Victory at Ostagar

Chapter 50: Matters of Honor

"Should he be King?"

That was the theme of his restless thoughts, the matter of his anxious dreams. Loghain worked and fought and gave commands as was his duty and custom. Underneath it all simmered the unspoken words:

"Should he be King?"

He was becoming more and more unalterably convinced that he should.

Who could cope with the current crisis better? No—looking at it with eyes unclouded by tradition or fear, who could guide Ferelden though the Blight better than he?

Cailan's will had cut Anora out of the succession with cavalier ruthlessness. Anora was a fine Queen, but no warleader: hers were the gifts of peace. And with her questionable health, too…

Loghain experienced the usual pang of anxiety and distress when thinking about Anora and the vile thing the Orlesian spy had done to her. Could Wynne make her right? Could anyone?

Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to stop worrying about Anora for the moment. She must get through the next three months and get herself well. Then, in the future…

If they had a future. Thousands of darkspawn had erupted here at Ostagar, and still no sign of the Archdemon. Bronwyn told him that the Old God plagued her dreams. The thing was there, behind the scenes, gathering strength. Its defeats had confused and angered it. It would soon be seeking revenge.

He must consider the matter of the succession. Cailan, predictably, had been no help at all.

Many Fereldan nobles had a drop or two of the blood of Calenhad. No doubt each one of the swaggering, vainglorious fellows fancied himself a King in waiting. Very likely the Landsmeet would explode: cousin against cousin, brother against brother, in a series of angry squabbles and bloody duels. That could not be allowed to happen.

But how to prevent it? The only way to silence controversy was to present the Landsmeet with a King that all could support. The commoners of Ferelden would support Loghain himself. Of that, vanity aside, he had no doubt.

The nobles of the Landsmeet, however, were another matter. They had never forgiven him his ascension to the nobility. It would gall them like bleeding saddle sores to see him on the throne. Unless…

Well, who had the best claim by blood? If one went strictly by the bloodline, the next candidates were Alistair, the bastard son; and then the children of Bryce Cousland— Fergus and Bronwyn.

Alistair was a fine lad. Loghain had come to like him very much, seeing some of the best of Maric in him; but Alistair would not do as king. Maric had not acknowledged him, and there was not a shred of real proof that Alistair was Maric's son: or at least, not the sort of proof that would pass the Landsmeet's jealous examination. And then too, the boy's mother made it impossible. Her status as a Grey Warden one could set aside. But an Orlesian, an elf, and a mage? No. And it was foolish to imagine it could be kept secret. How many people had the elven woman "confided" in? If Loghain declared for Alistair, the Orlesians would blab the truth to the world. Ferelden would be a laughingstock, right or wrong; and support for the boy would be cut out from under him. No. Alistair would not do.

Fergus had real potential to be a fine king, Loghain believed. He was a brave and intelligent man. Bryce had trained him well. He knew how to lead and he knew how to be patient. Could he deal with the Blight?

As long as there was the least question in his mind on the subject, Loghain felt he must say "no." Fergus would do his best, but it might not be good enough. Once the Blight was defeated, Loghain was willing to grant that Fergus might be a very good king indeed.

And Loghain admitted, in his secret heart, that he was tired of deferring to some young upstart. It was beyond tedious to submit his views to be pawed at by someone unqualified to judge them. He probably could get on well enough with a King Fergus, but there would be the same delay, waiting for acknowledgement and approval. Why not remove that step, and hold the supreme power in his hands?

There was one way to do it: Bronwyn's claim was equal in blood to that of her brother. She was the Girl Warden; the Dragonslayer of Ferelden. The nobles might be easily swayed to accept her as Queen. It was possible that her brother, embroiled in the North as he was, might agree that his sister was a better choice in the current circumstances.

Why not? Why not join their courses and seize the Crown? Between them, they were the best hope for the country's survival…


Must she be Queen?

Bronwyn tossed restlessly on her cot, plagued by the idea. Many seemed to think that she must. That look in Cousin Leonas' eye vexed her beyond words. He and Arl Wulffe talked in low voices, always looking, looking, looking at her, waiting for her to do what they had decided would be best.

They were sensible, pragmatic men: men who prided themselves on being free of foolish prejudices. They had made clear that they wanted what was best for the kingdom. They had also made clear what they thought that was.

