Chapter 38
A Regrettable Choice

Fiona perched on the loveseat, her slim hands lacing in her lap. "So... How 'bout that food fight?"

Alistair chuckled, glad that his mother wasn't pushing him. "How 'bout it. You know, I was really excited about the miniature custard creams that Brenna made, until they turned into ammunition."

Fiona dimpled as she laughed. "All I could think while it was happening was how Duncan would have secretly loved every second of it."

"I still can't believe what you told me about him being a thief." Alistair sat beside her, his eyes lighting with interest. "He always seemed so proper to me."

"Duncan was a scamp and a scoundrel," Fiona snorted. "He'd have been the first to start throwing pies. Did he ever tell you about how he was recruited?"

"No, not really. Just that he was a thief in Orlais before the Wardens claimed him. He never really wanted to discuss it."

"Once he became Warden Commander he had this 'image' he thought he needed to keep up," Fiona remarked. "But believe you me, Duncan... well. We should talk more about him sometime."

"I'd like that," Alistair said. "He was sort of like a father to me." The words were out of his mouth before he realized, and the flicker of pain that danced over Fiona's features twisted his stomach. "Oh, sorry, um-"

"No, don't be sorry." Fiona reached out, her fingers curling over his clasped hands. "He promised me he'd look after you. It's only natural that the two of you would get close... and he sent me letters about you."

Alistair nodded, still a bit unsure of what to think about that. The others were due to arrive soon, but perhaps there was time enough to ask a few things. "Fiona... uh, sorry. I don't really know what to call you."

"Fiona's fine," she assured him hastily. "And unless you plan on officially telling people I'm your mother, it'll prevent awkward questions."

Alistair squirmed, uneasy. That was yet another road he wasn't certain of. "Right. Um, Fiona. Why didn't you ...um, why didn't you ever write?"

Now it was Fiona's turn to shift in discomfort. A heavy moment crept by before she found a response. "I've been waiting for you to ask, and I'm not sure I have a good answer."

Alistair said nothing, his throat too dry to force kind platitudes past.

"I was ashamed, I think. Not of you," she added when his eyes dropped to his lap. "Oh, Alistair. Never of you! Of me."

This brought his face back up, confusion wrinkling his brow. "You were ashamed? Why?"

Fiona's liquid eyes saddened. "I came to Denerim to tell your father of my pregnancy, and to have you. I don't know why... I think I wanted Maric there when it happened. I very nearly didn't make it," she recalled with a wry grin. "When Lyra's time comes, don't be tramping through the woods."

"Noted." Alistair was more than a bit fascinated. "Did he have any idea you were coming?"

"None. And no idea you even existed... he was pretty flustered to have me show up on his doorstep, prepared to give birth..." Fiona's eyes took on a faraway look. "That was a long night."

Alistair's heart thumped, the story of his birth sending chills over him. "What happened next?"

Fiona came back to herself then with a self-conscious shake of her head. "You were born, of course." She winked at him. "Maric and I spent a few days together while I recovered, talking about your future. He wanted to raise you as his own, keep you here in the palace. He even asked me if I would stay."

So many letters had indicated that Maric had asked and been refused, that Duncan had invited Fiona to join the Wardens in Ferelden and been turned down. Since discovering that his mother hadn't died but had voluntarily jumped ship, Alistair could think of only one reason why she'd gone. "And you didn't want to."

Fiona's fingers tightened over his. "No, Alistair. I did. I really, really did."

The longing in her eyes drew forth a stream of unchecked words, things he'd been wondering but hadn't spoken for fear of being rude, of making her uncomfortable or sad. "You did? Then why didn't you? We could have been a family, I could have had a mother and a father, I would never have had to go to the Chantry or train as a Templar-"

"Maric wasn't thinking clearly. Hear me out," Fiona cut him off when he began to protest again. "You're so like your father, Alistair. You have a heart the size of Ferelden, and you're ready to do anything for the ones you love. Maric couldn't see what having you and I at court would do to his rule. I couldn't expect Maric to marry me... An elf, and a mage, married to the King of Ferelden? So I'd have been his concubine at best, mother of the bastard child he had no right to care about. Can you even imagine the political troubles it would have caused? The people who'd have tried to use you for their own ends?"

