buildings and streets, more soldiers and Chevaliers joined the growing circle of men. The Dirigeant did not need to raise his voice; the men around him seemed to flock to him instinctively, as though he had some magnetic aura that drew them from windows and doorways.
The Warden related to them Marcus's treachery, of how he had tried to end her life. She spoke to them of how he was trying to fragment the Grey Wardens for his own ambitions, and how he threatened the Empress's safety to further them. Where the Empress played into Marcus's plans, the Warden did not truly know, but the Chevaliers were very concerned for her. Obviously, they feared for her life, and if she could make the distinction that Serge and Loghain were trying to protect the Empress, and Marcus was trying to harm her, then she could save lives.
"If what she says is true," said a red-haired knight, "how will we distinguish between those Grey Wardens who work with Marcus, and those who do not?"
"We cannot." Geoffroi looked at the Warden as he spoke, "Our first priority is to protect the Diamond. We will seek out the Empress. Any Grey Warden who stands in our way will fall."
A murmur of approval went through the ranks of men.
The Warden's voice, clear and sharp like the ringing of a bell, broke through the chatter. "When we enter the palace, I recommend that I be the one to enter first."
Geoffroi shook his head at the Warden's suggestion. "My lady, I am afraid I cannot allow that to happen. I will not allow you to risk your life, or to endanger our plans. You may walk at my side, and we may enter together, but you will not go alone. I forbid it."
It would have been easy for the Warden to openly protest such words. It would also have been futile, and only made these men that much more reluctant to escort her into battle. Aveline had been posthumously raised to the ranks of the Chevaliers, but they did not easily accept women into their ranks, and those women they did accept won their place not by word or by protest, but by deed. She could suffer the fathering and shepherding, if it meant getting what she needed, and she would do it because it was her choice to do so. Containing her sigh, and admiring the Dirigeant's seemingly chivalrous action, the Warden inclined her head. "As you say."
The Chevalier Dirigeant seemed pleased by her easy acquiescence, and he raised his voice high in command. "Let us waste no more time in search of fugitives. We march now to the palace. For Empress Celene! For Orlais!"
"Celene!"
"Celene!"
"Orlais!"
"Orlais!"
The other Chevaliers and their companies of men joined in on his cries. Amidst the sea of chanters, it was only the Warden who remained silent. It was not her chant to take up. It was neither her country, nor her sovereign.
As the men chanted, they began to muster. Chevaliers remounted their horses, men scurried into their formations and amidst the chaos, Geoffroi raised a gauntlet and beckoned the Warden to his side. Squaring her shoulders, the Warden strode towards him.
"You speak Orlesian very well, Lady Cousland," he said as he dismounted. He was not much taller than the Warden when standing, and seemed far less imposing, though he was still very impressive. "Your father did you a great service, for you are Bryce's daughter, are you not?"
"I am."
"I always liked Bryce." Geoffroi smiled, which only served to accentuate the deep lines in his face that were borne of years in the sun and much toil. "An honorable man, though I am still bitter at the loss of my family's sword. A beautiful blade," Geoffroi's gaze was about as sharp as its blade, "with a handle made of gold and encrusted in rubies. When he took it from me, I thought I might never be able to return home in anything but shame."
The Warden had last seen that sword on the mantle above her fireplace. She had taken it down once or twice from the wall when she was younger, and attempted to slice and stab at the air with it, but the pommel had been too large for her hand, and its weight had been awkward. "And yet, you returned home."
"To a hero's welcome, no less." Geoffroi chuckled. "It is a curious thing to return to one's home as a hero, rather than a prisoner. I hope you find your return to Ferelden as agreeable as I found my return to Orlais."
The Warden raised an eyebrow at Geoffroi's perceptiveness. "As do I." Neither she nor Geoffroi seemed interested in discussing the possibility of what would happen if she did not get the opportunity to return, since it was contingent on Geoffroi's satisfaction, and the Dirigeant did not seem to relish the idea of killing her.
Geoffroi gestured to his horse. "Mount, my lady. I will lead you into battle."
"I beg your pardon?" asked the Warden in surprise.