Like most of the army, they wanted Loghain to be King. The army was big and powerful enough to force its will on Ferelden, but at a cost: the precedent of an army forcibly setting the strongest on the throne.

Cousin Leonas had couched his thoughts in a history lesson, speaking of the royal house of Antiva.

"Once the royal house was gone…once that golden thread of legitimacy was broken…it became a battle of all against all, the survival of the fittest. Once the army knew they had the power to make kings, they wanted to make them all the time, greedy for the bribes of gold and power and women each successful general would throw their way. Even the ones on the throne there now are in a pretty precarious position. They owe their thrones to the Crows or the nobles or the army: sometimes all of them at once, and everybody knows it. There's nothing to hold the people to the monarchy by the call of tradition. Tradition is a powerful thing, and must not be tossed aside recklessly."

He was right, she knew: horribly, infuriatingly right. It would be madness to defeat the Blight, only for Ferelden to fall into chaos. And there was another danger, too: if the line of Calenhad was broken, their foreign enemies would pounce, smelling the dissension as far away as Val Royeaux…

Father had wanted her to be Queen. It was true that he wanted her to be Cailan's queen, but he would be the first to grasp the needs of the time. Mother had not wanted her to marry Loghain, but if she had to choose between Loghain ruling alone, and Loghain ruling as the husband of a Cousland Queen—well, Bronwyn knew that there would have been no choice. Mother would have told her that it was her duty to be the Queen of royal blood who would bind together the ancient loyalties of the Landsmeet and the nation to the Crown in time of peril.

But what of Fergus? She had told him of the situation. Would he feel it best to take the throne himself? It was hard to guess. If he wished it, and felt it his duty, then she must do everything in her power to help her brother. But was he the best choice for Ferelden? If he were not, then was her loyalty simply the selfish grasping of a powerful noble family?

She was already so busy as Warden-Commander, and that was not a duty she felt she could palm off on anyone else. The Wardens here in Ferelden were key—nay, essential—to victory over the Blight. They had one more to their number now. Somewhat to Bronwyn's surprise, Adaia had survived the Joining.

That was something to ponder. Cailan, the big, muscular, sword-wielding king of Ferelden, had failed the Joining, but a half-starved, illiterate little elf, with the most cursory of arms training, had succeeded. Adaia was Warden Adaia now, with a new Warden's tunic on her back and a new spring in her step. Whatever the Taint was seeking out, it was not mere size and strength; and it clearly cared nothing for class, or birth, or titles, or even species. Adaia would never be a melee fighter, but perhaps that was not necessary. In a large enough force of Wardens, there was need for support personnel as well as fighters. Adaia's bombs and poisons gave them an extra edge in battle, and she herself was no coward; though Bronwyn preferred that she stay behind the fighters and move in on disabled enemies as opportunity permitted. The girl certainly enjoyed behind able to loot and plunder at will, now that the darkspawn Taint was no longer a threat to her.

All that said, Bronwyn felt that as long as the Blight raged, she must remain Warden-Commander, even if she was...yes, she must make herself dare to think the words...even if she was crowned Queen.

Must she be? It certainly seemed so. She must marry Loghain, and the two of them must bear the weight of the crown together. A Warden Queen? Perhaps that was the kind of Queen a Blighted land needed most...


Did he have to be King?

Fergus spooned up more stew, eating dutifully in the close silence of his private chamber. It saddened him, but also gave him strength to feel the presence of his parents here. Bronwyn's letter lay to his right hand. He would read it again when he was done eating. There was much there to think about.

The King was dead. Bronwyn was polite about it, but it was clear that she thought Cailan had been foolish, and let the country down badly.

How could he argue with that? Between the outrageous plot to ally himself with Orlais—to marry the Empress!—and his poor treatment of his admirable Queen…between his palpable contempt for Loghain's general strategy and his reckless conduct in putting himself in danger…between his disregard for Fereldan tradition and the feckless, heedless will he had left behind...well, Cailan had not done well by his family or his country. The will was an outrage, and had not even cited a preferred heir…

Things were bad. He had not yet made the public announcement about the King's death, because he had not decided what to do about it.