Alistair paused, thinking it through. Some of this had occurred to him already, but hearing it from Fiona's viewpoint was still new. He'd never considered what it might have been like for her specifically. Only last night they'd seen just how hated the elves really were. If Lyra was an elf, or a mage, or an elvehn mage... he shuddered just thinking of the impassioned outcry that would have been raised at their marriage. Though... he had been determined to marry Lyra no matter what. Would it have mattered if she'd been an elf, or a mage? My father must have loved her, he thought as Fiona's hand tightened around his. The thought made him feel better.

"Not to mention... I'm a Warden," Fiona continued, unaware of his inner thoughts. "The Wardens had been banned in Ferelden, and Maric couldn't allow them back until 9:10. He had to fight tooth and nail for that to happen, and it would have damaged all credibility he'd built if he'd been in a relationship with a Warden. And if it had been made known that he'd had a child with that Warden? An elven, mage Warden..." Fiona shook her head. "You know we aren't supposed to involve ourselves in politics. Ferelden would have accused him of favoritism, and his worthiness as king brought to question."

"Right. I know how that feels," Alistair muttered.

"Maric didn't give up, you know. He kept trying to bring you to live with him."

A tingle of happiness overtook Alistair. "Really?"

"Really. We'd talk him out of it, convince him that it was best for everyone - including you - if you stayed out of the public's eye. Maric didn't care. Every few years he would begin a furious letter-writing campaign, begging me to come to Denerim and threatening to pluck you out of the Chantry. Loghain was at his wits' end more than a few times, and Duncan had to run interference."

"I never knew..." Alistair said softly. "I spent my whole life thinking he didn't want me."

"Oh, he wanted you." Fiona hesitated, then locked her eyes with his. "We both did."

A lump grew in Alistair's throat. Before he quite knew how it happened, he'd gathered Fiona into his arms, and his mother had begun sobbing on his shoulder. Tears sprang to his eyes as well, the tiny woman's embrace soothing an ache he'd carried in his heart from the very beginning.

"I've always, always loved you," Fiona whispered in a tear-sodden voice. "More than anything I wanted to be here, and it killed me inside that I couldn't be. There was no safe way to raise you myself, not as a Warden. I couldn't go to the Circle, I couldn't come to Denerim... and much as I wanted to steal you back, run away and eke out a living as a scullion somewhere, you deserved better than that. I couldn't give you a proper life, Alistair. You have to know that."

"I know." His hands gathered the fabric of her blouse as he hugged her. "You did what you thought was best."

Fiona sucked in a ragged breath, her arms squeezing. Alistair shut his eyes, praying that the door would stay closed and his advisors wouldn't show up for a long time yet. It mattered not that he wasn't a little boy anymore, or that he'd spent so many years feeling unwanted. His mother was here now, and hearing that she'd spent her life loving him was a dream made real.

.oOo.

The dungeon was about as bleak as one would expect a dungeon to be. Cold, damp, lots of dark stone walls. It looked old, like it had seen more lifetimes than Lyra could count. The bars were solid, though, and Zevran and Kallian seemed secure enough. At least, Zevran seemed content to remain behind bars for now. If half of what he'd ever told her was true, there wasn't a jail in existence that could hold him.

A single lantern was the only illumination and had been hung from a nail on a post, the rough wood blackened with dirt and time. Lyra wondered just what a wooden post was doing in a dungeon - but then her active imagination invented some poor prisoner, his manacles hooked over the nail as his body stretched from arms trembling with fatigue, some unspeakable torture making him scream and scream and scream, deep in the basement dungeon beneath Denerim where no one would know or hear or come and find him...

Bleak. There was no other word for it.

"Did you kill him?"

Zevran's question brought a gasp of indignation from the blonde elf. Lyra squinted a bit in the darkness, searching Kallian's expression for clues to the truth.