"You are pardoned, child." The Chevalier Dirigeant patted the saddle, beckoning the Warden to sit on it. "Now, if my lady would ascend to her steed, we can begin our campaign."
"I cannot ride your horse."
"I insist."
"I must decline." The Warden's eyes narrowed. "It would seem you do not trust me, Ser, why else would you seek to shepherd and watch me? What is about my honor that gives you pause?"
"On my word as gentleman, I trust you. It is," the Chevalier Dirigeant quickly glanced over his shoulder to assess the state of his men, "your enemies within the palace that I do not trust. While I may ultimately be forced to slay you, it is my duty to protect you, as your father protected me." His voice dropped low, and his blue eyes pierced her lonely grey one, "your father was one of the few men who offered mercy to surrendered enemies during the Rebellion. Men like Loghain Mac Tir and Rendon Howe slit throats indiscriminately. Your father was a man cut from a very different cloth. He did me a kindness a long time ago, and I would see it done for you too."
It was clear that this was a man who did not often beg, but the Warden discerned just the faintest undertones of it in his speech. Honor meant everything to the Chevalier Dirigeant. He had a debt of honor to repay her father, and he would not rest easy until it had been paid. Loghain would never have allowed such a thing to happen, and would have advised her to leave the man in such a state. Let the bastard live in an existence where he is beholden to another, knowing that he will always be a lesser man.
But again, the Warden was not Loghain. She was from a different generation, had lived a different life. So when it was that she braced her hands on the saddle, stepped into the stirrup, and swung her leg over the back of the destrier, she felt no shame. Well, that wasn't true. She felt a little shame, if only because Geoffroi's hands had helped push her over the horse and were settling her feet properly in the stirrups. He treated her as a small child on her first mount, and it would be another indignity the Warden would endure for the greater good.
After all, she was on the back of a warhorse. It would take very little effort to kick it into a frenzy and send it screaming ahead of the main column in a glorious "accident" of flying hooves and coiled muscle.
8-8-8
The throne room was a killing ground. Grey Wardens fought Grey Wardens, Antivan Crows slaughtered friends and foes alike, soldiers and mercenaries swung at one another, and mages were casting their spells without consideration for their neighbors. Fire scalded flesh and sent capes and hair ablaze, swords and axes split limbs and bones, and poison corrupted and weakened flesh. There was no way to know who was winning, though it had become obvious to Andraste and Marcus both that the only winner of the day's battle would be Death.
Andraste, Loghain, Dane, and Serge were trapped in the space between one of the large columns that supported the massive, painted ceiling above them and the wall. All three could clearly see Marcus and the Empress standing on the dais in front of the Empress's great throne. Standing in front of them, forming a living wall of magical energy, were Grey Warden mages. They had created a kinetic and magical barrier between the battleground and the swan throne. Before the mages stood Grey Warden shield bearers, their bodies tightly interlocked to form a protective front for the vulnerable mages.
"What are they doing?" asked Serge, raising his hand over his head quickly to mirror the protective bubble. He did not flinch as an arrow bounced off the magical sphere.
"He is trying to marry her," replied Andraste, her green eyes focused on Marcus's rapidly moving lips. "She is resisting. Look how she turns away."
"That one in the middle," Loghain pointed at the fair-haired elf, "that elven mage. She is not wearing armor. We need only thin the ranks of their shield carriers, spread them out, to make her vulnerable. I assume a sword can pierce that barrier. Why else would they need guards stationed in front of it?"
"You are indeed a man of great observation and tactical strategy, Loghain," said Andraste in an approving voice. "However, Evraille is tougher than she appears."
"She would be easy to bait." Serge's handsome face wore a sinister looking smile that only served to emphasize the man's wrongness. "She has always held affection for Marcus. No doubt it must upset her greatly to know that he would bind himself to another woman."
"Can you use that?" Andraste turned to her Second, "is this something you can manipulate?"
"Oh, I think I can do more than that. I need to be closer though." Serge looked at Andraste meaningfully. "Much closer."
"How close?"
"I have to touch her."
"If we get him close enough to touch her," Loghain frowned, "we may as well just slay her. It would be easier."