The Queen would be the interim ruler for the next three months, but Bronwyn had informed him about the Queen's condition. She had been slowly poisoned by that treacherous little bitch of a maid, under orders from Orlais. It was still a question whether Anora would ever fully recover. It made Fergus sick with anger to think of it. That brave, beautiful woman...

Fergus stabbed at his stew, outraged at the brazen viciousness of their old enemies. And there had been an attempt on Loghain as well. No one was safe, between the Orlesians and the bloody Crows…

"Dear brother," Bronwyn had written in their code. "It comes to this: either you or I must take the Crown. If you feel that assuming the kingship is your duty, I shall support you in every way possible.

"However, consider the alternative. If I wed Loghain, and we rule jointly, he will have the power of the throne to deal with the Blight. That I am a Warden I consider a lesser matter. I have the word of Wulffe and Bryland that it will be no bar to me. The Blight must be vanquished, and I see little evidence of help coming to us from the rest of Thedas. The Orlesians are hoping for our destruction, and as to the rest—well, it is merely an exciting spectacle. The First Warden has not indicated his intention of sending aid. Instead, he has ordered me to leave Ferelden and put myself under the command of the Orlesian Warden-Commander at Montsimmard. As you may imagine, I have ignored his order, and scorn it for the wicked foolishness it is. Perhaps there is some political understanding between the Wardens and the Orlesians to allow Ferelden to be destroyed. I set myself against it: it shall not stand.

"The following is a Warden secret, so do not share this with anyone. The fact that I am a Warden may mean that my chances of producing an heir are compromised. Obviously, with the Blight raging, it would be madness for me to try to bear a child anyway. If I assume the throne, you are my heir. That will be declared outright, and Loghain must accept it as a condition…

Fergus sighed, admitting that this proposal was a relief to him. Painful as it was, he wanted to be in Highever, among his own people. He wanted to put his home right. He wanted to give due honor to his parents. Dealing with the Blight and dealing with all the contentious nobles in Ferelden was a prospect that turned his stomach. He had plenty of contentious nobles already, here in the North. Just as galling was the condescending message from the Revered Mother of Highever Chantry, full of advice about forgiveness and accepting the Will of the Maker. He had rogue mercenaries to put down, and a good part of Highever to rebuild. He had Amaranthine to keep under watch. He had the coast to guard, for who knew what a foreign power might attempt, while Ferelden's army was engaged against the darkspawn?

In short, he did not want to leave. If he took the throne, what of Highever? If Bronwyn married Loghain, and Fergus were king, it would be very difficult to make the Landsmeet accept Bronwyn as Teyrna of Highever, when she would already be Teyrna of Gwaren. There would be tremendous pressure to appoint a new teyrn, and Highever would be lost to the Couslands. Fergus found the thought unbearable.

Let Bronwyn have her throne. And her hero.

How incalculable Fate was! All unexpected, both Father's dreams and Bronwyn's ardent wishes were likely to be achieved through the agency of Thedas' greatest menace. With the malice of the Archdemon ranged against her, Fergus hoped Bronwyn's prize would not prove a disappointment.

"My lord Teyrn!"

Fergus looked up and smiled at the man in the doorway.

"Come in, Hawke! I was just thinking over my sister's letter. I'll have to make the announcement of the King's death today. In fact, come with me to the Chantry. I'll notify the Revered Mother, which should stop her pontificating about the 'expressed intent to claim Sanctuary.'"

Hawke laughed. "True. She'll be much too busy planning the memorial service for King Cailan to give more thought to a few dead scoundrels."

Fergus was already striding out of the room, gesturing at Hawke to follow him. Useful man, this Hawke. Good company, too. He could see why Bronwyn thought well of him. Fergus needed all the good men he could get, and Hawke had no family ties in the North. His judgment would not be clouded by a desire for vengeance, which might make him a good choice to send to Amaranthine. He'd keep an eye on the man for the next few days and see.

He also had the letter from the Queen to think over. That poor woman. The next three months were likely to be a terrible trial for her, as she prepared to preside over the Landsmeet and hand over power. She must take care of herself.

What would Queen Anora do, when she was only Queen Dowager? Did Loghain plan to turn Gwaren over to her? That would be some consolation to her perhaps, though it would be a lonely life, isolated in the far south. It was scandalous that the King had not provided for her more honorably, though that was all of a piece with Cailan's general treatment of his queen. What could one say of a man who had such a treasure of a wife— beautiful, wise, virtuous—and did not prize her?


