A/N: Hooray! This took a while, but I so enjoyed writing it. Thank you so much to Giggle813, AnneRene, Ioialoha, Taeniaea, olivegbg, White Ivy, and two generous Guests who took the time to post your reviews! I hope you enjoy the next installment and thank you for your time and support :)
Enid.
"Empire of the Stone" is based on the 1987 film, "Empire of the Sun."
A/N: So, funny story, I forgot to post part of the chapter. Whoops! Just realized it when I was reviewing the story. Sorry about that! I put it at the beginning; the rest is as it was.
A silky piece of fabric sailed overhead, its white curves rippling gently in the air before landing with an abrupt smack against the open edge of an emptied trunk. The undergarment seemed to sag with weary surrender around the wood, unable to muster further movement after being so carelessly discarded. Littered around it was evidence of further disarray; clothes, jewels, weapons, papers and a snapped quill made a landscape of panic.
Marjolaine cursed under her breath as she sat on the bed to try and calm down. Aelia had never returned. That damned Cousland must have intercepted her somehow and disposed of her after extracting as much information as possible – or at least that was what Marjolaine feared. At the very least, her most trusted spy had never made it back and now Marjolaine – whose entire play at Arl Howe's table counted upon being able to uphold the threat behind her bluff – had no cards in her hand with which to win. Howe was becoming more arrogant by the day, damn him! After her initial visit, Howe had been terrified of what Fergus' survival could mean. Since his invitation to the town home, however, his frenzy had cooled and reason prevailed. What, after all, could Fergus do to him in his current state? He had lost control of Highever and dared not come to the Queen for help with Loghain as her Regent. The rest of the bannorn was so confused by the recent chain of events and lack of communication with the palace that Howe had plenty of room to plot against Fergus without fear of being discovered or challenged. And so, without the evidence Aelia had promised to collect of Fergus' efforts against him, Marjolaine had nothing further to offer Howe that would provide sufficient enough persuasion of her value as an ally in these troubled times.
Marjolaine had miscalculated; it was further evidence of her age and desperation. This trip would be her last chance to extricate herself safely from the Game before some other kind of twisted fate claimed her. Marjolaine had seen too many of her contemporaries killed or worse to believe that anything awaited her in Orlais except death. The Empress very well may have planned for that eventuality once Marjolaine's mission was complete. Every day that she took longer to get the job done, Marjolaine found it harder to bring herself to wander into Ferelden wilderness for the Empress' lost treasure. If only she could somehow secure her own safety first…. Marjolaine thought longingly of Harwen Raleigh, a former military general who had worked in the Arl of Denerim's estate, and how easily she could have wrapped her fingers around Howe's throat with Harwen's assistance. He had always been so receptive to her charms. Too bad she let Leliana kill him on her last mission here; Marjolaine scoffed softly to herself. She had underestimated her pretty pupil all those years ago. It was unfortunate that Leliana had possessed strength enough to survive Marjolaine's betrayal. If only she had been more amenable to Marjolaine's wisdom, Marjolaine would have a powerful piece to play on her behalf now.
The years of carefully calculated betrayals and shadowy relationships played through Marjolaine's mind. So many people she had trained and lost or discarded for the greater good of winning the Game. Their faces ran as if on a spool through her memory, making her feel more tired with each one that rippled into nothingness. She did not trust Cyrien as she did Aelia, nor any of her other companions with her at this time. There was an elven fellow from Antiva who had seemed eager to prove himself; maybe she could use him to track Cousland down. The only question was would he be up to the task? Marjolaine stared at her scattered possessions and did some quick calculations. She had nothing else up her sleeve; she needed that information on the Cousland heir or she would have nothing. Marjolaine got up quickly, determined not to waste any more time.
Before she could reach the door, however, it opened from the other side. Marjolaine stopped in surprise, too thrown off to even reach for the dagger at her waist. This was her last mistake.
A bolt whistled through the air and planted itself in Marjolaine's chest; the bard stumbled back, catching herself on the desk next to the fireplace. Before she had time to react, a second bolt echoed its brother's deadly aim. Marjolaine slumped, slack-jawed, against the wooden desk. Her hand groped to catch the back of the chair and missed, overturning it with a clatter. Marjolaine folded downward, her breath coming in gasps as her eyes rose to see her killer.
"Cyrien," she wheezed, dark eyes flashing with hatred. His face was cold.
"You are a traitor to the Empress," he told her without preamble. "I shall succeed where you have failed and deliver what she requested. Your time to pander to your own desires is over, Marjolaine."
"Nique ta mere!" Marjolaine spat at his feet, the saliva mixing with her blood. She winced.
"You always were a piece of trash, Marjolaine," Cyrien replied calmly, holding up his crossbow as he took aim. "And now you can die like one." He fired.
Cyrien stared down at the dead woman's head; the back of her skull had exploded open at the bolt's impact, the wooden shaft clean and shining out of the dark wetness of her blood. Her silky strands stuck to the edges of disconnected bone, wispy as a spider's web; slowly, she began to ooze over the stone. Cyrien sighed heavily, turning to fetch a maid.
After one of their own servants was dispatched to deal with the body, Cyrien put away his crossbow and went upstairs to the back kitchen. There a messenger waited for him, standing to attention in the Howe livery.
"It's done," Cyrien told him curtly, holding out a missive for the man to take to his lord. "Tell Arl Rendon Howe when his men are ready, so are we."
The messanger nodded and set off immediately in the direction of the Market square, his boots loud against the cobblestones. Cyrien watched him go with a cold stare; when he had delivered the documents that could damn the Empress into the right person's hands, he would personally see to Howe's assassination. The man had been relieved when he thought he was being offered help from the Antivans to deal with Marjolaine. Cyrien was a good mimic and had approached him quietly two days before, pretending to represent a cell of Crows who worked the interests of a Nevrran family determined to foil Empress Celene. The longstanding feud between Nevarra and Orlais had been a convenient scapegoat for Cyrien's interest in being of assistance. Howe wouldn't realize that he had instead provided help to protect the Empress until it was too late.
Two hours later, Cyrien and the others were readying their mounts. Cyrien studied the encrypted instructions from Chancellor Barre once more, ensuring all was prepared. That man had been right not to trust Marjolaine, in the end. Hiding the parchment in his leather breastplate, Cyrien mounted his horse and looked to the horizon. It had begun as a sunny summer day, the light slipping through the leaves of trees like the fingers of a lover through a woman's hair. Now, in the distance, black clouds congregated in angry boils against the blue sky. Lightening crackled ominously out of the clouds' depths, snapping through the thick air as quick as an animal's bite.
"Master," Nanon said, bringing her horse close to his. "Is it wise to head out in this weather?"
Cyrien tightened his grip on the reins, not looking her in the eye. "O Créateur, voit m'agenouiller, pour je marche seulement où votre commande."
Nanon bowed her head in assent and fell back in line without another word.
Cyrien feared nothing under the protection of his Empress and Maker. He would see fit to properly guide Fate's hand across the playing board.
The moonlight was silky against the cliffs facing the Waking Sea; from where he stood, Fergus could hear the waves' mournful crash against the shore as he studied the hundred shades of blue the pebbles made on the beach, sparkling as the scales of a fish. The air smelled of salt and brine and, in the distance, the flickering lights of Howe's men still occupying his family's ancestral home could be seen. They lit a fire in Fergus; it burned slowly, leaving an acrid sensation in its wake as he fought the urge to descend upon them and unleash his bloodlust.