Either the girl was an excellent actress, or she was innocent, the whites of her eyes showing as pale eyebrows rose high. "What are you saying?" she demanded in an incredulous voice.

"Kallian, we have to know," Lyra put in. "An arl and his only son lie dead, and you were in the house where they died, covered in blood and holding a dagger. The city guard reported that you insisted you were the only one who did any killing. So..." she allowed the words to trail away, a suggestive note coloring the last syllable.

Kallian's mouth fell open. "I never did any such thing! Why would I kill anyone other than Vaughan? Arl Urien never gave the elves any trouble... well, not beyond anything any normal human would do. Not like Vaughan. Urien was just an old man!"

"He was in power," Lyra suggested in a logical voice. "He ruled Denerim - and by extension, the Alienage - for many years. Your whole lifetime. It would have been easy enough for you to make sure both of them were dead-"

"It's a filthy lie!" Kallian's teeth clenched like a growling dog, her furious eyes gleaming in the torchlight. "Vaughan deserved to be gutted, he had it coming to him, and I'd kill him again without a second thought. But I would never murder anyone who didn't deserve it - especially an old man asleep in his bed!"

Yes. Well. "You have to admit it looks bad," Lyra pointed out. "Can you offer me any proof that you didn't do it?"

"How about 'I've never killed anyone in cold blood before'," Kallian snapped. "Can you say the same, majesty?"

Lyra's heart twisted.

In an instant, she was in another basement, another dungeon, clothed like a Chanter as she sought the only thing that she'd thought could heal her bleeding heart.

Rendon Howe's end.

Could she claim innocence? Not a chance. Many were her crimes. What right did she have to dispense justice, when she'd considered herself above the law?

She mumbled a few things more, was far too short with Kallian, urged Zevran to change his mind, then fled the cells, leaning against the chilled rock walls for support as soon as she'd cleared the doorway.

Thomas Howe. Rendon Howe. Flemeth.

None of them innocent, but all of them killed in cold blood, dying under Lyra's blade in the name of protection and vengeance. Flemeth's murder was the foggiest of these, followed by Rendon Howe, but Thomas... his end she recalled perfectly.

Alistair's words to the nobility rang in her head. "Any who commit murder shall face the consequences, be they of humble or noble origin. I cannot abide any who take the law into their own hands."

The memory haunted her; her obsessive need for Howe's death, her manic hunt through his manor to find Rendon and gut him. Thomas had been incidental, earning his final moments by kidnapping her and trying to force her hand. But even so, she could have bowed her head, walked away. All had been in readiness; herself costumed as a Mother of the Chantry with Leliana and Alistair at her side, Morrigan glamoured with Lyra's appearance and tied up in the next room. All she'd had to do was walk out of the manor and back to Eamon's estate... but that hadn't been good enough for her. Leliana had handed her a blade, and not two minutes later she'd driven it fist-deep into Thomas Howe's abdomen, taking righteous satisfaction in the pain and shock that filmed his eyes. She'd been certain that he'd deserved it.

Deserved it. Yes. For all the times he'd tormented her; for dipping her braid in a tar-barrel, for locking her out in the rain in nothing but her smallclothes, for groping her like a horny teenaged boy when he'd finagled her into a dance at Satinalia. For these heinous crimes, Lyra had nursed a hatred of Thomas Howe that had grown with every passing year.

A sob choked its way past her throat.

Nathaniel's words had been shocking, needless to say. According to the elder Howe, Thomas had always loved her. Nathaniel had even received a letter from Thomas telling of a false engagement - perhaps with the idea that one day, it would be true, and therefore not quite a lie. Looking back, it was easy to see. Thomas hadn't hated her. Young men the world over struggled to gain a girl's attention. Some were worse at it than others, certainly, and Thomas had clearly never had any idea of how to show his feelings. His attempts to gain her affection had been childish and sometimes hurtful, but worthy of death?

True, in the end he'd kidnapped her, threatened her brother and Alistair unless she married him. And Rendon Howe had killed her family, forced her to flee for her life. Hadn't she deserved the chance to avenge them?