Could she be Queen?

Plots and schemes whirled in her mind. She grasped at political straws in her imagination and they slipped from her grasp. Anora had considered herself a resourceful woman, but she could think of no way to persuade the Landsmeet to give her supreme power for life. She had never felt more alone.

She found that she missed Jowan. Wynne was soothing and pleasant company, but there was something about the unspoken admiration and loyalty of a man that gave a certain zest to life.

Wynne was an amazing Healer, of course. Anora could feel the difference. It was only very late in the afternoon that the fatigue and nausea set in; only in the early morning that it was so very hard to leave her bed. Wynne could not cure her, but she could make Anora capable of ruling, for the shortening number of days left to her as Queen.

And what then? Rustication in Gwaren, to mediate charcoal burners' disputes? Oh, how that hurt! There was no much yet unachieved!

How could she persuade the Landsmeet to give her the crown? More to the point…who else was in contention?

Her father, of course. Anora was not deaf to the mutterings in the palace and in the capital. They were threatened, and many looked to the Hero of River Dane to deliver them. He had not a drop of royal blood, and the only noble relations of the MacTirs were a long extinct family of cousins who had held the bannorn of Long Grove.

Of course, if one thought about it properly…Calenhad the Great had not had any royal or noble blood when he made himself the first king of Ferelden…

Was that it? Was he planning to found a new dynasty, born from the terror of the darkspawn horde?

Anora pounded the arm of her chair, as things became clearer in her mind.

Of course! Of course! That was exactly what he was planning. And he was not going to do it alone. Bronwyn Cousland had sunk her claws into Father, and would use him to win a crown. With a Cousland as his Queen... the next in line to the throne... She should have foreseen it. Father needed Bronwyn's blood claim, and Bronwyn needed Father to help her escape the Grey Wardens.

Anora told herself that she was not angry. She could not hate Bronwyn. In fact, she liked her very much. Bronwyn had been loyal and kind to her. She was something in the nature of a friend, and Anora had had few enough of those in her life. Bronwyn had left Jowan with her, without whom Anora knew she would very likely be dead by now. She had treated her with perfect respect. Anora had to accept that Bronwyn was not doing what she was doing to spite Anora, but because she genuinely thought Anora had no claim to the throne. If there was no longer to be a queen in Ferelden, why should Bronwyn not seek the title?

Fair was fair. Was there any way to compete with Father and Bronwyn? The other claimant would be Bronwyn's brother. Teyrn Fergus, of course...

Fergus...

Her eyes strayed to the charming little music box he had given her. What a fine, fine man... and how considerate. He had done wonders in the North with few resources. Fergus Cousland had the makings of an excellent king. He would need a queen, naturally, after the tragic loss of his wife and son. Teyrn Fergus Cousland and Queen Anora Mac Tir might be a match even for the Hero of River Dane and the Girl Warden. Even were Fergus not king, he needed a wife...a teyrna...someone to stand beside him and help him. Fergus Cousland was the only man in Ferelden whom Anora could marry without a great loss of prestige. He was not just the premier noble of Ferelden, but a comely, brave, and sensible man. He was considerate of the feelings of others. He was as different from Cailan as a man could be. She would marry him gladly. Wynne would stay with her and keep her healthy. And perhaps someday... Father would not live forever...Bronwyn's life was dangerous... not that she wished harm to either of them, but...

Anora walked to her dressing table and took a long look in the mirror. Am I still pretty enough to win him?

She pulled out a piece of parchment and was soon engrossed in her letter to Highever.


Keeper Lanaya arrived with her Dalish clansmen and received a formal welcome. After taking a look at the exquisite blonde elf woman, Loghain was somewhat relieved that Cailan was gone. He had made a fool of himself over Keeper Merrill: he probably would have wanted to marry Lanaya.

The Dalish at Ostagar greeted their fellow elves with great joy, listening in wonder to the tale of how Warden-Commander Bronwyn had saved the newcomers from a lethal curse. They had always thought well of the shemlen commander, but this was more proof of her good faith. There was a great celebration in the Dalish camp as the new landships were added to the great circle. Within was a pleasant fire, at which the Dalish leaders took counsel.