Auden had been wise to accompany him. Since their meeting with Flemeth, something had been struck anew between the two men. Where Fergus had been steadily, if gently, pulling Auden along through the process of bringing down Loghain and Howe, Auden now pushed their forces forward with gusto on his own. He watched over Fergus anxiously with each passing day, finding new things to be done so that men could be dispatched to useful tasks and he could reassure Fergus of their progress. Fergus would ultimately have to meet Flemeth alone, but at least he had not been left entirely to his own devices. If he had, he was not sure what he would have done.
"Come, Fergus," Auden whispered. A horse nickered, and Fergus turned to look at the commander of Bann Grifon's garrison, who had accompanied Auden and Fergus on the trip with two of his men to ensure they were protected on the road. Grifon had wanted to send more, but Fergus and Auden had agreed that they would attract too much unwanted attention. They had taken two extra days for the journey, traveling by back roads and stealth, until they reached the outskirts of Highever Castle's grounds. Flemeth had been specific: the earth had to come from Highever's garden, which was outside the main castle grounds, facing the sea. In order to reach it without being noticed, they would have to hug the line of the cliffs behind the main part of the castle, then cut slightly west. It would not be an easy task with so many of Howe's men still in residence. They did not merely content themselves with occupying the castle itself, but littered the surrounding grounds with bonfires and camps, where Fergus could see them drinking and hear the sounds of unrepentant revelry. It made his stomach churn.
"Fergus," Auden prompted once more; shortly, the Teyrn nodded and dismounted his horse. The animals were led behind a high outcropping of rock and tied to trees, before the men took off at a crouch, keeping to the shadows.
What would have normally been a five minute ride became an hour and a half long crawl; every step was carefully executed to prevent the sound of footfalls or breaking twigs. Once in a while, a drunken straggler would come to look over the cliffs and, if he was in their way, killed quietly. Those whose throats they were forced to slit were pushed casually over the cliff into the churning sea below. In the deafening aftermath of the crashing waves, not even their armor hitting the rocks could be heard, for those two that were wearing it. The other two they killed were merely clothed and so disappeared without a breath of noise, swallowed up in darkness as though eaten whole.
By the time they reached the perimeter of the castle, Fergus' neck was like steel. The light was brighter here, glowing out of the nearest windows, and it was harder to blend into the dark. Bann Grifon's men scattered to form a watch over three escape points, in case Fergus was found and had to run. They would be responsible for taking down attackers and giving him time to reach his horse. He hoped it would not come to that.
Auden was to stay directly behind Fergus as he entered the garden from the back. He had a bow and nocked an arrow silently as they curved towards the garden's entrance, his eyes rolling like marbles. Fergus could see that much of the garden was picked over or dead; the men had not bothered to maintain it. He wondered if Howe would dispatch servants to revitalize the grounds or if he was content to leave the Cousland home in filthy ruin. Ignoring the singe of hatred in his gullet, Fergus bent quickly under the branch of a tree and used its dappled shade to cloak himself as he approached the northern edge of the garden. Flemeth had said the soil must be taken at the stroke of midnight on the last night before the full moon. If Fergus' ability to tell time had not failed him, midnight would be in five minutes. He retrieved the satchel for the earth from his belt and fell to his knees in a particularly inky shadow, waiting.
The men's singing and shouting was faded from this distance, but that did not ease Fergus' mind. It was taking all his self-control not to go after them – to take out as many as he could in the confusion of the night, before succumbing to their larger forces. In order to distract himself, he dug his fingernails deep into the earth, preparing to scoop it up at the chiming of the bell. He imagined they still kept time, despite their general disorder. They probably had to exchange guards for watches throughout the night.
There was little wind, but when it breathed over the land, it felt like the gentle fingers of his mother when she used to smooth his hair. In it, he could hear the sighs of his wife, Oriana, as she had whispered a prayer. When it ruffled the grass, he braced himself against the memory of Oren's footsteps as he tore across a field in the joy of play. When the branches of the trees brushed together against its force, he felt rather than saw a naughty Charlotte, preparing to descend upon his shoulders from a hidden perch. And when it moved the light as plants waved to its almost silent tune, he saw the shadow of his father, standing over him in the night.
The minutes edged on, the wind doing little to cool his sweat as he waited. Fergus felt the earth impacting underneath his nails, smelled the tang of its freshness carried to him by the wind. His knees were protesting at his stillness as they dug into the ground, his greaves pressed uncomfortably close into his skin. These sensations simultaneously focused and tortured Fergus. He seemed to live in a place beyond time as he knelt by the house of his forefathers, awaiting the most powerful part of the night with bated breath.
Just as Fergus was losing his sense of suspension, the first bell chimed. As if a man possessed, Fergus began stuffing handfuls of earth into the leather satchel, suddenly heaving at the chest and looking frantically about him for any of Howe's soldiers. When the last bell chimed, Fergus scrambled up, tying the satchel tight and rushing back to Auden. He did not know what had possessed him of such urgency, but his instincts told him to be gone from this place, and soon.
With as much stealth as they could muster, the two men prowled back to the meeting point with Grifon's men. As they rounded the corner, there was that sense of suspended time again, as if Fergus had stumbled upon a crack in the Veil. He saw with blinding clarity the orange light of a torch shining out of a window, its ocherous glare contrasting starkly with the black shadows surrounding it. Commander Haelan was turned away, his face creased in a frown, a bow ready in his hands. Just as Fergus drew breath, an Amaranthine soldier came around the corner at the opposite end of where they stood, his expression almost puzzled.
Several things happened at once; the guard opened his mouth to scream, and an arrow planting itself in his throat silenced him. Auden was dragging Fergus along by the elbow, running at full tilt towards the rocks where their horses waited, and one of Grifon's men went down. Commander Haelan was back-to-back with Fergus, cursing and firing his bow as more and more men became aware of them. His second was still alive and following, a shield and sword raised in preparation for any potential onslaught as they hurriedly withdrew. Just as they reached the rocks, an alarm bell sounded.
"Go!" Haelan practically shoved Fergus onto his horse. Blinded by adrenaline and panic, Fergus obeyed, tearing off into the night. He could hear the shouts of men following them and silently blessed the Maker they had not worn any of Grifon's heraldry on them. Although he regretted the loss of Haelan's man, he could not be connected to Fergus or Grifon and that would protect them. None of them made a sound except that of harsh breath tearing the air as they rode, thundering through the forest to gain the benefit of cover.
When no sounds of pursuit could be heard, they pulled off near a river and made camp. The Wending Wood would lead them safely back to Grifon's Keep, which sat fifteen miles west of Amaranthine. They would reach the Keep by afternoon if they left early in the morning. Until then, Fergus had one more thing to do.
Flemeth had said she would know where to find him and of this he had no doubt. When Auden and Haelan had fallen asleep, Fergus left them in the opposite direction of the man keeping watch and went beyond the river, seeking somewhere that felt right, certain Flemeth would want to make an entrance. When he had followed the river to a small, open plain, Fergus waited.
"You are efficient, aren't you?"
Fergus spun around, swallowing a jolt of fear. Flemeth looked the same as she had the last time, except now her bloodred armor seemed to drip in the moonlight, as if she were fresh from a kill. Without preamble, Fergus held out the pouch to her. Languidly, she accepted it.
"And your other hand, please," she drawled, sounding almost bored. Fergus hesitated.
"I keep my word, young man. I will do you no harm. Now, give me your hand."
Fergus obeyed, wary. Carefully, Flemeth tied the pouch to her belt and withdrew a shining dagger, its blade short and curved at the top. Before Fergus could withdraw, she slashed his palm, squeezing out the blood. Fergus hissed between his teeth.
