Chapter 37

"Before the First Blight, there lived an old man and woman. One day, a beautiful stranger came to their house, seeking shelter. The old man and woman gave her food to eat and a downy mattress to sleep upon. In return, she offered them a golden mirror that would grant three wishes.

Looking into the mirror, the woman frowned at her wrinkles and grey hair. 'I wish I were young again,' she said. Suddenly, the face of a lovely maiden stared back at her. The man angrily grabbed the mirror, saying, 'You're so selfish! You could have given youth to us both! I wish you weren't so stupid.'

At once, the woman was brilliant beyond measure and saw that her husband had never loved her; he tolerated her only because her age and ignorance made his own seem less by comparison.

Angry now, the old woman grabbed for the mirror—at the same time, they both said, 'I hate you. I wish that you get exactly what you deserve!' With that, they were back together, both ugly and old, but now knowing exactly how much contempt they had for each other."

—The Demon's Gift

Morrigan

She halted when she heard footsteps behind her; anger flared through her. How dare he abandon his responsibilities. How dare he leave behind the closest person Morrigan had to a sister. How dare he leave their son behind, to be raised by neither of them. How dare he again defy her expectations. She spun around to loose her tirade upon him. "How dare—"

And stopped short, her mouth snapping shut in mid-sentence.

The man who had followed her was not Malcolm. He had remained behind, keeping the promise he'd made to her, to their son, and to Líadan. He was on a path far separate from her own, gone from her life and her future.

This man, however, had strong-armed his way into hers. How dare he. Her voice, and outrage, returned. "Why have you followed me?"

"To be your guide, as promised," said Nathaniel. "I will continue to hold to said promise for your protection."

The audacity of the man forced her into a struggle for words. "My protection? Just what is it from which you believe you can provide me protection?"

"The taint. Darkspawn." His head dipped far enough to indicate the child in the sling at her front. "If not for you, then for your son."

The depth of the situation, the unknown, struck her, and her fingertips went cold at the realization. Her tone dropped to a barely above a whisper. "Have you any what you've done, you ignorant fool?"

"Kept a vow, my lady."

She fought the instinct to strangle him, her fingers twitching in want to do so. "You are a Grey Warden. You have brought the taint to where it did not exist before. This place was innocent, and you have sullied it."

The resolution in his eyes faltered for the first time. "I did not think—"

"No, you did not." She turned her back on him before her temper was entirely loosed. His foolishness had put her plans at risk, not to mention her son, as well as the place of their refuge. She would at least look upon Arlathan before the taint touched it, if that what was going to happen due to a Grey Warden's presence. It was possible that the taint would remain inside him and not touch the outside world for quite some time, for Wardens did not taint others on Thedas. At least, not unless they ignored their Calling at the end of their lives, and therefore allowed themselves to become ghouls.

No. She would kill him and burn his corpse herself before she would allow such an outcome.

A more immediate concern was the question of his mortality. His was certain, since he was entirely human, as far as she or anyone else knew. Her own mortality, and any danger she might pose, wasn't as certain, being a daughter of Flemeth, were she truly Flemeth's blood. As she'd told Malcolm and the others, Flemeth was not entirely human, and she had been alive for hundreds of years, perhaps even since the beginning of time. Being Flemeth's blood, Morrigan could assume her life would not end as soon as a typical human's, especially since Flemeth had not managed to take her body for her own.

This Nathaniel, this Grey Warden, was more of a danger to the elves of Arlathan than she was. She suspected they had regained most, if not all, of their immortality since they had been separated from humanity for well over a thousand years. Away from humanity, and as they had been before Elvhenan fell and Tevinter reigned, and all of them mages. Arlathan, her place of refuge, of safety. She could feel the thrumming power of the magic of thousands of mages, could almost reach out and touch it.

That they had exited the portal to arrive in a dusty corner of what looked to be a library was of no consequence. The mere power—though there was nothing mere about it—surrounding her confirmed it to be Arlathan. There wasn't a single soul from whom she did not feel the power of magic. Cianán already projected an aura humming with the potential waiting to be unlocked. She was no slouch, herself. Then, next to her, she felt a lack of magic. A singular dimness marked the one person thus far in Arlathan who was not a mage. She looked out the corner of her eye to confirm her suspicion.

Nathaniel had moved to stand beside her. His eyes did not meet her surreptitious gaze, instead scanning the room they were in, as if scouting out the place.

Blasted man. She did not require protection.

Morrigan felt compelled to put distance between the two of them, but remained still, refusing to show weakness. "If the taint you bear does not kill these elves, your mortality will."