"Any who commit murder shall face the consequences, be they of humble or noble origin. I cannot abide any who take the law into their own hands."

Even if the elf had planned the death of Arl Urien, what made Kallian any different than herself?

Lyra brought her hands to her face.

She lowered them a moment later, wet with tears. This was a wound that might never heal completely. Her options were few - she was queen now, for better or for worse, and what she'd done in the past would do no one any good now. And what she needed was to do good now, not forever worry about her own atonement.

Her eternal soul would pay the price when she left this world.

"A bath," she called the gaoler. "That girl is filthy, covered in blood and dirt, and unless you want her to die of infection you'll ensure your prisoners are clean and comfortable."

The gaoler flicked a doubtful glance at her guards, then shuffled off, mumbling to himself.

Lyra folded her arms and leaned against the wall, prepared to wait him out. She'd supervise the operation herself, make sure that Kallian was safe and taken care of. And then she'd do everything in her power to get Zevran out of prison. Red tape be damned, if Kallian was going to have any hope of surviving, they needed to get to work. Quickly.

.oOo.

Alistair's eyes skimmed from face to face, taking in the advisors he'd gathered to help him in making this decision.

Nathaniel Howe. The man had spent years in Orlais as a spy, and knew much about their long-time foes. He would be the voice of reason, one who had enough experience with politics in both Orlais and Ferelden to understand the ramifications of what Alistair was considering.

Alfstanna Eremon. One of the most intelligent women in Ferelden; a noble who could see all angles of a problem and speak rationally about it. Another politician who could put the interests of Ferelden before herself. And she was a woman, which meant she could anticipate the viewpoint of Celene, not to mention Lyra.

Fiona. Orlesian by birth, and... his mother. Someone who understood the enormity of life decisions. A fellow Warden, with knowledge of the Taint and all that it entailed. And after the conversation they'd just had, Alistair was confident that she would have valuable things to say regarding this newest tangle.

Pascal Laurent. Another native Orlesian, another fellow Warden. Someone who'd, in a small way, taken the place of Duncan in his estimation. A sharp-minded military tactician who would understand the potential fallout should Ferelden go to war.

This was all. None of his former Blight companions were present. Zevran was in prison, and of everyone only he might have earned a place in this council. Wynne... no. Alistair doubted any of this would earn Wynne's approval, and the last thing he wanted was lecturing. Oghren - that was laughable. Leliana might have been a good choice, were she not Lyra's best friend and known for gossipping. Sten was gone, and Lyra herself - an obvious no. She would advise him to take Celene's offer, and then withdraw into the shell he'd so recently torn down. The last thing he wanted was for his wife to hurt.

Morrigan's face flashed through his mind. His mouth twisted as he swallowed. Why couldn't they just be friends? The times when they'd just been two regular people, just discussing life or philosophy or sharing stories as they walked the face of Ferelden - these had become some of his favorite memories. Things had gotten so messy between himself and the witch. She'd have offered a cool-headed opinion, of this he was certain. If only he could have talked to her.

"Thank you for coming," he began. "I've asked all of you here because I trust you, and your skills and knowledge are appropriate to the task at hand. I find myself with a difficulty I cannot solve, and I hope you all can advise me on this matter. But first I must ask for your silence... what we say here must not leave this room. The fate of Ferelden rests on what we discuss today."

"Will the queen be joining us?" Pascal asked, confusion furrowing his brow. "Shall we wait for her?"

Alfstanna and Nathaniel exchanged a look. Fiona pursed her lips.

"No." Alistair cleared his throat. "This is something I'd rather keep from Lyra. For now. As I explain, I think you'll understand why." Taking a breath, he began. "I have had a most... intriguing offer from Empress Celene." Alistair launched into a recounting of their interaction at the ball, sparing no details. He told them of his fears for Lyra and the baby, of his desire to do the right thing for Ferelden. "This last bit, you all know - but I'll include it anyway, so we can see the entire picture as it stands," he concluded. "Lyra will die in a few years as a result of the Taint. And for that matter, my own lifespan is questionable. I killed the Archdemon. There's no saying how long I've got with that kind of exposure. If I can forge this treaty with Orlais, it may be the beginning of the most powerful alliance Ferelden has ever had. Celene was right when she said we're struggling... I have a feeling she's only the first of any number of circling vultures. The army will take generations to rebuild. If Orlais were to attack now, they'd take us by storm. We simply can't survive a war. And I'll be damned if we lose our independence so soon after it was won. Too many of our fathers fought and died to regain it."