"Blood magic?" he asked angrily, not daring to take away his hand. Flemeth was unmoved, neatly tilting the thick drippings into a glass vial. When she was satisfied that it was full, she healed his palm with a casual gesture. He finally snatched away, disturbed by her proximity and the way his flesh knitted itself back together.
"What is it for?" Fergus demanded, too perturbed by the use of blood to keep his peace. Flemeth, rather than answering, studied him for a few moments, her hawk eyes glittering.
"You will know when it is time for you to know," she told him finally. "And now, I must leave."
"But – wait, have you nothing further? Why are you helping me? When will I see Charlotte? I must know!"
Flemeth had already turned as if to fly off; at his indignant stammers, she only deigned to look back over one shoulder, her gaze pensive.
"So many questions," she murmured, her eyes not entirely focused on him. Fergus gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to shout at her.
"Go back now, Teyrn," Flemeth ordered, turning away from him. Her head tilted back as she prepared to transform, eyes closed peacefully. "Your people need you."
And, before he could utter another word, Flemeth had gone, leaving only the sound of ruffling feathers behind her.
Reports littered the desk top before Guillaume Barre; his Empress was busy hosting the last of her summer salons, before most of the nobles present in the capital retreated to their holdings for the winter. Guillaume was grateful she was not there at present – there was much news to sift through, and not all of it would be to her liking.
First to contend with was Marjolaine's betrayal of the Empress and her death. Guillaume had been suspicious of the bard's motives from the first and was glad of the foresight which urged him to send Cyrien with her to Ferelden. However, all word from Cyrien had fallen silent since his departure for Ostagar. Had the darkspawn claimed him as they had much of the south? Or had he too defected from his duties for personal pursuits? Guillaume could not imagine it was the latter – what could a man like Cyrien find in the backwaters of Ferelden? – but that did nothing to quiet his unease. If Cyrien was dead, it would leave the Empress vulnerable to discovery still, and it would take weeks of careful planning to dispatch more agents to Ostagar. With each passing day, the list of challenges against them grew, and Chancellor Barre wondered if it were not better to leave the documents in question to the darkspawn.
Barre pulled another missive, this one from Denerim, towards him and sighed. It spoke of the poor harvests coming out of the Bannorn; the Taint was spreading. Kingsway had not yet arrived, and already farmers were decrying their lost crops, which were slowly folding over and dying from the Blight. It appeared Loghain remained resolute that the Blight did not exist, and all accounts agreed that he was focused only on the threat from Orlais. Barre thought it ironic, really. The man was making himself look power-hungry and mad, but in a sense, he was actually right. His actions would only make it easier for Celene to take over when Ferelden collapsed from within. By ignoring the threat on his front door to focus on his neighbor, Loghain was ensuring that he would be too weakened to fight when the chevaliers came. And he a renowned strategist!
Of course, his daughter would have known better, but according to Guillaume's people in Denerim, she was all but a prisoner in her own home. She had suffered the loss of her only eyes and ears within the kingdom and was left virtually friendless. This cheered Guillaume and the Empress considerably; Queen Anora had been heard pleading with her father to ally with Orlais for assistance against the Blight. Perhaps, Guillaume thought, Celene had been too hasty in trying to depose the Ferelden Queen. Where King Cailan had been dull and witless, his wife was indeed a rose among the brambles, as the Empress had once so famously said. What they could no longer achieve through marriage could possibly be gained on the upsurge of Anora's anger with her father. Guillaume hoped that Anora was not as well informed as he suspected. He doubted she would be ripe for the picking if she had been aware of Cailan's and the Empress' plans.
But, whatever happened, Loghain Mac Tir was steadily signing his own death warrant. The Chancellor doubted he would even have to hire his own men for the job. Guillaume picked up another report and smiled as he considered the translated cipher:
Loghain suppressed an effort to defy him; three noblemen found guilty of treason and imprisoned in Fort Drakon. Bann Bronach of Rossleigh among them. Led troops against Loghain and they were soundly beaten. Rumors are that Bann Bronach had attempted peaceful talks with the help of Arl Wulff previously, but had been repeatedly refused by Loghain. Howe and Loghain's forces seen fighting together against Rossleigh's men. Climate among nobles unsettled and mutinous, but have been discouraged from further civil war efforts by Bronach's loss and fears of the Blight. Most planning to return to holdings for winter until spring Landsmeet.
That meant five months of uninterrupted brooding time for Ferelden's discontent nobles. Guillaume could not have planned it better himself. Truly, there was something to be said for trusting in the wisdom of the Maker.
"Monsieur?" a knock rapped smartly on the door.
"Entrer," Barre granted. The door opened and a messenger came in with a package and more letters. He deposited the latter upon Barre's desk with a bow and exited. First, Guillaume ripped into the reports.
"Interesting," Barre murmured to himself. A spy in Jader had heard rumors of a Ferelden Grey Warden causing quite a ruckus in Orzammar. According to what his informant had been able to discover, the woman was one of two surviving Wardens from Ostagar who were working to recruit troops for the Blight. Dwarves from the Merchant's Guild who had been attempting to continue trade with Orzammar had learned of the Wardens' entry into the city after being refused by the city guard themselves. Surface dwarves were celebrating the Warden's appointment of a progressive monarch to the throne, and telling stories of the female Grey Warden's efforts to secure her treaties at any cost.
It is indeed rumored that this Warden, angered by one of the candidates for King, had delivered the head of one of his enemies to his desk in retaliation against him. According to several merchants in the tavern where I was staying, the woman was perceived as ruthless and unstoppable, and yet also benevolent. She appeared to the dwarves as sympathetic to their plight and won many hearts by sending her people into what they called a "Proving" (apparently, some ancient dwarven custom of much significance to them) and rescuing an ancient dwarven relic thought previously lost to the ages. I shall travel to west Ferelden and seek out more information.
Guillaume paused over this report with a stirring of nerves that disquieted him far more than the silence of Cyrien. He had been sure all wardens lost at Ostagar; who was this woman? What was she truly after? It seemed a great deal of effort had been expended to impress the dwarves and they, despite their dwindling numbers and struggles against the darkspawn, were powerful allies. Did this woman seek only to gain that which she needed against the Blight? Or something more?
Guillaume studied the letters brought to him to see if anything had been heard by his other agents, but apparently the news had not reached them or they did not think it relevant to their master. As Chancellor and spy master to the Empress, Guillaume prided himself on his detailed accounts of the goings-on of Thedas, as well as his ability to anticipate their meaning and significance to the Empress. The gears of his sharp mind whirred as he processed this new piece of information. They had not counted on any Wardens working to defeat the Blight; they had, in fact, been counting on neglect of this threat as a playing piece to use against Loghain when they invited themselves into Ferelden borders. The Empress would be severely…. displeased.
To distract himself, Guillaume turned to the final letter and the package accompanying it, hoping for some good news. He ripped open the missive and turned it over, surprised to see a message written in Orlesian with no code.
May we both choose better business partners in the future, Your Majesty.
There was no signature. Confused, Guillaume pulled the package toward him. It was crated, suggesting a long journey overseas. Guillaume paused, worrying over the safety of the contents.
Rising from his desk, the Chancellor went to his porter and ordered that a messenger be sent for. Someone else could open the package, but someone unimportant and not likely to be missed. Guillaume certainly wasn't going to send for any soldiers. Rumors of that would spread like wildfire and he would not have anyone becoming aware of his Majesty's most private business.
The messenger arrived and, when bid, did as he was told had pried open the crate. Instantly, a foul stench enveloped the air in the room. A moment later, the messenger had cried out and staggered away from the package, his expression horrified.
Chancellor Barre grabbed the man before he could flee and looked into the open top of the crate; his stomach flipped over and twisted.