"I had forgotten the ancient elves did not die. In my schooling, Arlathan was always referred to as a myth."

Arlathan. Where powerful magic could be honed and a god child could be raised. Where she would find the key to Flemeth's end, once and for all.

If this interfering, impudent Grey Warden did not ruin it. He had followed without training, without ridding himself of preconceptions and prejudices indoctrinated in him from his Chantry. Not knowing the laws and strictures of the elves of Arlathan, she could not risk killing him so soon, and certainly not outright. For now, she would have to suffer his presence. They all would. "Very few of the elves here will not be mages. Let us hope you do not hold the same opinions of magic as your fool Chantry, or your stay will be unpleasant." She also hoped for short; her ability to abide was not infinite.

"It is not my Chantry."

"Good. Then you might not be killed on the spot."

"By them, you mean. You still have not decided if you will kill me yourself."

It was more so when she would kill him than if she would, but he did not need to know. It already disturbed her that he could divine her thoughts so easily. That said, it wasn't as if she'd been subtle about her feelings on the matter of his presence. "It remains to be seen."

He let out a rough chuckle. "Then I will endeavor to not provoke your ire."

"You have made a poor start, if that is so."

Another chuckle. Then, "If I may ask—"

"You may not."

In keeping with his previous actions, he disregarded her wish. "If my mortality poses a danger to these people, won't yours? I am not the only human here."

"I am a daughter of Flemeth. My humanity may not be as complete as you assume." Morrigan willed herself to remain calm. Her frustration with this man for not allowing her to even momentarily enjoy this triumph, to take in this place that would save her, threatened to overwhelm her. He simply would not stop pressing.

He moved about the room, tracing stones in the walls with his long fingers, his feet carrying him quickly, yet they made not a sound on the floor upon which he had tread. "So Flemeth really is your mother?"

She gritted her teeth. "Yes."

"The Flemeth? Flemeth of legend? Flemeth the Devourer of Men? Flemeth, Mother of Witches? Flemeth the Demon-Touched, Who Dwells in the Mists?"

"If I do not interrupt, have you enough names to go on for some time?"

"I excel at the recitation of lists."

"Evidently so. I wish for you to cease." If he were to cease breathing, she would not complain overmuch.

He stopped and studied her for a moment, like he had just studied the walls. "So be it, my lady."

Morrigan had never once felt this compelled to kill Malcolm. Yet he allowed her the luxury of silence—a luxury that Malcolm had rarely been inclined to at all—as much as it could be granted with a curious infant around. Though Morrigan had brushed it aside before, she could not fathom why the eluvian in Arlathan sat in a dark corner of a library that seemed little used. There were three tables, but two were covered with cloth, and the third littered with books. Four were open, and parchment was scattered across every available surface, with a quill resting in an inkwell. No dust, Morrigan noticed. So someone had to be using this place, if not the eluvian itself.

Then Nathaniel said, "You didn't answer my question."

She nearly jumped at the suddenness of the question, and had she jumped, she would have set him on fire. "I did so. Just because you found no satisfaction in my answer does not mean I did not give you one." When she glanced out the corner of her eye, she caught him rolling his eyes. Good. Let him become frustrated. Let him understand her frustration at his presence.

"So that's how it's going to be."

Yes, it was. But she didn't bother telling him that; it was high time he put his mind to some use before it began to rot. Instead, she returned to studying the curious table, and she did her best to ignore that Nathaniel did the same.

A door opened and closed, and then a yelp sounded from behind them, followed by the resonating smacks of several books hitting the stone floor.

Morrigan slowly turned to find the source.

An elven woman knelt there, her dark eyebrows still quirked upward in surprise, and she was gathering the books she'd dropped. But she was barely able to keep her attention off the newcomers long enough to properly stack the books in her free arm. Eventually, she gave up and shoved the stack aside before standing. "You're here," she said. Slowly, like they were wild animals, she approached the three humans. Once close enough, she reached out and poked Morrigan's arm with her index finger. Her eyebrows raised higher in surprise. "You're real." Then she extended her hand once more.

"Touch me again and you will find yourself short a hand." Morrigan moved both her arms to surround Cianán, just in case this woman got any ideas about grabbing the boy.

The elf drew back. "Are you always so irritable?"

Nathaniel snorted.

Morrigan ignored him.

"I had not foreseen you being so... this," said the woman.

Had Morrigan not been carrying Cianán, she would have crossed her arms. As such, she settled for narrowing her eyes in warning. "This, what?"