Quiet from around the table as his chosen advisors considered the problem. Fiona's fingers drummed the wooden surface, the soft patter of her fingers the only sound.

"You've already come to a decision, I take it." Alfstanna was the one to break the silence. "You intend to accept her offer."

Alistair nodded slowly. "But is it the right thing to do? I can't think of another option. If I don't, she kills Lyra, and the baby dies as well. Then I'd have to take Ferelden to war. Or I could refuse her offer, lock Lyra in the castle and hope for the best. But even if Celene didn't manage to slip an assassin through the palace, I can't allow such threats to stand. So Ferelden would still have to go to war. Neither option is acceptable."

"This is bullshit," Fiona bit out, her eyes flashing. "How can you even consider this? You're letting her push you around, Alistair! You think the threats will stop there? You say yes now, and Celene's got you by the balls. And then she'll have you on the block, and your head will look so pretty on a pike above Denerim's gates. Is anyone else listening to this?!"

"It isn't that simple," Alistair argued. "She'll kill Lyra!"

"She'll kill her anyway," Fiona returned sarcastically. "Saying you'll marry that harpy will only speed your wife's death. Are you prepared for that?"

"You'd prefer we send Ferelden to war?" Alfstanna's brows rose. "Do you even know what that would do to the country?"

"I know I'd rather follow a monarch who doesn't give in so easily," Fiona shot back. "Your subjects need to feel they can trust you. Fereldans hate Orlais. You think announcing your upcoming nuptials to Empress Enemy Number One will win you friends and admirers?"

"What it will do is save them from starvation," Pascal said. "War is nothing to laugh at, Fiona. And where do you propose Alistair should get the troops he would need?"

"The dwarves, the elves." Fiona waved a negligent hand. "Didn't they pledge to support you once?"

"The dwarf population is dwindling, and besides which, they're their own kingdom. If they joined us, it would be as allies, not as my subjects." Alistair paused, recalling a few conversations he'd had with Endrin Aeducan. Above all things, the dwarves valued money, coin received in exchange for the ores and lyrium they mined. Orlais was just as great a customer as Ferelden; the dwarves would do nothing to impede that cashflow. "As for the Dalish - they may live here, but they're not beholden to me, either. They joined forces with us to defeat the Archdemon. That doesn't make them citizens. As far as armies go... we're low. Ferelden's population isn't sky-high right now."

"War isn't glorious." Pascal's commanding voice had saddened. "You have read the histories, Fiona, seen the desolation of Weisshaupt. You know what can happen."

"That was Darkspawn, and the Taint." Fiona's voice was weakening, however, her passion dissolving in the face of logic.

"And this would be people. Families. Men and women, leaving children at home to starve, all in the name of defending a cause that I commanded of them. I can't do that," Alistair's voice cracked. "I love Lyra, and I don't want her to die. But I cannot ask Ferelden to die for her."

The raw pain in his tone communicated more clearly than his words, and his advisors said nothing for a few moments. Alistair pressed his eyes shut, struggling to regain control.

"To put it in clearer terms. Without enough people, Alistair would be forced to conscript the remaining population into the army. Fields would go fallow as farmers were pulled from their land to become soldiers. Crops would suffer. Famine would sweep the land." Pascal's crisp voice listed the facts. "And in the end, Orlais would march in and take everything anyway. Only in this scenario, Alistair and Lyra would be put to the sword, and the pointless war would have cost them both the only thing they'd fought to save."

More silence.

"Let's not do that, then," Fiona said at last.