Cyrien's jaw was open and lopped over to one side, as though he had been beheaded mid-scream. His eyes were glazed over and gray, his skin already rotting, the decomposition of his face probably accelerated by exposure to the moisture of a ship's hold. Nothing else was in the container with him except some straw. His blood smelled sour and it made Guillaume's stomach churn.
"Speak of this to no one," he ordered the messenger quietly. Casting the man out of his office, Guillaume made a mental note to have the messenger killed on his way home. He told the porter whom to send for – the man's eyes were wide with alarm at the shaking messenger and Guillaume's pale face – and shut the door with a snap, trying to think.
The Chancellor no longer had to wonder two things: Cyrien was indeed dead, and any hope of retrieving Calian's letters with him. For there was no doubt in Chancellor Barre's mind whom had struck the killing blow against the bard and her accompanying message and put to rest any doubts he harbored of the breadth of her intentions.
"The Grey Warden," he whispered, and set to work.
The march made out of the Deep Roads and back into Orzammar proper was marked with a variety of emotions. Most of the Wardens and their companions were weary, even a little morose, as they made their way back to the Diamond Quarter. Princess Aeducan was vibrating with suppressed energy, even though her helm hid her face. They had agreed upon an unveiling that would surely sway the Assembly to their favor, even if it did leave a sour taste in Charlotte's gullet. Leliana had come to a kind of calm acceptance, while Signe seemed increasingly withdrawn. Charlotte had the forethought to send Leliana ahead with a missive requesting the assistance of Lord Harrowmont while they loitered by the Anvil, which had been cumbersome enough to bring this far. The guards who oversaw passage into the Deep Roads had not ceased to stare at the Anvil since they arrived, their mouths agog with disbelief and wonder.
Within minutes, several of Harrowmont's men appeared, led by his second Dulin Forender and Leliana. When Forender drew level with the Wardens, he stopped to observe the truth of her claims.
"You… you found the Anvil of the Void?" Bewildered, Forender stared at the glowing metal testament to dwarven brilliance, seeming drawn beyond the capacity for politicking.
"We found that and more," Charlotte replied, exhausted. "We wish to meet with the Assembly immediately. There is much to be said."
Forender tore his eyes away from the Anvil with difficulty; he stared into Charlotte's face.
"Do you have any idea what this will mean to our people?" he whispered, still rendered too dumbstruck to even focus on the election.
"I have an idea," she muttered, her eyes sweeping mercilessly over the hidden Eva.
"Where is Branka?" Forender asked, coming back to himself a little.
"She is dead," Charlotte replied shortly. "Her entire house perished against darkspawn and the challenges of the Anvil. Caridin himself entrusted the Anvil to me and I can prove it."
"Caridin?!" Forender nearly squeaked, "But it has been over seven hundred years since he vanished!"
"All will be explained. Now, if you please, we have endured incredible trials and are eager to rest."
"Of course," he said hoarsely, nodding. "Men! Transport the Anvil to Harrowmont's estate immediately."
As Eva twitched in her armor, Leliana smoothly intervened. "My dear Forender, surely you mean the Shaperate? Such a momentous discovery must be appropriately recorded in the Memories, after all!"
Charlotte cast her friend a silent pledge of gratitude; it would not do well to transport the Anvil from Harrowmont's estate only to oppose him in the upcoming election. They must keep the Anvil on neutral ground that belonged to the dwarven people. Reluctantly, Forender conceded the point, and under the sharp-eyed supervision of Leliana and Aneiren (who adjusted the staff at his back as if in warning) the Anvil was covered and taken to the Diamond Quarter for safe-keeping.
"Let us make haste to the inn," Charlotte ordered. "We should update Sten and make ourselves more presentable."
"Boss," Oghren grunted, speaking for the first time since they left the Anvil of the Void. "I'd like to go home and get some things, but then can I come to the Assembly?"
"Of course you may, Oghren." Charlotte agreed at once. "I will send a messenger for you when we are ready."
The dwarf nodded somberly and split off towards another part of the Commons, still pale. Charlotte hoped the plan she had in store for him would provide some comfort.
As they curved around the horseshoe of the Commons back to the Nug's Hut, Alistair drew closer to whisper to her.
"Are you alright? You look pale," his forehead was creased with concern. Charlotte looked behind him and saw Fiona watching them both, her expression far more pensive than the occasion called for. Charlotte shook her head.
"I'm fine;" And I'm getting to the bottom of whatever is going on between you and the Grand Enchanter as soon as we're alone.
Everyone scattered to change and catch their breath once they got back to their rooms. Signe was granted new armor and arms from the loot liberated from the Carta. She was sent to share a room with Morrigan, who seemed more bemused than displeased. Sten had kept guard and was bored, but pleased to receive Charlotte's news and take over care of Mastodon while she met with the Assembly. Wynne passed her another energy draught and she took it gratefully, although it only seemed to burn an edge off her exhaustion. Riordan seemed unaffected by the journey, until Fiona's stomping feet could be heard leaving marks in the stone slabs of the hallway.
"They're gone!" Her voice was verging on the hysterical.
"Who's gone?" Alistair asked, confused. He had just sat down to eat something with Charlotte, Riordan, Cullen, and Jowan. Morrigan, Zevran, Wynne, Signe, and Eva had all retired to bed.
"The chevaliers!" she whispered in a hiss. "They've left, but all their things are still here!"
At that moment, Sten chose to pop his head in.
"What is the disturbance?" he inquired. Mastodon made a beeline for Alistair, who was often a good source of scraps.
"Sten," Charlotte asked, suppressing the urge to be sick from another stress. "Do you know where the chevaliers went? You did watch them, didn't you?"
Sten nodded, "They secured passage to the Deep Roads, little commander. I have kept watch for their return, but they have disappointed me."
Fiona looked on the verge of apoplexy. Riordan tried to calm her down.
"Fiona – " he began, but she cut him off.
"I told you! I told you this would happen! And now, we'll be exposed for nothing! Our lives ruined, all because you had to do the right thing!"
"For nothing, eh?" Alistair asked, putting down his sandwich. "Well, then why don't you just go?"
Fiona looked startled, then regrouped. "Alistair, that's not what I meant."
Riordan tried to cut off further conversation by literally raising a hand between them, his mouth open, but for once Alistair was red from something other than embarrassment.
"If nothing includes saving your own son, then you are no mother of mine, Fiona."
Everyone in the room, with the exceptions of Sten and Mastodon, gasped audibly.
"M-m-mother?" trembled Jowan, looking from Charlotte's expression to Alistair's. He was not sure, at the moment, which he feared most as he suspected from Charlotte's reaction she had not been privy to this information.
"If you're that much of a coward that you'd rather hide than stand by your principles, you can go back to Orlais now," Alistair continued heatedly. "Because I don't need any more people in my life who would sacrifice me to save something for themselves, thanks."
Shocked silence was left in the wake of this proclamation, then Charlotte stood up out of her chair. "Alistair, with me. Now."
Alistair did not argue, seeming all too happy to leave the room. He followed Charlotte into one of their other suites, his fists balled and his face twisted. When he entered the suite behind her and Charlotte moved to close the door, Alistair turned to face her, opening his mouth to apologize.
And promptly received a fist to his face.
Stumbling, Alistair gripped his jaw in astonishment rather than pain. It ached a little, but more than anything he was surprised. After a moment, he bellowed, "What was that for?!"
Charlotte glared at him, "I warned you what I would do if you ever lied to me again!"
Next door, Jowan, Riordan, and Cullen were all listening apprehensively. Sten, unconcerned, sat and helped himself to some chicken. Mastodon whined, torn between his mistress' distress and his desire for a crunchy bone. Sten ended his dilemma as he offered him a drumstick.