"She is magically linked to her fellow mages by that barrier, if I touch her, I touch them all." Serge brought up a second hand and made a fist, and the energy he had been projecting slowly disappeared. "It would save us lives, if we could do it."
"Then do it we will." Andraste flexed her shoulders and rolled her neck before moving out from behind the pillar. "Loghain, keep Serge safe!" And with that, she was shouting orders for a forward surge, for the mages to focus their attacks on the men standing in front of the magical barrier. Marcus had taken the majority of the magic users, but those few who remained were quick to follow her orders. It was not practical for the archers to try and angle their shots so that their arrows landed behind the shields but before the magical barricade. However, they were told to ready their shots for the eventual break in rank.
Loghain, Dane and Serge followed in Andraste's wake. Loghain had his shield raised protectively to cover the lightly armored and vulnerable blood mage. The mage's usually sullen face was alive with the ferocity of battle, and his usual pallor had given way to a bright pink flush as his blood sung beneath his veins. A Crow dove at them from some hidden perch above them, and as Loghain raised his sword to slice the man in two, he instead found himself curiously light headed. His knees felt weak and his blood thin, and he was reminded of that time when he and the Warden had been in the Tevinter ruin and the blood mages had been…
He cast an angry glare at Serge, who had his hands above his head. Stemming from his fingers were tendrils of thin, magical energy that pulsed and twisted like blood. These tendrils of energy were being fed by tiny rays of crimson magic, which themselves stemmed from those closest to Serge. The thickest strands of the magical weave come from Andraste, but they came from Loghain, and several other nearby Grey Wardens and bodies at their feet. This magic formed a net around the Antivan Crow, slowly squeezing around him, pinning him in the air in a suffocating grip until finally his body exploded from the pressure. In the span of a few seconds, the Antivan Crow had gone from a threat to a shower of red rain.
Loghain readied himself for the splattering mass of gore and viscera, but found himself in a shower of ash instead. Serge had sucked all the life from the man's body, desiccating the flesh into a fine, ashen powder. The blood Serge sent ahead of Andraste, the mass of hot fluid crashing into the men and women that had moved to intercept her. They screamed as the blood washed over them and forced its way through noses and mouths, and clawed at their faces as they were burned from the inside out. Andraste pushed the panic Grey Wardens out of her way, shouldering them aside as she barreled forward.
Serge continued to launch deadly attacks, sucking energy from Loghain and nearby Wardens, while funneling blood from wounds and corpses. Like the other mages, Serge did not seem to discriminate between friend and foe, for he drew energy for his magic from allies and enemies alike. Loghain saw Flavius charge behind Andraste, his long legs matching hers stride for stride. He had wicked cuts on his biceps and forearms, which were weeping blood. The droplets did not drip to the floor, however. The blood flowed straight to Serge and merged with the growing mass of rippling liquid he was commanding, the blood splitting into dancing orbs that spiraled in the air above Serge's head.
The orbs were growing larger the more blood and life force they absorbed, and Loghain found himself significantly weakened by his close proximity to Serge. Andraste did not seem to be suffering from the same effects, but then Loghain guessed she had outranged Serge. Likely, she had kept Loghain by the blood mage's side not to protect him, but to provide Serge with enough energy to sustain his magic. It was twisted, but it was effective.
Even as Loghain felt his shield arm droop, he saw Serge send out his blood orbs with deadly accuracy to the wall of Grey Wardens that were protecting the mages. They raised their shields or ducked behind them, trying to hide from the magic hurtling their way, but Serge lowered the orbs over the edges of their shields. The orbs splattered into the faces of the guards, and they screamed.
Andraste, Flavius, Dane, and a host of other Grey Wardens and soldiers were now pressing into the scattered Grey Warden guards. Alaric was at Loghain's side, the mage's hands on either side of his face as he began to chant something. "This should help," the mage yelled against the backdrop of wailing and crying. Loghain slowly felt sensation returning to the tips of his fingers and toes, sensation he hadn't even realized he'd lost.
Loghain gave the healer a curt nod, before pushing him behind his newly raised shield. Alaric only chuckled at this and accepted Loghain's offer of protection. A tap on Loghain's sword arm announced the arrival of Zevran, who was covered head to toe in blood and grinning as only the Antivan could.