"Loghain and his young woman Bronwyn are not as other shemlens," Thanovir said. "I have known Loghain since we were young men together. He respects the elvhen, though without patronizing speeches. Bronwyn, too, has proved a good friend. There are whispers that they may soon rule in Ferelden. If that is so, perhaps we shall see new days for the Dalish."

"Bronwyn is honorable," Merrill agreed staunchly. "She will see that the young king's words are not forgotten." She explained to Lanaya, and to their hahren Sarel. "King Cailan—the nice young man who fell to the darkspawn—has promised land to the Dalish. It is written in his will and witnessed by his nobles. Land to the southwest of Ostagar, to be granted to the Dalish 'in perpetuity.' That means for always."

This announcement was met with wonder and excitement by some, and with skepticism by others.

Sarel pointed out, "The woman Andraste was a good and honorable friend of Thane Shartan. Those that came after her, however, were no friends of the elvhen."

Maynriel steepled his fingers, thinking deeply. "Much of the trouble that led to the loss of the Dales," he said, "began with disputes stemming from the Blight of those days. The shemlens felt that the elves had abandoned them. That, as we know, was not the whole truth, but it was the truth as the shemlens knew it. We, however, are here: side by side with our shemlen and durgen'len allies. Some of the shemlens grieve over their king's death and some blame us for not defending them, but as Loghain had put down such mutterings, I do not fear them. If we are true, and stand with the other free peoples of Ferelden, I predict good of this alliance."

"What of the other shemlen nations?" Lanaya asked. "Will they not come to help?"

Thanovir smiled cynically. "They will not. For now, they watch and wait, perhaps hoping to gain something by their neighbor's ruin. I remember the war against the Orlesian shemlens well. They used elves most cruelly during their occupation. You do not want Orlesian chevaliers here in Ostagar, I assure you. Loghain told me that their Empress has forbidden the Grey Wardens of her country to come to fight, unless her army—chevaliers and all—is also permitted to cross the borders. He believes it is a mere ploy to seize control of what they regard as a lost province. I think he is very likely right."

Another elf spoke up: a young mage woman. "That is not to say that all these shemlens are our friends. One of their nobles has sold city elves into slavery. Granted, Bronwyn's brother defeated him, and the man is dead, but the elves are still lost, gone to Tevinter. There was a great stir about it."

The newcomers were shocked at the revelations, and whispered among each other. Annoyed, Merrill said, her sweet voice sharp, "There was a great stir indeed, because the shemlens were horrified and ashamed that one of their number would commit so vile a deed. It is perhaps because of that wickedness that the young king wished to make reparation by way of granting elves their own land."

Sarel considered it. "It would be a great thing, if the elvhen had a home again—even if it were small, and a mere place for gathering and ceremony."

"One of the Wardens," said Merrill, "has even suggested that the poor city elves could build a village there. They are accustomed to living in one place, and it would be better for them to rule themselves than to live in the shemlen cities."

"Was that Danith?" asked Lanaya. "I know Danith. She is a fine elf. Or perhaps Tara? She is a powerful mage."

"Danith is a very fine elf," Merrill agreed, "and a splendid archer and aWarden beside, but it was not she. Nor was it Tara, who is also my friend. It was Warden Adaia, the newest Warden. She is a city elf of Denerim, but she was eager to learn the Vir Tanadahl. I am glad that the elvhen are so well represented among the Wardens. Bronwyn appointed Tara the commander of the Warden mages, over shemlens, so I think that is also a proof of her respect for us. I think that some of us should talk to Bronwyn and find out what is planned about this land grant."

Maynriel, amused at the impatience of youth, shook his head. "Nothing will be done while we are fighting. We do not know which lands will be polluted by the darkspawn. Nor could we ask the poor flat ears to join us in the south now, while there is so much danger. This is hardly the time to found a city!"

A silence greeted his words, but not of anger or denial, but of wonder, as the idea began to sink in.

"A city of elves," breathed Lanaya. "A city of our own once more. Even if it were but the poorest village, what a joy it would be."

"We will do it right, this time," Merrill declared. "We shall hide it from the shemlen with magic. We shall keep it secret and safe. There we shall teach our ways. There we shall recover the wisdom lost to us."

She added, "But I still want to talk to Bronwyn about it. Just to remind her."