"You didn't have to hit me!" Alistair replied angrily, even though it hadn't really hurt. His feelings were hurt more than anything else. How could she do that to him?
Fiona was restrained from intervening by Riordan, who pulled her back with one hand. He shook his head resolutely, and her shoulders slackened, her demeanor defeated. Alistair had been right to be angry with her. When would she learn to keep her temper?
As another angry shout issued from the other room, Morrigan swanned in to the main chamber with a yawn. "What has them in an uproar now?"
No one answered her, the three male Wardens leery of angering Charlotte and Sten bored. Finally, the latter answered.
"Alistair's parentage has been revealed in a dramatic manner and the little commander is displeased with his deception." Sten shrugged, "I know not what consequence his parentage holds. We do not record such things in the Qun."
"His… what? Who, I wonder?" At this, Morrigan looked upon Fiona, who would not meet the other woman's eyes.
"Ah, I see," Morrigan murmured. Smirking, she went to help herself to some wine. "How very interesting." This was followed by a muffled crash from the other room. Morrigan rolled her eyes, turning to leave them with goblet in hand.
"They should come to terms with their mutual attraction and succumb to temptation," she scoffed idly. "Twould make being in their company infinitely more pleasant."
As she exited, Sten grunted. "If that is the source of this tension," Sten mumbled, "Then I must agree. Among the Qun, sex is a means of mutual satisfaction. I see no reason why they should deny themselves."
Cullen went scarlet, "We do things differently than the Qunari." There was another crash.
"Humans are strange," Sten said as he ate more chicken. "I can come to no other conclusion."
Charlotte picked up another stray goblet from their treasures on the floor and wound up for a good swing. Now, she not only had to convince the Assembly they should put Eva on the throne, she had to contend with Alistair's mother who just so happened to be not an obscure human maid who had died in childbirth, but a living, breathing threat to everything Alistair had. An elven mage! If Loghain ever found out…!
"You. Lied. To. Me." She repeated through her teeth, punctuating each word with a new projectile of her choice. Alistair ducked each of them in turn, pink-faced and breathless.
"I only just found out!" he protested, holding up his hands in a defensive position. "She told me after you were attacked by the spider queen!"
Charlotte paused in her swing to consider this; Alistair took advantage and tackled her, holding the armed hand steadfast against the floor.
"Ouch!" Charlotte protested, wriggling. Alistair didn't budge.
"Oh, so you get to throw things and hit people without retaliation?" he retorted with what little air he had left as he worked to hold her still. A moment later, Charlotte stopped struggling, and Alistair was briefly distracted by all that pliant softness right up against him. He shook his head, clearing it.
"Charlotte, she just told me and you were hurt and possibly dying – it seemed low on my list of priorities to share my news. And everyone could have been listening! I know I should have told you, but think of everything we were dealing with! We were hardly in a place to have a nice little chat, now were we?"
"Oh, everyone could have been listening?" Charlotte's voice began to rise.
"And," he added, getting on a roll, "We both know the real reason you're angry is because you've had about a hundred and one things thrown at you, and you're tired. Dealing with the dwarves would make anyone crabby! But you've done splendidly – well, apart from beheading people and leaving body parts on desks – but otherwise, you've handled yourself superbly. We're almost done now; I promise everything is going to be alright."
Charlotte looked bemused at this burst of words that tumbled out in a torrent; "Actually, I'm pretty sure I'm angry with you for not telling me anything."
Sensing the change in her mood, Alistair grinned. "Well, yeah, but it's not everything you're feeling is it? Come on, think now."
Reluctantly, Charlotte did and realized he was right. The little bronze statue she had been preparing to chuck at him dropped with a clatter and Alistair let her go, helping her to her feet.
"Are you alright?" he asked, brushing her off helpfully. Charlotte blushed, feeling ashamed as she saw his hair was mussed and a bruise was blooming on one cheek where she had caught him with silver goblet.
"Are you? I'm sorry I… er…"
"Hit and abused me?" he asked, amused. "I suppose its par for the course when being led by a redhead."
Charlotte flushed more deeply and bowed her head, "I'm so sorry- "
Alistair waved his hands to stop her; "Forgiven and forgotten, it's alright!" Hesitantly, he added, "Do you… do you think differently of me? Now that you know I have magic and elven blood in me?"
"You mean," she asked wryly, "Now that everyone knows it? Maker, Alistair, there's a time and place!"
Alistair looked anxious; she had not answered his question.
"Of course not!" she replied hotly, "But do you have any idea what this means?"
"What?" he asked, taken aback.
"Loghain could hurt her if he knew! Or you! I know you're not an expert in diplomacy, Alistair, but you can't just go blundering around shouting secrets like this to anyone who will listen! Honestly!"
"So… what you're concerned about is protecting us?" he asked wonderingly.
"Well, obviously – "
But she didn't get to finish her sentence. Alistair had enveloped her in a warm embrace and was kissing her fiercely, pouring all his emotion into the movement of his lips against hers. A few, seemingly endless, moments later they broke apart.
"You were saying?" Alistair's eyes were a little unfocused and his hair was still hopelessly mussed. Charlotte tried to collect herself; her heart was racing, and something warm and liquid was breaking up her concentration.
"We – we need to get ready for the Assembly," she mustered. Assembly? Part of her brain went, Assembly who?
"Right," Alistair released her, chagrined. He went to the door to exit quickly, before his resolve failed him. At the threshold, he stopped to speak.
"Thank you, Charlotte."
As he left, Charlotte whispered, "You're welcome," and felt more confused than ever.
"Are we all friends again?" Morrigan drawled as they wove their way to the Assembly. Charlotte shot her a warning look; she would not have her business become any more public than it already had.
"Oh!" Leliana chirped, "Did someone argue?" Then she saw Alistair and Charlotte's faces and thoughtfully changed the subject.
"Look, we're almost there."
The Assembly hall loomed in the distance. Outside its doors, the city guard attempted to maintain order as supporters of each claimant jockeyed and shouted at one another, their faces purple. A few fights had already broken out in earnest and those left in the wake of their tumult could be seen in various states of bruising and semi-consciousness as they were dragged off by the scruff.
"How unseemly," Zevran tutted. "In Antiva, no one would get bruised to elect a candidate. You just stab the contender! Much less messy, and you can look becoming in time for their coronation party!"
Audibly, Oghren snorted, rolling his eyes; "Prissy foreigners!"
Charlotte was glad to see Oghren come back to himself somewhat; Signe was still as silent as a ghost, but she was supposed this was to be expected. Charlotte could not tell if her silence was due to nerves for her ex-mistress or anxiety about becoming a Grey Warden. Charlotte made a mental note to spend some time with her once they left Orzammar. The woman was an excellent fighter and could provide a great deal of insight into the dwarves, which would be helpful in preventing them from stabbing Charlotte in the back over the coming months. Quietly, Charlotte sighed.
The doors to the hall opened with a massive creak and the Wardens were admitted with haste as the guards fought back the swelling crowds outside. Bhelen fanatics waved axes and swords as they shouted unintelligible threats and promptly disappeared under a wave of Harrowmont's supporters. Charlotte's last glimpse of the Quarter square was of what appeared to be a pile of waving fists and blades, with kicking feet and a lot of hair. Then the doors shut behind them, and the sounds of anarchy silenced.
The vestibule was cool and dark, lit only by thin veins of blue lichen in the walls. The group followed Steward Bandelor obediently to the meeting chamber, where already voices could be heard shouting angrily.
As another set of doors opened, an oval chamber with ascending benches made of stone was revealed, teeming to their edges with angry, blustering dwarves.