"A good fight!" Zevran told him, before charging on his lithe elven feet to join the fray.
Serge had capitalized on the chaos and had his hands through the magical barrier. His long fingers were grasping Evraille around the neck, though the skin around his wrists was blistering from where they lingered in the barrier. Fingertips digging into the elf's neck, Serge channeled the volatile and viscous blood from the injured men and women around him. The blood danced over his arms and down his hands, squirming its way through the magical barrier and the pores in Evraille's skin.
The pale elf's body began to tremble violently, as did the bodies of the other mages holding the barrier. They opened their mouths and began to scream in unison, bodies going still at Serge's command.
Two of the mages collapsed to the ground, unable to bear anymore pain. Another two dropped shortly after, and the mages continued to fall until it was only Evraille and Serge. The barrier was strong, and the skin around Serge's wrists was beginning to hiss, but Serge did not lack for blood. As more of Marcus's Grey Wardens fought against those Orlesian troops that remained, more carnage and more blood was available for Serge's use.
Evraille's eyes snapped open, and then she raised her own hand, gripping it around Serge's neck. Through clenched teeth she called upon her own magic. Serge cried out in pain as thick, woody thorns began to burst forth from his skin, and he immediately drew away from the elf that was growing a forest in his insides.
At Serge's cry, Andraste's attention was immediately on Evraille. She tried to elbow her way towards him and Evraille, but found her way blocked. If she could not go through, then she would go over. Her foot found purchase on a guard's scabbard, and she launched herself into the air. Her other foot found a hold on flat-topped pauldron, and then she was darting from body to body. In the tightly packed battlefield, there was little room for her to fall. She darted towards the barrier, swords raised in the promise of death, but Evraille stretched out a hand, and Andraste found herself frozen.
She hung in midair, hovering like an oversized snowflake or raindrop, over the battle. Serge was doubled forward and clutching at his mouth, trying to stop whatever was growing from inside him from escaping. Alaric and Loghain were next to him, Loghain felling anyone who tried to pick him off in his vulnerable state, and Alaric casting healing spells at him, but having no effect. The sight of it sent fire through the Warden Commander's limbs, and with the shattering of icicles, she broke free of Evraille's spell. She sprinted forward and dove through the barrier, sword points angled for the kill, but not for Evraille.
Andraste was headed for Marcus, and was only a few feet away when he stepped behind the Empress. "Stop," he ordered, "You will hurt Her Majesty, if you persist."
Andraste skidded to a stop, and eyed the small dagger that Marcus had in his hand. He had not pressed it to the Empress's neck, and was keeping it out of her line of sight, but there was no doubt as to his intentions. If Andraste meant to kill him, then he would kill the Empress, and he would damn them both. He settled against his polearm, the weapon having been found on the streets by the Crows.
Celene put a pale hand to her heaving bosom, barely constrained by the neck of the thin, yet voluminous gown that she wore, and gave a twitter of fear. "I cannot believe that you were right!" she cried in a shrill voice. "Oh, but this is too much! This is too much!" She looked like a startled bird, and it did appear as though her heart was racing fast in her chest.
"You see, my love?" Marcus said, "I told you she would come for you, and here she is. Would you like me to dispatch her? Would you have me protect you as I said I would?"
"Yes!" Celene nodded, sending strands of golden hair slipping from the high twist of hair at the top of her head. "Yes. Please, end this nightmare."
Marcus slipped the knife back into its holder in his gauntlet and swung his polearm so that it rested parallel to the ground. He stepped around the Empress and gave Andraste a grim smile. "My brother will be sorry to hear of your loss, but I am sure he will find another sycophant just as quickly. Did you," he pointed at her with the tip of his weapon, "really think he would make you First?"
"Do not blame your brother for his predecessor's choice," Andraste hissed back. "And do not blame him for your own shortcomings."
"You're as blind as you are prideful, Caron. Always working against me, spying on me for my brother, and for what? I could have given you more."