Jowan was welcomed back to Ostagar by his friends... and received nods from those who did not approve of him. He brought a thick epistle from the Queen to Loghain, a polite note of thanks to Bronwyn, and a long letter to Tara and Adaia, along with assorted parcels and messages.

Obviously, he must first find Teyrn Loghain, but on his arrival, he was told that the Teyrn, the Dragonslayer Bronwyn, and some of the other Wardens were out on patrol. They were not expected back until the following morning. He went up to the Wardens' quarters and unpacked.

Things had happened in his absence. Everyone seemed dying to tell him the gossip. He could not miss Tara's changed sleeping arrangements.

"But is he kind to you, Tara?" he asked his friend anxiously, glancing over at the smirking Zevran across the room, who was busily honing his dagger. Jowan remembered Lily with a quick, urgent pang. He had loved the girl—or thought he loved her—but it had been a terrible, nearly fatal mistake. "He's not a mage. He doesn't understand us."

Tara gave him a hug. "He understands about being a prisoner. He understands about having no choices. He's good for me. He doesn't try to pressure me into anything. He's incredibly handsome. And he's a fellow elf. I'm sort of rediscovering my elvishness."

"Good luck with that," Jowan said doubtfully. He glanced at the letter from the headman of the Alienage in his friend's hands. In Jowan's opinion, being an elf in Thedas was simply not a good thing at all. He saw no advantage to Tara in identifying herself with elves and their sufferings. Tara and he were better off with the Wardens. Mages and elves were equal to everyone else in this fellowship—at least under a leader like Bronwyn. They had decent quarters here in Ostagar and luxurious digs in Denerim. They had purpose and an opportunity to use their gifts. They had respect.

He leaned over and whispered, "If he lets you down, I'll freeze his balls off!"

Tara laughed. "You'll be right behind me!"

Adaia was hovering, wild for Tara to read Valendrian's letter to her. Jowan moved on to give Carver the messages from his family.

"You stopped to see them in Lothering?" the young man asked, surprised. "That was very decent of you!"

"You have a wonderful family," Jowan said sincerely. He had admired the gentle, gifted Bethany very much. Personally, he thought she should join the Wardens, too. "Adam was fine when I saw him off on his way north. He sends his best to you. I think the Queen must have given him a pretty good reward, because he bought presents for your family in Lothering, and I delivered them on my way through with the supply train. Here are the notes from your mother and sister. And here," he said, pulling out a parcel from his scattered baggage, "are some treats from your cousin. She stayed up all night baking so I could bring them to you."

Carver sniffed at the parcel.

"Fruitcake!"

He tore off the wrapping, thumped the liquor-drenched delicacy on the big table, and cut himself a big, fragrant slab with his dagger.

"Anybody who wants some fruitcake better get some soon, or I'll eat it all!"

There was a sniff from the window, and anxious murmurs. Carver looked up and realized that Adaia's letter from the Alienage could be nothing good. He lowered his voice.

"Uh...guys? There's cake..." He took himself off, deciding to read his letters outside.

Alistair passed through the outer room, talking with Cullen, when he, too, saw the group of elves, a tearful Adaia in the middle. There was no kind way to pretend ignorance.

The two men walked over. Alistair said, "The news is bad, I guess. I'm sorry."

Adaia wiped at her nose with the back of her hand. "Could be worse, I suppose," her voice even thicker than usual. "We've lost more than half the Alienage. More like two-thirds, the hahren said, and the only people Teyrn Fergus could save were the old ones that the slavers didn't want, and the sickly, and Maia and Kirri's little baby. The hahren says that Teyrn Fergus sent them home in a wagon, and gave a goat—outright gave a goat!—to Gammer Deranni so the baby would have milk. The only other good thing," she said bitterly, "is that there's plenty of housing in the Alienage now, and the slumlords had to lower their rents!"


Jowan reported to his superiors as soon as the patrol returned to camp the next morning. Everyone was dirty and tired, but it appeared to have gone well. Bronwyn saw Jowan waiting outside the Tower of Ishal, and pointed him out to Loghain. Scout recognized the pack member, and granted him a brisk wag of his stubby tail.

"Look!" Bronwyn exclaimed. "Jowan's back! Good day to you, Jowan! You look well."