"Tis an outrage, inviting an outsider into our elections!" One elderly dwarf warbled, shaking his fist.
"Only because you don't want Bhelen influencing your trade agreements, you greedy Nughumper!" a woman shouted back, her face reddening.
"Order! Order!" Steward Bandelor began forcefully waving his arms, like a stout windmill. Nobody heard him.
"We should have already elected our rightful king, the heir to the throne!" A young dwarven man sneered, leering at the other side of the theater. "Long live King Bhelen!"
This was met by a mixture of roaring agreement and disapproval, punctuated by members taking turns shouting, "Bhelen!"
"Harrowmont!"
"Bhelen!"
Once again, Steward Bandelor attempted curb tempers by raising his voice, which cracked under the strain. He produced a stone gavel, which he banged resolutely upon a podium that stood center stage in the chamber, and finally the hagglers subsided. At the apex of the chamber, Bhelen and Harrowmont faced each other, their mouths twisted in silent snarls. Reluctantly, they gave the Steward their attention, their eyes darting back to each other every so often.
"The Grey Wardens have presented with a prize for the dwarven people, and here to provide testimony of their feats are Oghren, member of House Kondrat and a new Grey Warden recruit, Signe previously of House Bera!"
There were some gasps among the Assembly as they recognized Signe in their midst. The wardens huddled close to camouflage the presence of Eva, whom they had not accounted for in Steward Bandelor's announcement. It occurred to Charlotte that having a drunken dwarf who had been ceremoniously disarmed by his people and a woman banished to the Deep Roads might not give her much credit. Suddenly, she was glad to have the Anvil.
"Porters! Bring in the Anvil of the Void!"
The doors to the chamber creaked open once more and all faces turned to stare disbelievingly as the Anvil was brought in. It glowed even under the pools of light in the Assembly chamber and seemed to hum gently from its veins of crackling, blue lyrium. Bhelen particularly looked affronted, which Charlotte supposed was testament to the blow he was taking by her producing such an important artifact on Harrowmont's behalf.
"By the Stone!"
Whispers and exclamations circulated among the Deshyrs as they absorbed this incredible discovery. Some were openly tearful with emotion, while others who understood the political implications had gone as flat and stone-like as their surroundings.
"Where is Branka?" a woman Deshyr shouted, evidently impressed by the Anvil but still focused on achieving her political ends. Charlotte was calm in her reply.
"Paragon Branka and her House perished against darkspawn forces in their efforts to reach the Anvil. The Anvil of the Void was under guard of Caridin himself, who had been turned into a golem upon his King's orders many years ago. Paragon Caridin testified to the fate of Branka."
This was met by murmurs and more shouted exclamations of disbelief or wonder. After a few moments, they subsided again.
"What became of Caridin? How could he speak as a golem?" The dwarf was gruff, but Charlotte saw they had his full attention and focused on him as she spoke.
"Caridin alone was capable of fashioning the control rod necessary to rob him of his mind." Charlotte raised her hand to show the copied names of dwarves who had lost their lives to serve their people, found on a stone plinth by the Anvil. She waved the paper; "That is the true price of the Anvil! A life for a life! Caridin fought to prevent it from being misused and when he was banished, he waited these many years to ensure the Anvil fell into the right hands," Charlotte cast Eva a fleeting look, trying to suppress her own opinions. "Once he saw this done, he chose to perish."
"And why should we trust you, pet of Harrowmont?" Bhelen asked angrily. Some others agreed with this, nodding or shouting back, while others shook their head with disgust and rolled their eyes. Still others were absorbed with this news of the Anvil's cost, and seemed shaken by it.
"Because I bring you far more than the Anvil," Charlotte replied coolly. "I bring you something else yet thought lost, and the testimony to prove the truth. Steward?"
Bandelor hastened to open the chamber doors once more and this time, Kardol and a few of the Legion came trundling in, looking nervous.
"Testimony from the dead!" A blond woman shrieked with laughter. "What manner of folly is this?"
But Bhelen, Charlotte noticed for the first time, looked truly nervous and, not surprisingly, so did Harrowmont. She was sure they were wondering what she meant by "the truth."
Kardol came to stand with Charlotte, all but turning his helm around in his hands. He saw the Anvil for the second time since they had stopped to speak with him on the way back to Orzammar and once again seemed to take resolve from the relic as he prepared to address the Assembly.
"Six months ago, you sentenced Princess Eva Aeducan to death in the Deep Roads. But the Legion witnessed the crime she was convicted for and it was not the Princess who killed Prince Trian!"
There was an uproar at these words; Bhelen was positively screaming his displeasure ("I will not hear these lies!") Steward Bandelor began banging his gavel with abandon, but it was Oghren who called them all to attention.
"Shut it, you Diamond-wearing, silk-stuffed rock-lickers! The man's got something to say!"
Being addressed thus seem to shock most into silence; moaning quietly, Charlotte closed her eyes and winced, then looked over her shoulder at Alistair, who was suppressing his glee with difficulty. Zevran, Cullen, Aneiren and even Riordan were all hiding grins. Wynne cast Oghren an affectionate smile, while Morrigan smirked and Leliana appeared torn between amusement and horror. Charlotte heard Eva huff impatiently.
Steward Bandelor chose this moment to intervene on behalf of the Grey Wardens.
"Deshyr Helmi! I suspect I need not remind a House as noble as yours the important role our Legion plays in fighting back the encroaching darkspawn horde! These warriors are esteemed above even that of the King's army, and we will hear their commander with respect!" He gave a warning look to Prince Bhelen, who pressed his lips together with the appearance of a man forced to swallow a wriggling spider.
This was something Eva had explained on the way back to Orzammar; Legionnaires were often volunteers or convicts sentenced to the most honorable form of exile, but the service they provided was essential. It was considered so important, in fact, that the Legion only reported back to the King or Queen directly. Despite some of the Legionnaires origins, they were considered the most prestigious of warriors, and the Assembly would be forced to acknowledge their words.
The woman Helmi grew sour at this reprimand, but did not contradict the Steward, settling instead on glaring down at the Wardens. Kardol continued.
"The man who killed Prince Trian – "
"Hold your peace!" Bhelen roared, actually drawing his blade. As several of the men loyal to him went to arms at his signal, Charlotte tugged at Eva's shoulder and nodded.
"You will not kill again, Brother!" Eva Aeducan stepped forward and revealed herself, pointing her own blade at Bhelen's astonished face.
"It was Bhelen!" one of the Legionnaires roared. "We saw him do it!"
Everything descended into pandemonium as Bhelen bayed with fury and attempted to clobber his sister. The Wardens closed around her protectively, Signe and Alistair forming a rather effective shield wall, as men of Harrowmont rushed from the benches to assist them. When most of Bhelen's men lay slaughtered or unconscious, he was restrained by two guards, his expression twisted with madness.
"MURDERER!" He accused, pointing at Eva. Fortunately, Eva had chosen not to fight, demonstrating her restraint against violence. Coolly, she regarded Kardol.
"Commander?"
"He lies, Steward," Kardol agreed gruffly. "Prince Bhelen himself committed the murder."
"Princess Eva!" Harrowmont cried, trying to recover from his shock with difficulty. "You're alive!"
"No thanks to you, traitor!" Eva shouted back, shaking her fist. "You, who swore to see me delivered to justice and instead attempted to usurp my father's throne!"