"Bristly? No. Prickly? No, not that. Blessed Creators, this is not going how it should. I haven't even introduced myself." The woman ran a hand over her flushed cheeks before meeting their eyes again. "My name is Airmid."

Morrigan did not give her name. If this Airmid had known she was coming, she would also know who she was, and that included her name.

"Nathaniel," said the man Morrigan considered an interloper. "And how should it be going?"

The woman startled, as if she'd just noticed Nathaniel's presence. "You are a surprise, for one." She raised an eyebrow, as if daring Nathaniel to question her. He did not. Morrigan had to give him credit for that. Then the woman returned her attention to Morrigan, her gaze occasionally flicking down to the quiet Cianán. "We—I—had thought you would look like one of the People. Instead, you are nearly as much shemlen as he is." When this woman said 'shemlen,' it did not sound as it was said on Thedas; here, it was not a slur or epithet. It was merely a statement of fact, for compared to the elves, they were indeed short-lived. The woman waved her hand, brushing a thought aside. "Well, not quite as much as he, being a daughter of Valoel as you are.

Confusion made Morrigan's brow furrow before she could stop it from showing. Her mother was Flemeth, not some mythological god living in tales told by the Dalish. Granted, she stood in a place of myth right at that moment, and her mother was certainly not a mere human being. Yet, she could not bring herself to accept that the woman here was truly referring to her mother. And if she were indeed referring to Flemeth by another name, then Morrigan's presence here would have to be in keeping with Flemeth's plans. Though she now stood before an elf in the city of Arlathan, she still felt confident that this was not the future Flemeth had foreseen. It could not be, for she had not allowed Flemeth to possess her body, and she had not given the child with the soul of an Old God over to her, either.

And yet, doubt crept in. Memories of lessons given to Morrigan to master the language of the elves. She had been instructed by her mother, informed that knowing the language of the People was important, even if it did not seem so due to their low standing in the world. "They stand low at the present," Flemeth had said. "But it is not the past, nor will it be the future." Still, Morrigan did admit that knowing the language was helpful. She would be remiss in not being grateful for the education Flemeth had provided her, however harshly it might have been given. Yet she'd given it, as if she'd known.

No. This was the path not of Flemeth's design. This was the path Morrigan had chosen.

"You must be mistaken," she said out loud, "for my mother is Flemeth."

The woman's blinked in surprise at the vehemence of the denial. "Is that what she calls herself now? For one who claimed names were useless, she certainly liked to change hers after her argument with Samandirel." Her outward surprise had faded, replaced by a vague sort of amusement.

"What?" Morrigan asked. There were too many indications being given that led to Flemeth truly being this mythological god. Too many hints that Morrigan, in her attempt to break free of Flemeth's plans for her, had instead blundered straight into them. Her stomach dropped and began to roil at realizing all she had given up had been for nothing. She had given up a son for nothing. She had given up strength—and weakness—that was love, for nothing.

"You don't know?" Now the woman sounded amused and curious. "Has the story been lost to Thedas in these hundreds of years? The fight between Samandirel and Valoel, the plight of Valoel's first children, and Valoel's quest for vengeance?"

Morrigan swallowed in an effort to relieve the dryness of her throat. It didn't help. "It was a legend told by the Dalish. A moral fable told to the wayward and the children. Nothing more." Were it only true, that it was nothing more. Yet the evidence presented could not be denied, and Morrigan suspected only more evidence would manifest over time.

"The Dalish?"

Morrigan felt some triumph in confusing the woman as she had been confused. "Your descendants left on Thedas fell far from the heights your people once enjoyed."

The woman flinched, and her look darkened for a moment before she seemed to shake off her visible dismay. "Forgive me. I had not truly prepared myself for your appearance, even though I had expected it."

"You were expecting me?" asked Morrigan. If she were to believe she'd been expected, she herself would have expected more of a greeting, more than a disused corner of a library. And certainly more a greeting party than a startled elf.

"We were. I mean, I expected you. The others expected me to be disappointed." A soft tinkling noise came from the eluvian, and the woman's eyes widened in alarm as she looked over Morrigan's shoulder. "Oh! Oh, no." She looked at Morrigan again. "Did you have someone on the other end destroy that one?"

"Of course I did. My mother would have chased me here, otherwise. 'Twas best to prevent such an occurrence."

"Oh." Now the woman sounded disappointed. "She would have been of great help. I've had such hard time keeping this one intact, with the eluvians on Thedas being destroyed one by one as they have been. There can't be many left. Not with pieces falling off." She gestured toward the eluvian. "See for yourself."