There was a wet ripping sound and Serge's scream pierced the halls. Andraste's shoulders tensed and her eyes darted towards the immaculate Evraille whose eyes were glowing green. "Is that what you tell your Dalish bitch?" Spit flew from her mouth, running down her bottom lip.
"Oh, Maker," cried Alaric, "oh, oh, oh, oh, ooooooooohhhhh, Maker! Cut it down! Cut it down! Loghain!"
"KILL ME."
More wet ripping and more screaming followed, and the only sound in the room that Andraste could hear was Serge's wails of agony. She did not even hear Marcus responding to her, she could only see his lips moving. She did not understand the words, torn as she was between her duty and her desire.
"I can't get it out! I can't get it out!"
"KILL ME, PLEASE."
Andraste's mind was made up. She sprinted at Evraille, plunging both her swords into the mage's neck and ripping them down on either side of her spine. Evraille screamed and writhed as Andraste's swords shredded her apart. Serge went silent when Evraille fell to the ground lifeless, Andraste's swords still carving her flesh from her bones.
Marcus chuckled and readied his polearm to stab his former Second through her scrawny little neck as she took out her vengeance on Evraille, but stopped when he felt warm breath beside his cheek and the kiss of the Empress's lips against it.
"I think," the Empress said quietly, "that red is your color."
And then he was choking, clutching his neck as blood seeped through his fingers.
Celene's hands weren't even dirty. She had slit his throat so quickly that she avoided the messy spray of blood and the pulsing fountain that sputtered and splattered all over Andraste's surprised face. She had turned in time to see the flick of the Empress's wrist and the sudden spiral of blood.
"I am your Empress," Celene told her, staring at her in a grave and terrible fashion. "Kneel."
Andraste did as she commanded, kneeling in the growing puddle of blood around Marcus's corpse. Her slim shoulders shivered as she felt the blood begin to seep into her leather armor. Her eyes were kept respectfully on the floor, though she saw the glint of the Empress's razor sharp hair pin from the corner of her eye.
The Empress stepped around the body of the former Warden Commander of Val Royeaux, mindful to avoid the messy aftermath of his death by sweeping her gown away in a grandiose fashion. Her hair was now down around her shoulders, the long hair pin in her hand trailing blood down its sharp point. "All of you," the Empress cried, her voice filling the throne room in sonorous glory, louder than any chantry bell, stronger than any battle cry, "kneel!"
Everyone dropped to their knees at the command, even the surviving Antivan Crows. The only individuals who resisted were Alaric, who was too busy trying to put Serge together, and Loghain who was "assisting" him. In reality, no amount of surprise, fear, or wrathful beauty could get Loghain's old knees to bend for anyone he did not deem worthy. He raised his head and stared at the Empress, there was a snarl on his face, a challenge to her authority. He would not succumb to her charms or acknowledge her power. When he dropped his gaze from hers, it was not out of respect, it was out of preoccupation that the man he was holding together would not survive. Dane gave a little whine at his side, the Mabari trotting up to examine the damage.
Evraille, the Dalish mage, had grown something inside Serge. The sharp, thorny plant had been trying to escape his flesh, and had opened many wounds and nearly choked him, if not for Alaric's carefully placed fire spells and Loghain's sharp sword. They had cut and burnt and frozen the thorn plant, keeping it at bay until Evraille had perished. With her death, the thing had stopped growing and was now dissolving. Much of the blood mage's body had been split apart and Serge was in excruciating pain. Alaric's efforts were having little effect to mend the man's skin, but it was enough to keep Serge alive and conscious. It had bought Serge enough time to regain his concentration, and with a whispered command to Loghain to help him sit, he began to mutter his spells.
Once more, Loghain felt weariness overtake him as Serge began to suck in his life energy, and he saw Alaric pale as a similar sensation washed over him. Blood began to slither in long, serpentine trails of brown and crimson across the stone of the palace towards Serge. It meandered over his exposed belly and began to seal crevices and hide organs. It mended shattered bones and severed tendons, and soon Serge appeared whole once more. Deathly pale and weak, but whole.
"Andraste Caron," said the Empress, "I bid you rise. Mark your traitors," she said, "with an X. Brand their foreheads." Without looking at the Warden Commander, the Empress extended her other razor sharp hairpin. "Make their treachery known to me."