"Agreed." Alistair leaned back in his chair, palming his eyelids. The same headache he'd suffered from earlier intensified. He was going to need a Healer at this rate. After the sentimental, reconnecting moment they'd just shared, he couldn't help but wonder why Fiona was attacking him this way. Did the woman care about him, or not?

"But what about Lyra? You can only marry one woman at a time," Fiona pointed out, unaware of his inner thoughts. "And the one you're married to is pregnant, with the only heir you're likely ever to have."

"Not necessarily," Pascal countered. "The chances of children increase if both partners are not Wardens. Your own history points to this, Fiona. However, duty usually prevents us from seeking companionship outside the Wardens; it is too difficult. We are married to our cause. Alistair, you may indeed have more heirs if your wife is not a Warden... the fact that Lyra became pregnant in the first place is a miracle."

Fiona waved him off impatiently. "Not my point. Alistair, you're already married. What are you going to do about Lyra?" Her eyes focused on his, the intensity of her stare shifting him in his seat.

"I intend to send a representative back to Orlais with Celene... a hostage, if you will, to guarantee my follow through." Alistair rubbed the back of his neck, his next words sticking in his throat. "After Lyra's... gone, I'll marry Celene. Now what I need are your opinions. What will happen if I do this? What are the pitfalls? What could go wrong?"

"She could kill your child," Fiona pointed out in a harsh voice. "What's to stop her from murdering your heir? She's threatening your wife right now - somehow I doubt she'd get sentimental about a baby."

Alistair nodded. He'd thought of this already. "I would need some guarantee of my heir's safety, even upon my own death. Some sort of contract. I don't intend for the countries to become one - Ferelden will remain Ferelden, Orlais will remain Orlais. Celene can rule from her throne, and I'll rule from mine. This is a political marriage meant to forge an alliance, nothing more."

"So you wouldn't live in Orlais." Nathaniel nodded. "No need for it. And just as you can't really leave your throne, neither can she leave hers."

"Though you could spend six months here, six months there - if you wanted to," Alfstanna put in. "But I doubt that's what you want?"

"I'll leave Ferelden as little as possible," Alistair said firmly. "This is my home. Celene can stay in Orlais and rule there."

"What about after you're gone?" Fiona challenged. "What's to stop Celene from taking over? So your heir is safe, but who's going to rule while the baby grows up? And what will stop Celene from turning that kid just as depraved as she is?"

"She is not depraved - just ambitious," Pascal argued. "Royalty has ever been thus. Alistair, did not your own brother wish to outdo his father's accomplishments? King Maric the Savior can't have been an easy monarch to follow. Cailan wanted to make his mark on the world, just as Maric did. He thought the Blight was his chance. For Celene, this is hers."

Alistair considered. Could that be Celene's reasoning for a merger rather than an invasion? You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, he thought. "Do you think? What I can't figure is exactly why she's doing this, instead of just trouncing us."

"You're a catch, Alistair," Alfstanna said simply. "The Hero of Ferelden, its recently crowned king. Raised in the Chantry, pure of heart and handsome of face. Why wouldn't she want to marry you?"

Alistair reddened.

Nathaniel chuckled. "Careful, love. You'll swell his head."

"You see my point, though." Alfstanna gestured to Alistair. "Look at the man. He can't even see his worth. Even before the Blight, I'd wager he was of heroic make, but now? Alistair Theirin can be a power in not just Ferelden, but all of Thedas. What you do, Alistair, will go down in history, sung for ages... you're a man of destiny."

Fiona snorted.

Rather than being insulted, this broke the tension, and Alistair burst out laughing. "Thanks, Fiona."

"He's only a man, for goodness' sake," Fiona snapped. "A fine one, certainly. But just a man. No better or worse than his father. Celene said herself - her deal was with Cailan, he's dead, now it's with you. She wants to marry the King of Ferelden, she doesn't really care who he is."

"But my point is that Alistair is a commodity she won't be willing to lose. Not if we present it right," Alfstanna insisted. "And that, my dear, is your leverage."

"Leverage?" Alistair leaned forward, interested. "What do you mean?"