There were more gasps at this, but fewer angry retorts than before. The presence of the Anvil, the Wardens' and Eva's restraint against their attackers, and Kardol's witness was making the Deshyrs hesitate. Since Bhelen and Harrowmont had begun fighting for the throne, the nobles had suffered. They had lost access to their precious black market of goods, and were growing increasingly torn between the desire to preserve their position and the allure of opening new alliances with the surface. They were not pleased with either man's leadership thus far, and the Princess had once been beloved, considered a warrior without peer and a royal concerned both with progress and preservation of the old ways. Harrowmont purpled as he saw their confusion, fighting to keep his temper contained.
"Princess," he began, his tone reasonable, but Charlotte interrupted him.
"This accusation cannot be proven by further testimony of the Legion, but there is the word of another you must hear!" she implored, trying not to betray her distaste as she lied. "That of Paragon Caridin!"
The chamber was rapt with silence; pausing for effect, Charlotte continued.
"I and every other Grey Warden present can attest, without the shadow of a doubt," she spared Harrowmont a repressive look, "That Caridin has chosen a candidate for the throne as his last act!"
"Who?" a dwarf cried, hanging on her every word. "Who has he chosen?"
"Paragon Caridin bade me to tell you that he has chosen to elect Princess Eva Aeducan as Queen of Orzammar!"
More pandemonium ensued, but through the forest of shaking fists, Charlotte could see the whirring of many wheels turning. She added her final declaration, praying internally all of this would be over soon.
"And he begs that you use the Anvil wisely, taking no lives not offered without full knowledge of the cost! Let us band together, Orzammar, and fight back the threat which has robbed you of so much greatness and now promises to destroy the world!"
"If nothing exciting happens to me for the rest of my life," Alistair said, "I won't be sorry."
Bhelen was dead; unable to contain his rage at being beaten, he had left the wardens with little choice as they raised arms to defend themselves. Eva had risen to the occasion with gusto, declaring Harrowmont a traitor to the crown and ordering guards to seize him as some of Bhelen's men were cornered and imprisoned, while a few Harromont loyalists weighed their odds. In the end, the combination of the chief Shaper verifying both the authenticity of the Anvil and the names Charlotte had retrieved from the Anvil of the Void, coupled with the Kardol and his men's testimony, cinched the deal. Charlotte was having everyone pack up as fast as their hands permitted, and not a moment too soon.
Of course, the Deshyrs had begged her to stay for another week to join them in Eva's coronation and a variety of raucous celebrations, but Charlotte had politely refused. She had done her best to explain without causing irrevocable offense that she had far more important matters to attend to than banquets. It had been the most diplomatic moment of her life, and she needed to leave before her patience ran out entirely.
Fiona had investigated the missing chevaliers in their absence and discovered that some remains had been found in Aeducan Thaig a few days before the wardens returned to Orzammar. However, without definitive proof they had all died, Riordan could not safely return to Jader.
"You will be alright, Fiona," he reassured the Grand Enchanter. "No one knows you are with me."
Charlotte considered the idea of having Riordan join their ranks permanently and couldn't decide if she was pleased or not. He was a difficult man to deal with and bore those prejudices which had placed them in their current predicament.
"I suppose you're right," Fiona said, her eyes not on Riordan, but Alistair as he checked the packs for equal distribution of supplies. Resolutely, the warden did not look at her, and Fiona slumped a little in her seat. Quietly, Charlotte went to whisper to him.
"She apologized, Alistair. She was just scared."
"That may be true," Alistair agreed stiffly, "But we often say what we really feel when we're under pressure, don't we?"
"But think about it," Charlotte pressed, pretending to be helping him shuffle something in a pack. "She's a mage and a former warden. It can't have been easy getting away to the Circle after she lost her Taint. If she was found disobeying not only the rules of the Circle, but a direct Grey Warden decree, she would probably be executed. And we know from experience how apostates are treated."
She nodded her head at Jowan, who was talking with Cullen as they lugged another crate of loot out to Bodhan's new caravan of carts, provided generously to them by Queen Eva.
Alistair frowned, but she could tell he was listening, and so she added one more thing. "She has to go back Alistair, if not for herself, certainly to protect you. Do you really want to leave things this way?" Giving him once last look of significance, Charlotte went to help the others and let him be.
Out in the Commons, Charlotte was coming back from yet another load when a grizzled orange whirl came to a stop before her.
"Boss," Oghren grunted, looking a bit sheepish. Charlotte raised her eyebrows in surprise.
"Oghren, shouldn't you be celebrating?" Charlotte has managed to squeeze in an honorable mention of Oghren's contribution to their efforts in the Deep Roads at the end of the Assembly, and he had been reinstated his previous status as well as his weapon. His axe hung on his back as he shuffled, not quite meeting her eyes.
"Yeah, I guess, but… those Blighters turned their backs on me once before. I don't much see the point in giving them the chance to do it again."
Charlotte felt something between amusement and tenderness at his oddly vulnerable expression.
"Oh? So, how may I help?"
"I don't want to join the Wardens, but I was thinking…. Maybe I could come with you to the surface. Kill some darkspawn for ya, make a new start." Glaring, he clarified, "I ain't interested in drinking no monster blood, but I'll kill as many of 'em as you order me to. Sound fair?"
Charlotte gave it some serious thought; Oghren was indeed a good fighter and seemed to desire the bonds of camaraderie, despite some of his more vulgar behavior. In fact, she had a sneaking suspicion Oghren was actually attempting to connect to others when he was being vulgar. She was not sure if that was worse.
Then again, she could not fault his common sense, which had held him steadfast on her side even when her enemy was the wife he had so determinedly searched for. Abruptly, she decided.
"Alright, Oghren. We'd be glad to have you. Gather what you need and meet us at the gates to the Frostbacks in one hour."
Oghren grinned, responding with a belly-deep laugh. "You got it, Boss!"
Signe was waiting alone in Charlotte's chamber when she entered to get the last of her things and depart. Charlotte stopped in the doorway, feeling cautious.
"Signe? Is something wrong?"
"What's it like?" Signe asked in a rush, "On the surface? Do you really… have to hold onto the ground with your feet?"
Bewildered, Charlotte merely looked at her for a moment, then saw the paleness there, and the child-like trepidation. Inspired, she indicated Signe should follow her.
"Come with me, Signe, I know just the person for you to talk to."
Aneiren was working with Riordan and Cullen to map their route. He seemed to have gained renewed vigor after their trip to the Deep Roads, and was taking the lead whenever he could now, as opposed to making snarky remarks while killing things. When Charlotte tapped him on the shoulder, he turned, at the ready.
"Aneiren, do you think you could help Signe prepare for our journey?" Charlotte asked, "I think she could benefit from your expertise with new surface travel."
Aneiren lit up with excitement, bending to speak to the smaller woman in a kind voice. "Ah, I remember that shock only too well! How're you feeling?"
Signe shrugged, evidently embarrassed of her fears in front of others who were not Charlotte. Both Cullen and Riordan suddenly feigned deafness and turned away, pointing at the map.
Aneiren understood immediately; "I can tell you, it was a real shock! I hadn't seen the sky since I was practically a baby when Charlotte recruited me."
Signe's eyes widened, "You'd never been outside? Where did you live?"
"The Ferelden Circle of Magi," Aneiren responded matter-of-factly. "They don't often let us outside until we've been Harrowed and approved for special missions."
Signe hesitated only briefly, "So…"
"What's it like?" Aneiren winked at Charlotte where Signe couldn't see. "Well, Dimples, let me tell you."
Aneiren led her off under his arm and Charlotte smiled, glad to see him chatting animatedly in Signe's ear. When she had first told Aneiren of the cost of killing the Archdemon, she had honestly wondered if he would stay.