Andraste rose to her feet and took the pin from the Empress's hand. She set herself to the task of branding her former brothers and sisters. They glared at her as she took their chins in her hand and carved the X between their eyes. Some tried to raise their weapons against her, but the ever-watchful eye of the Empress kept them at bay. There were worse fates than a traitor's branding. From Grey Warden to mercenary to assassin she walked, and when her task was done, she turned to the Empress who was staring over her shoulder at a darkened doorway. Nearby, a Mabari was barking.
8-8-8
The small army of chevaliers marched along the streets, taking the route that the Warden described. She had told them of the great hole in the palace wall she had found, and had directed them there. Entering the palace courtyard, they found that it was a sad graveyard of bodies and burnt trees. Fires were raging along the hedges and flower beds, burning the mazes and the topiaries to the ground. Flies were swarming along grey and black armored bodies. While it was easy to discern from what organization the bodies belonged to, it was not as obvious to guess on whose side they fought.
The battering ram that had been used to bring down the palace wall had been used to batter down the grand front door of the palace. Around the massive war machine's wheels were the bodies of the brave Orlesian soldiers who had died protecting it from fire, arrows, and blades.
"You don't intend," said the Warden quietly, so as not to disturb the dead, "for me to ride into the palace, do you?"
"No." The Dirigeant shook his head. "You may dismount and walk at my side."
The Warden did so with great relief, slipping down the side of the horse opposite Geoffroi, so that he could not coddle her. "Thank you for sparing me the pain of walking a few feet, Ser," teased the Warden gently, to which Geoffroi chuckled throatily.
"A gentleman does what he can to ease a lady's earthly torments."
"And I am nothing but a tormented woman."
"And I am nothing but a gentleman."
The Warden said nothing to that and instead prepared herself for battle. Geoffroi slid his shield over his arm the same moment the Warden did, and together, they drew their swords. Behind them, confident knights and their personal guards did the same. Some men scanned the arches and ledges for would be assassins and archers, but nothing caught their attention.
Geoffroi darted up the stairs, his shield raised defensively. The Warden was hot on his heels, mindful not to let too much distance fall between them. She would walk in at his side. As he slipped past the ruined doors, she was at his side. Their boots crunched against splinters and shattered planks that littered the meeting chamber. The lights in the throne room were dim, and it was nearly impossible to make out distinct shapes through the winged archway… but the Empress's voice carried clearly to them.
Warden and Chevalier strode boldly into the seat of her power, walking side by side as equals.
The massive chamber was filled with bodies. The living were as still as the dead, their bodies contorted in a crouch. The only figures not kneeling were the Empress, and five other familiar figures: Alaric, Loghain, Andraste, Serge, and Dane.
Dane abandoned his post at Loghain's side, bounding over Warden and Antivan to his mistress. Geoffroi recoiled and dropped his shield, expecting an attack, but the Warden fell to her knee and embraced the war dog.
"Hello, Ser Dane," she said quietly, "I missed you, you daft dog."
Dane melted into a puddle of canine bliss in her hands, resting his heavy head on her knees and dropping to his stomach. His tongue lolled out as she scratched behind his ears, and she only let him go when Geoffroi gave a polite cough. With Dane by her side, the Warden strode past Geoffroi. From the corner of her eye, she thought she saw a blond elf with a tattoo down his cheek wink at her, but she guessed it was her imagination, for there was no blond elf but a cloaked assassin.
The Empress threw her arms out wide in greeting at the Warden and the man by her side. "Lady Grey! Ser Durand! You have come in time for executions!" Her long sleeves swayed as she swept her arms left and right, encompassing all the men and women with marks on their foreheads. "We shall have hangings today, and a party in one week's time to celebrate the bravery of the Grey Wardens who fought to defend me, and the handsome Chevaliers," she gave the Dirigeant a grand smile and approached him, "who came to my aid."
Geoffroi was immediately down on his knees, his head bowed, and all the men in his company did as he did. "This servant is not worthy, Your Majesty."