"You need something to guarantee Ferelden's safety. Something that Celene isn't willing to lose. And that thing is you, plain and simple. Think of Orlais." Alfstanna scooted forward in her chair, her hands spreading over the table. "Without a doubt, they're the largest country in Thedas, and Celene is the grand high mucky-muck of all of them. If she wants to go down in history as more than just another ruler, what better way to do it than to marry Orlais to Ferelden? Didn't you say she said something about how you two could be powerful together?"

"She did," Alistair said slowly. "She said I'd be a powerful partner in 'the game'."

Nathaniel's eyes lit up. "Alistair, she's right. If you agree to do this, I think you can define your own terms."

Fiona's face darkened. She sat back in her chair, her thin arms crossing over her blouse. Clearly, she did not approve.

"The nobility of Orlais ever vie for favor," Pascal mused, his tone thoughtful. "I would imagine this extends somewhat throughout all of Thedas. Perhaps Celene has her sights set on more than just Ferelden?"

"Something she thinks that you can help her achieve." Alfstanna nodded, her eyes sparkling. "Don't just blindly agree - you've got a meeting with her, right? Let's come up with some demands of your own."

.oOo.

The palace was bright and welcoming in comparison to the dungeon and the tunnels, and Lyra trudged, mentally exhausted. The last thing she wanted to do now was socialize, but there were so many visitors in the castle... perhaps she should just duck into the servants' hallway and see if she couldn't find her way back to her bedroom. If only she had the Warden sense, as Alistair did. She'd have been able to go straight to him.

The tunnel to Fort Drakon originated in a small storage room, and Lyra dismissed the guards who'd accompanied her, telling them to go on ahead. A parade would only attract attention, and she didn't wish to tell them of her plan to sneak through the castle.

The hesitant looks they exchanged said much, but then one of them found his voice. "We're supposed to stay with you, Queen Lyra. The king commanded it."

"And I suppose that means following me to the privy, or even to the baths?" Lyra raised an eyebrow. "Come now, boys. We're in my own castle. Just what do you think will happen?"

"Begging your pardon, Your Majesty... but King Alistair commanded it."

Lyra sighed, allowing her eyes to slip shut for half a second. "Fine. Just... look out in the hallway for me, would you?"

Exchanging a confused look, the first guard did as he was bade - and the door was thrown back, the mage Anders bulling his way inside.

"Lyra! You're back!" He beamed. "Alistair asked me to watch for you. Any news about Zevran? Tell me in a minute. You look famished. How about I take you over to the kitchens and we gorge on pie and cold chicken?" Not waiting for her reply, Anders scooped her hand into his own and dragged her toward the door. "Thanks, fellows. I've got it from here. King's orders."

Lyra opened her mouth to speak, but was cut off as the guards rushed forward with a yell. One of them snagged her from Anders' grip while the other tackled the unfortunate mage, pinning him to the ground in seconds. Anders yelped as his head cracked against the stone, a flash of blue engulfing him scant seconds later.

"Andraste's tits!" The mage groaned. "What do you weigh, a thousand pounds?"

"Rolf, escort the queen to her chamber," the guard atop Anders said in a terse voice. "Then fetch backup."

"Yes sir," Rolf said, and began to bustle Lyra from the room.

"Oh, this is ridiculous!" Lyra shoved the guard's protective hand away, her voice brimming with frustration. "Anders is my friend! You can't be serious right now!"

"We have very specific orders, Queen Lyra," Rolf said, though he seemed uncomfortable now. "No one but us is supposed to escort you."

"Fine, then, just come with us." Lyra stepped toward the prone pile of guard and Anders, planting her hands upon her hips. "For the love of the Maker, get up, Hugh. He's safe, and so am I, and well done and all that."

Another moment passed as Lyra won a silent battle of wills with the guardsman, and then he rolled grudgingly off of Anders. The resulting struggle to stand him upright in his heavy armor would have been comical if Lyra hadn't been so annoyed.

Hooking her arm through Anders' elbow, she gave her guards one last withering look before the two of them headed for the door. She didn't bother to look back, though the telltale clank of steel-shod boots on stone was never less than ten steps behind.