Sten was supervising their caravan with a critical eye – he had, rather unsurprisingly, secured the safe return of all their horses from the stables – and Mastodon stood, panting happily, at the back of the train, watching all the activity. Alistair was helping Bodhan load the remaining sacks of goods and preparing a letter to send to Teagan so he would expect Bodhan's return. Leliana, Zevran, and Wynne had already mounted their horses, while Cullen and Riordan passed out remaining packs and supplies to riders who would be proceeding onward to investigate the location of the Sacred Ashes. Thankfully, Charlotte had convinced a scribe of the Princess to forge a letter of regret informing both the Jader Wardens and the chevaliers at la Roche of Riordan's and his escorts' untimely demise in the Deep Roads. Queen Eva had sanctioned the action, and Riordan had relinquished some of his things – spattered helpfully with blood from their travels – to include with the missive as proof of his death. The new Queen offered her sympathies with the message, as well as the horses and possessions of all those lost. Riordan would ride the horse he had borrowed from his friend at the Jader city stables back to Redcliffe to help with trainings, and Fiona would ride with them there until Teagan could secure her safe travel back to Jader from Redcliffe's port. Although Fereldens were not known for seafaring, Redcliffe possessed a small fleet of fishing boats that could travel good distances, and Fiona would travel back in the best style they could muster. It was not unusual for horses to go missing, after all. The stable master could have easily sold them when he heard the fate of their riders.
"And so, we depart!" Charlotte declared happily, turning back to get her own pack and pay the innkeeper when she caught sight of Aneiren, Oghren, and Signe all hovering near the gates. Oghren's eyes were almost popping as they took in the vastness of the sky, and Signe was taking deep breaths, but still turning a pale shade of green.
"That's right, deep breathing helps!" Aneiren encouraged them, patting an unhearing Oghren on the back.
"By the Stone!" Oghren proclaimed in a hoarse voice, "I feel like I'm going to disappear into all the empty sky!"
"Oghren," Signe replied calmly, her eyes still closed. "Shut up."
Again, Aneiren grinned at Charlotte as she passed by. The Queen had deigned to stop by earlier before they were fully packed to wish them well on their journeys, and nothing was left but the leaving itself. Charlotte paid the innkeeper, who was very pleased by the fat sack of gold she handed him, and went up to her room for one last sweep of its quarters in case she had left anything behind.
The floor was silent as Charlotte plod across its slabs to her suite; she pushed the door open and stepped inside, eyes already searching the corners for possessions missed. Just as she reached the center of the chamber, the door shut behind her and she jumped, swinging around on her heels.
"You are almost never alone, my dear," Flemeth tutted lazily. "It was most troublesome."
"Flemeth?" Charlotte automatically took stock of her arms and armor, but realized if Flemeth wanted her dead, there was probably little she could do. As if reading her mind, Flemeth chuckled and shook her head.
"I am not here as enemy, my dear, but ally. Calm yourself."
Charlotte tried to do so, but it was a struggle. "Where did you come from?" she demanded. Flemeth continued to smile. She looked little like the woman who had saved Charlotte in the Wilds, apart from the shape of her face and her yellow eyes. Her hair was arranged in what looked like leather-wrapped horns, and her body was adorned in bloodred armor Charlotte was sure was made of dragon scale.
"I think the more relevant question is: what did I come for?"
Charlotte did not reply, watching Flemeth carefully for any sudden movement.
"You have been dallying, my dear. The Arl can wait no longer."
Charlotte's heart lurched to her throat, "Is he – "
"No," Flemeth replied shortly. "And you have me to thank."
"What do you mean?"
"Arl Eamon would have died long ago – indeed, while you were sleeping off spider poison in the Deep Roads, had it not been for my intervention. Now, I have bought you some time, but it is only just enough to complete the quest you were originally sent to do."
Charlotte felt a stab of shame; she had put her own goals before the promise she made to Bann Teagan. She dared not imagine what would have befallen her had Flemeth not saved the Arl's life. Now, the question that remained was: why? Why was Flemeth helping her?
"And?" Charlotte prompted, knowing more was coming.
"There are many challenges working against your favor," Flemeth continued, circling the room and idly picking up its trinkets, studying them with a bored eye. "I have chosen, with good reason, to help you with some of them. And now I require a boon."
Charlotte pressed her lips together, then asked, "And what is that?"
Putting down a particularly ugly statue of a dwarf holding a helmet and sword, Flemeth turned back to her. Charlotte had not missed that Flemeth was closer to her and still blocking the door.
"There were spies, sent by Orlais to play their Game, who sought documents belonging to the dead king. They were lost in the tragedy of Ostagar and remain, untouched, in his abandoned camp quarters."
Charlotte's stomach did a little flip, "And you want them?"
"No," Flemeth said; her eyes seemed yellower than ever, almost as if they were glowing in the dim light. "I am telling you this as a courtesy. You must do several things to secure your future; first, you must find and use the Sacred Ashes."
Flabbergasted, Charlotte blurted, "They're real? They exist?"
Flemeth nodded, "Do not discredit that which is beyond your realm of knowledge, girl. You of all your kind should know better with what you have seen in your recent travels."
Charlotte did not know why, but Flemeth's reprimand made her flush. She thought of Leliana's pious disapproval of Charlotte's lack of faith, and felt disturbed that it had not touched her where Flemeth's piercing glare had.
"Then," Flemeth went on, "After you save the ailing Arl – who, by the way, cannot be trusted – you must go to Ostagar and retrieve those letters."
"What of the Orlesian spies?" Charlotte asked nervously, trying to process this onslaught of information. Flemeth's grin bespoke of something carnal and unseen, and it frightened Charlotte a little.
"They are dead, do not worry for them. Although, you may want to mention it to your Orlesian friend with a past woven of secrets. Tell her Marjolaine has perished and see what she has to say."
Before Charlotte could question her further on that score, Flemeth came to her point.
"In exchange for my protection and this information, I request the boon of ashes from the battlefield of Ostagar. Make note: these must be the ashes of darkspawn and the vanquished King, mixed together." Flemeth produced a leather pouch the size of a child's fist and held it out to Charlotte, who stared at her in horror.
"The King's – "
"Yes," Flemeth replied sharply, brooking no nonsense. "This is an essential point, and one that must be heeded, lest all be lost against the Blight."
That brought Charlotte up short, "The Blight? That's what this is for?"
"I owe you no explanations, girl, but yes; it is for the sake of those who might perish against the Blight."
It did not escape Charlotte's notice that these words were not in exact agreement with her own, but the memory of the marching horde in Bownammar flashed through her mind and without further hesitation, she accepted the leather pouch.
"Why are you helping me?" she asked finally, needing to know.
"All knowledge sought comes with time, my dear," Flemeth replied, going to the door. "And now, you must go."
Charlotte considered arguing, but decided against it. Nodding her gratitude, the warden left quickly, putting as much distance as she could between her and the witch of old.
Back in the suite, Flemeth turned to a shadowed corner. "Did you catch everything, Morrigan?"
A raven flew out of the shadow and transformed; Morrigan sneered, then glared at her mother.
"There is more to this bargain than you foretold," she said accusingly, delicate fists clenched at her sides. "I am not a tool to be wielded as you wish!"
"My dear girl," Flemeth drawled in return, opening the door wider. "That would imply you were useful. I am afraid you have not yet come that far."
"But the prophecy," Morrigan spluttered, "What I must do, you have never provided a clear purpose –"
Flemeth's glare became truly frightening, and her daughter subsided in the face of it, knowing what terror her mother's anger could engender.
"You will speak nothing of your concerns to the others and you will do as you are told. Do not question me this, my daughter, for you will come to regret more than you can know."
Without waiting for an answer, Flemeth transformed and was gone, leaving a furious and frightened Morrigan behind.