The Warden looked at the display with raised eyebrows, thinking the actions of the Dirigeant to be nothing more than a grand show. But from the way in which the man's eyes were shut fiercely, and his fingers trembled as he stroked the white gown of the Empress, she was not so certain. This man would kiss the ground this woman walked on, if it was not already drenched in dirt and blood. Celene playfully darted her skirts away from his fingers, and ran a long finger over the crown of his head.
"Come, Ser Durand, have your men herd the branded ones to the gallows. I want my city free of treachery by sundown."
"It will be as you command, Empress," Geoffroi said, standing straight and tall, but humble in the presence of the Swan of Orlais. He barked orders for his man to stand, and the Chevaliers broke into small groups as they corralled the marked men and women into corners. Those Grey Wardens who were not marked remained kneeling, but raised their heads to show that they had nothing to hide.
Andraste was suddenly by the Warden's side and then slipping past her, following the Chevaliers around the room to make sure they were not arresting her own Grey Wardens. The redhead gave her several sly looks over her pauldron, before ignoring her completely.
A gentle pressure on the small of the Warden's back indicated the presence of the Empress. "You look well, my Lady Grey," she said mildly, regarding the Warden through her long eyelashes, "for someone who is dead."
"I hear that more often than I like."
"Take pride in it. After all," she smirked, a luscious thing of full lips and sinister humor, "you could not hear me say such things if you were dead."
The Warden inclined her head in acceptance. "You would have the right of it, Empress."
The Empress touched the point of her hair pin to the Warden's cheek, leaving a droplet of Marcus's behind. "I have little birds in my palace that told me of what Marcus intended to do you. You do not have to fear such a thing will come to pass. I killed him myself."
The Warden touched her fingers to the blood and wiped it away, leaving a small streak of red behind against her fair skin. "You have my eternal thanks."
"I feel so responsible," Celene licked at her thumb and washed away the mark on the Warden's skin, "for what came to pass." She embraced the Warden tenderly for all to see, wrapping her slender arms around the other woman's armored waist. She fit herself cleverly past the Warden's shield and sword. Her pink lips brushed against the shell of the Warden's ear. She spoke softly, her words more of a drone or a hum, than actual speech. "I should have known, but alas, I did not. I did not wish to believe."
"It would have happened anyway," the Warden said, awkwardly stroking the immaculately white gown of the Empress with her shield hand. "Whether you were ready or not. I do not think anyone would have done differently."
The Empress made a little sound of bored displeasure and pulled away from the Warden's ear. She rubbed the tip of her nose against the taller woman's, and wrinkled it in pleasure. She was mercurial, but only because she was upset. She had changed the topic too quickly for it to escape the Warden's notice, but the Warden said nothing. She allowed the Empress a few moments of feigned playfulness to regain her composure, to allow whatever pangs of grief she felt at the loss of a longtime companion to pass. The Warden understood. The Warden would have done the same, and hoped that the Empress would have helped her save face too. The Warden Commander of Ferelden shut her eyes and returned the affectionate gesture, which sent the Empress into twittering laughter: half-forced, half-thankful.
"I am," the Empress said with a pleased smile, "having a ball. A masquerade. You are coming, Lady Grey."
The Warden raised her eyebrows. "Am I allowed to come in my armor?"
"Oh," the Empress shook her head, "Maker's graciousness, no. You will attend me, and I will attend you. I like you," the Empress ran her hands down the Warden's cheeks, "my dearest Grey Sister. I will have a fine dress made for you, and I shall make you more radiant. You deserve this, my dear friend."
What the power play was, the Warden did not understand. The Empress was clearly sending a message to someone, for she was not bothering to hide her speech or her affectionate mannerisms. If it was to Andraste, the Warden Commander of Val Royeaux did not seem to be listening. She was too busy across the room, arguing with Geoffroi. And if it was for Loghain…
"It is for all of you," the Empress then cried, pulling away from the Warden, "all of you loyal Grey Wardens who stood with me. The masquerade shall be for you, in your honor."
Murmuring from the kneeling Grey Wardens rippled across the hall, a few of them shouting out loud thanks to the Empress for her kindness.