Morrigan turned, and though she'd heard the sound of glass shattering and falling, was surprised to see half of the eluvian's glass on the stone floor beneath it. The other half barely remained in its metal frame, cracks stretching through it, threatening to push the rest of the glass out. She had not thought the eluvians so tied together that they relied on one another to remain intact. "Mother could not be allowed to follow," she said quietly, biting down on her rising fear.

"What had you planned on to keep your mother from finding another eluvian?" asked the elf.

Morrigan looked at her, afraid to give the answer, and even more afraid to hear what the woman would say in return. "Those I left behind have been tasked to find and destroy them all."

"Creators!" The elf ran in a small, panicked circle. "We would be trapped if they were all gone, no portals left to us to Thedas, left to forever stagnate in Setheneran."

Morrigan stared at her, unable to comprehend her misstep.

"Can't you build another?" asked Nathaniel.

"Not without the right materials." The woman ran from one bookshelf to another, her fingers drifting over spines and checking titles. "And the right spells that could be cast effectively." Her hands dropped to her sides in defeat as she turned her look of desperation towards the others. "No, I couldn't."

Cianán started to cry, and Morrigan stroked his head to comfort him as she could not be comforted. Then her mind latched onto the meaning of one of the other woman's statements, and her other hand curled into a fist as she stared Airmid down. "What do you mean about casting spells effectively? Can you not do so? Are you not a strong enough mage?"

"I'm one of Arlathan's strongest," said Airmid, her mouth twisting at Morrigan's slight. "In fact, it was my spellcraft that—we need not go into that now. To answer your question, magic here is not impossible, but is very difficult. Setheneran, by its very nature, is far removed from the Beyond. As a human mage, you know the Beyond is from where we draw our power. The connection to the Beyond from here is a mere tendril, the thinnest of thin threads, if even that."

"You cannot reach the Fade from here?" Morrigan had not thought her dread could grow stronger, and yet it did. No magic? She would be powerless, and she would have no method for teaching her son, of preparing him for what was to come.

"We can touch the Beyond through that tenuous thread, but it takes focus, concentration beyond that which many of us are able to maintain. Only the strongest of us can draw power from it still. We no longer enter uthenera. It takes too much work." The offense at being insulted in a backhanded manner faded from Airmid's lips as she took stock of Morrigan once again. Then she said, "You are powerful, as a daughter of Valoel. Try to use your magic now. Summon a wisp."

The easiest of spells. Normally, Morrigan could summon a spell wisp without conscious thought or effort. She would need one, and one would appear. This time, it took her an unbearably long time to get a wisp to appear. Enough time that a hundred slow heartbeats, and what felt like an entire lifetime of wasted rebellion, had gone by before it winked into existence.

Seeing the wisp finally appear did not bring Morrigan hope.

The elf, however, seemed quite pleased, enough that she clapped her hands with joy. "This is good!"

"I am not so convinced as you," said Morrigan. She wasn't convinced at all, and turned her eyes towards the betraying eluvian. The eluvian that had changed the course of her entire life, now probably not for the better, just as it had to Líadan.

I was wrong, she thought as she stared at the remains of the eluvian, despairing at having her magic weakened. So very wrong.

Meghan

Arl Eamon was beside himself on his return from the Landsmeet. Meghan had a hard time comprehending such a thing from a member of the nobility in front of a guest, for her father had not been one for grand displays of emotion, and neither had Starkhaven nobles. In private, she suspected there were such things, but in front of guests, in front of the public, they did not allow their baser emotions to show.

And show them he did. His sentences ran one into the other, jammed up against each other in a river of rage, like the Minanter swollen and roiling with spring rains. There was a new Theirin heir, she managed to gather, the rumored bastard having been granted legitimacy by the Landsmeet. Meghan thought it prudent, given the Fereldan crown's lack of Theirin heirs, and in the wake of a nasty civil war caused in part by the lack of legitimate heirs, it made the most sense. Not a trend to continue in the future, to be sure, but appropriate for the time being, at least until the line once again had a healthy number of legitimate heirs. Namely, more than one.

Meghan, during a pause in one of Eamon's rants over the evening meal, said as much.

"Normally, I would agree with you, Lady Vael," he said after a long pause, where Meghan had thought he'd turn his anger onto her, but he was addressing her levelly instead, "but in this case, I cannot. Prince Cáel brings more magic into the line of Calenhad." He stabbed his piece of roasted venison with his eating knife with more force than was truly necessary.

"More?" She'd not heard of Calenhad's line containing any magic. Not a single generation had produced a known mage, not even rumored.

Eamon grimaced. Apparently, he'd said more than he'd meant to in his anger. "Malcolm has magic in his blood from his mother—this is known, I gather, due to the Chantry's untrue accusations against him in the past year?"

She nodded. The Vaels of Starkhaven generally were kept apprised of all Chantry rumors and declarations, due to their years of close connection. It had come as a surprise, to hear that one Ferelden's recently legitimized bastard princes was being declared an apostate, and even more a surprise when that declaration was withdrawn and stricken from record. However, the information it was based on, that the prince's mother had been a mage, had not been recanted.

"Just that influence alone would have been bad enough, should Malcolm have legitimate issue and Alistair not, but considering Cáel's birth mother was a powerful mage—and an apostate, no less—well. One cannot deny that Calenhad's line will be made rife with magic should Cáel or his descendants inherit." Eamon took the bite of venison from his knife and chewed vigorously, his anger enough that he seemed to take the potential of magic in Ferelden's royal line personally.

"It would be wrong," said Isolde, projecting a calm in stark contrast to her husband's disquiet, eating primly and delicately, careful to speak only when she did not have food in her mouth. The picture of nobility, as Orlesians often were. "Men in my family who possessed magic were sinful. To imagine a mage in power? Or just a mage within a royal family, even if sent to the Circle? It is too much. Too much chance for sin." A flicker of something else, sadness and fear, if Meghan had to name it, passed through Isolde's eyes. "For destruction."

Were the rumors true, then? Meghan had wondered, as had the rest of the Vaels and the others within the circles of Free Marcher nobility. Rumored that the son of the Arl of Redcliffe had been possessed of a demon during the Blight, saved only by the actions of several Circle mages from Kinloch Hold, and one rumor held that it was an apostate who had gone into the Fade to kill the demon, thereby freeing the boy. But before the mages were able to intervene, the town and castle of Redcliffe had suffered many lives lost due to the demon's undead attackers who ravaged them. It had been mages who'd saved the arlessa's son from certain death at the hands of the templars, but Isolde remained bitter towards mages, even still.

Meghan understood. She felt much the same way about mages, even though she knew her rescuer, Marian Hawke, was an apostate mage. Hawke had been nothing but kind and helpful, visiting her quite a few times during Meghan's stay in Kirkwall, knowing that Meghan had felt cooped up due to her having to hide. Varric, as far as Meghan knew, had not shared with Hawke who Meghan was, or who Meghan's brother was, but Meghan hadn't been—and still wasn't—so sure that Hawke hadn't figured it out. She was a sharp one. If her expedition was successful, and she able to retake the title the Amells had lost only two generations ago, she would go far.

But it was easy to forget Hawke was a mage because she hid it so well. Out of necessity, yes, but no robes, no stave, no flashiness. She engendered trust despite what she was. So Meghan chose to ignore that one of her saviors was a mage, much as Isolde seemed to be doing regarding her own son.

A son who also happened to be a mage. Meghan hoped the child Isolde would soon give birth to would not turn out to be the same. She knew Eamon had a younger brother who could assume the arling should the next child be disinherited due to magic, but it the personal impact of a second potential heir being a mage would be difficult on both the arl and arlessa, from what Meghan could see.

"And we've already seen what destruction an apostate close to the royal family can wreak," said Isolde, after she had considered and rejected another bite of bread. "It was Morrigan's actions that brought the Chantry's march on Highever."

Meghan raised an eyebrow at the hypocrisy, too much even for her. "I had gathered it was the Chantry's decisions that brought the march, Lady Isolde," she said, doing her best to keep rancor from her voice lest she offend her hosts. She still lacked coin; she would have nowhere to go should she anger them too much. "Forgive me, I had just thought this Morrigan to be the one who helped the princes through the Blight, who was the mother of the new prince, and died in the Battle of Highever."

Eamon inclined his head. "That much is true. She did help more than she did hinder." He shifted his heavy look from Meghan to Isolde, the pain of memory tumbling in a wave across his face. "And she did save our boy from that demon. As much as we may want to, we cannot deny that." He placed his hands flat on the table, his eating knife skittering away. "Would that she were not a mage, I would have little argument with her or her being Prince Cáel's mother. And yet, she is not. She is a mage. Malcolm's mother was a mage. I fear that Cáel or his descendants will be the same. Lady Vael, I have seen with my own eyes what a mage can do to a line."