"I shall send a messenger to your compound with the details. I expect all of you to attend!" Of course, the Empress had no way of knowing if all of them would, but she had to make the display nonetheless. "We shall feast, and dance, and rejoice. You may return to your vigilance in the morning!"
Now there were more shouts, all of them approving.
The Empress cast a sly look at the Warden before picking up the front of her dress and gliding across the room towards Geoffroi and Andraste. Grey Wardens reverently touched their hands to her gown as she passed, adding bloody fingerprints to the stains that were rapidly spreading along the gown's hem. She walked boldly across the battlefield of her throne room, stepping over bodies and strewn weapons with an unearthly grace. When Geoffroi saw her approach, he touched his fingers to his forehead in respect, his lips moving furiously as he recited some passage of the chant to himself.
All in all, it had been a curious day, and it was not even over. The Warden shouldered her shield and sheathed her sword. She flexed her shoulders, hearing them crack, and mentally readied herself for what was to come next. She was eager to be reunited with Loghain, and ready for answers. She turned, intending to see what had happened to Serge to cause Loghain and Alaric to crouch over him and caress him, and found Loghain standing behind her. He was looking at her an expression of curious wonder. His head was slightly tilted to one side, and his lower lip was moistened from an absent lick of his tongue. He narrowed his blue eyes, and slowly, tentatively, as if she might fade away, he touched her.
Loghain placed his gauntlets on either side of the Warden's face, half expecting her to vanish at the slightest pressure. But she did not, and he pressed his palms against her cheeks a little harder. She was real. She was not a figment of his imagination. She was not a ghostly echo, some phantom that Loghain could chase through the palace. He had seen Maric a few times in Denerim, the deceased king wandering through the halls in front of his study. Always Loghain had followed him, calling after him, but Maric had never turned, because Maric had never truly been there. But the girl was there. She was there. And he had no idea what to say to her.
He could merely stare at her, and look into that insolent grey eye and those brazen lips and believe that sometimes the Maker did work in mysterious ways, and that he did reward those who did their duties.
"How?" he rasped, letting his hands fall away. His chest felt tight, and his head light.
"I will tell you when we return to the compound." The Warden could not stop her lopsided grin at the dumbfounded expression on Loghain's face. "And before," she in turn raised her hands to his cheeks, pressing his face between her gauntlets, "you begin to go all maudlin on me, I forgive you. I never expected you to come back. I did not want you to."
Loghain frowned, and pulled away, his thick eyebrows lifting in a scowl. "It had not even crossed my mind until you mentioned it. But thank you, Warden Commander." The little chit just had to remind Loghain of his silly promise, of the one he'd had to break. He had half a mind to explain to her what it meant to him, and opened his mouth to do so, but was stopped by her swift intervention.
The Warden chuckled and placed an affectionate hand on his cheek, drawing him back in. Her gauntlet cupped it gently, her thumb stroking the corner of his mouth in soft, soothing touches. "I missed that face. Your," she smiled, "scowl. Strange thing to say, like the sun saying it misses the clouds, but there it is." She released him, letting her arm fall to her side.
His expression had softened at her words. His mouth had slackened from its offended line into something looser and more amenable, and the hard glint of his embarrassment had disappeared from his eyes. Yet, he still watched her with a guarded demeanor. Still, he could not control the wry tone of voice, "Of all the things, you missed my scowl?"
"Just as you missed my smile." The Warden's smile was girlish and winsome. "Don't think I haven't forgotten that. But come, we have much to discuss, and I am sure you do not want all these fine Grey Wardens and Chevaliers thinking we are flirting?"
"Flirting, madam?" Loghain gave a small harrumph. "With you? Never."
The Warden only chuckled again, and let Loghain lead.
And so they are reunited at last. There'll be a bit more debriefing next chapter before Celene's grand masquerade, lest you worry that they haven't been sufficiently reunited. I just wanted to get this chapter out before the holidays ended.
We're also one year into the story now. Yesterday was Trovommi Amor's first birthday! Hopefully, we can finish it before the second. Yes. Hopefully.
Love goes out to my beta Lady Winde, and of course to all the readers. Special thanks to those of you who stop to comment; your feedback, insight, and ideas are always appreciated!