She nodded in recognition of Eamon's point. "True, yes. The Vaels have been blessed by the Maker so far. We've not had a mage born to the line yet."

"It is a curse." Isolde's voice was so bitter that Meghan was surprised Isolde was not spitting in disgust. Had Isolde not been a lady, perhaps she would have done just that. "The hidden ones in my family, the ones kept from the Chantry, one could only imagine, in nightmares, what they would have done with the power of a throne."

"Which is why I am concerned with this current branch of the Theirin line," said Eamon.

Meghan frowned. She was missing something. "I can understand your qualms with Prince Malcolm and his son, my lord, but Queen Anora had no magi among her ancestors, even common as they were until Teyrn Loghain, and by all known accounts, King Alistair has none, either. Provided they have an heir, the line will be directly safe from magic for at least a generation. More safe, if they have more than one child. Unless you know more about King Alistair's mother than is common knowledge."

"Whether I do or do not possess such knowledge, I cannot say. What I will say is that if we had another Theirin alternative to Alistair or Malcolm, it would be prudent to use them, lest the line become sullied with magic." Eamon lifted his hands from the table and shrugged. "Alas, we've none. So we must pray to the Maker that the line will not suffer overmuch from the curse."

As a former royal, Meghan was aghast at the fine line Eamon was treading, nearly deviating into treason, at least by Starkhaven standards. Even the mere contemplation of finding another heir to usurp the current monarch's throne was tantamount to treason. And it had not gone unnoticed by her in the manner with which Eamon addressed both the King and the Prince. Arl Eamon rarely, if ever, using their titles, calling them by their given names only. With Eamon's history with the two men, she could understand the first-name basis on a personal level, and calling them such in private. But his repeated non-use of their titles in public, or with others who were not privy to the same privilege, was as much an indication of his feelings of their worthiness of the line as his vague notions of treason.

And yet the man considered himself a great supporter of the Theirin line.

Eamon cleared his throat, possibly having realized the meaning of his words. "Enough of that." He folded his hands together on the table in front of him. "Lady Vael, have you considered your petition of asylum? Or contacting your brother for intervention with the Chantry? Perhaps even requesting an audience with the Divine while she is in Denerim? I believe Her Perfection has plans to stay another week to wrap up various matters."

"I fear that contacting my brother or publicly requesting an audience with the Divine will draw undue attention to my survival, my lord," said Meghan. "I fear that an audience with the King would do the same, even here in Ferelden. Starkhaven is no small trade partner of the merchants here. I am certain word would find its way back to my family's murderers."

"That is... understandable. A wise precaution, to keep quiet. However, I'm certain I can get you a private audience with Alistair, my frustration with his brother and nephew aside. I still fostered Alistair as a boy, and I was his chancellor, for a time. I resigned because I wanted to spend time with my wife, here in Denerim, while we waited for the arrival of our child." With those words, he shared a warm smile with Isolde, which was returned brilliantly. Pregnancy well suited the arlessa.

Meghan found his shift almost painful to follow. From treason to claiming to have the King's ear within seconds of one another.

Isolde turned a more serious gaze onto Meghan. "You may also consider requesting a private audience with the Divine. I have heard that Her Perfection will sometimes grant them, to give her people the opportunity to speak directly to her." She paused for a moment, mulling over an idea. "Perhaps I will make the request for you, using my name, so that Her Perfection may be more inclined to grant such an audience.

However abrupt the shift, she could not deny that a private audience with the King or the Divine would the only opportunities she would have at asylum. She did not hold much hope for the Chantry's intervention. With the information she'd been given, that she had been declared dead along with the rest of her family, save Sebastian, she was a non-entity. In fact, she would require Isolde's assistance to request audience with the Divine, public or private. And in the end, all she could hope for was simple asylum. If she pressed publicly for restoration of her line, she would be called a pretender. There was the slight hope that Sebastian would bolster her claim of being Meghan Vael, and therefore dispute the declaration of her death. Or he might even make a claim for Starkhaven's throne himself.

"I would be most grateful for any assistance you might provide. Audiences with His Majesty or Her Perfection would be helpful in making my requests for asylum," she said out loud.

Eamon smiled and sat back, seemingly pleased with himself for the first time that day.

Meeting the Divine, something she'd imagined only Sebastian would do, out of all of them. An image of her brother came to Meghan's mind, of his smile and bright eyes. Then the idea that she was dead to him hit her hard, and she fought the sorrow from showing on her face.

It wouldn't be proper.