"Commander...Teyrn Loghain..." Jowan muttered, preferring to look at his friendly and attractive commander rather than the fearsome general. "I bring new weapons from Master Wade and letters from Denerim."

The teyrn gave him a suspicious glance, but took the proffered letter at once.

"Come to my quarters, Warden," he ordered. "I'll want your impressions of the Queen and Denerim. The weapons we will see demonstrated later."

That should have made him thoroughly nervous, but Bronwyn gave him a wink, and he smiled back weakly. And after all, what did he have to fear? The Queen approved of him, and he had done his best for her.

She must have said as much in her letter, too, for Loghain, after reading through the letter, sat for a moment in thought, and then said, "I thank you for your good service to my daughter, Warden."

"It was my honor, my lord. I am proud to serve the Queen in any way."

That earned more approval from Bronwyn. She glanced quickly at Loghain and then gave Jowan a small nod.

Loghain went on, "She is impressed by the abilities of Senior Enchanter Wynne, but I gather that a cure is not likely. You must have conferred with the woman. What is her honest opinion?"

Jowan hated giving people bad news, but there was no escape. "No, my lord. I am very sorry, but there is no cure. The damage is done. A powerful Healer like Wynne can ameliorate the symptoms and restore the Queen's energy, but she cannot undo the essential harm. With regular care, the Queen can expect a fairly normal life..."

"But not a long one," Loghain said, the words bitter on his tongue.

"With Wynne there, she may live much longer than I could manage..." Jowan admitted. He hated the truth of what he must say. The Queen deserved so much better... "But it is unlikely the Queen will grow old."

Loghain got up and paced to the window, looking out at the hills to the south. "And without magical Healing?"

Jowan hesitated, and looked to Bronwyn to support. He said quietly, "She could not live more than a month or two."

"But she does have Wynne," Bronwyn pointed out. "We shall see to it that she continues to have the best care Ferelden can afford."

Loghain blew out a long breath and turned briskly to Jowan. "You have done well, Warden. I am grateful to you, and I trust in your continued discretion."

"Always, my lord."

"Find the Glavonaks, Jowan," Bronwyn told him. "Have the weapons ready for a demonstration by mid-afternoon."

After he was dismissed, Loghain turned to Bronwyn.

"There is more to the fellow than I saw in him at first." He brought himself up short, remembering that Bronwyn did not know of his first dealings with Jowan—of the underhanded poisoning of Eamon Guerrin. Loghain felt a brief superstitious dread, wondering if Anora's fate might be some sort of divine judgment. He put the thought aside. and saw that he need not have worried. Bronwyn thought he meant Jowan's first, uncertain days as a Warden.

"He's grown into his duties a great deal. Conscripting him turned out well."

"Anora cannot continue as Queen beyond the Landsmeet," he declared, his voice harsh. "I would fight for it were it the right thing to do, but her health is too questionable. There is only one thing to do, and you know we must do it."

Bronwyn was silent, her eyes searching his face. In the morning light, he looked haggard and hard-edged; a far cry from the cheerful springtime king who had ruled Ferelden days before. And what was she? A vulture, swooping in to seize the crown from a woman who had been used cruelly and treacherously. If this was victory, it tasted of ashes.

She said, "I must know Fergus' mind in this. I cannot set myself against him. And there is another thing I must do to clear my way before I can be Queen with honor."

Briefly, she informed him where she would be journeying, and why. The Ashes of Andraste were Anora's only hope for life, and Bronwyn's only chance to salve her conscience.


Bronwyn was excited about the new dragon spears. They were reluctant to kill a valuable ox to show some of the new features, but the demonstration was still effective. The heads were razor sharp and of the hardest forged silverite, runed for penetration. The shafts were unbreakable by any tests Wade had been able to conduct on them. They were light enough to be thrown. Included was yet another prototype, spring-loaded. When the head was jammed with sufficient impact against a target, the spring was released, and the head on the telescoping shaft shot forward with great force. On an ox carcass, the head penetrated another two feet—in fact, entirely through the ox's carcass.

"I saw it done," Jowan told them. "It was impressive. You can fill the spear heads with poison or explosives. I've also done a lot of reading about dragon-hunting. I think the Nevarrans wanted to keep their secrets, but some of it slipped out. They worked in large teams and used traps quite a bit—"

"What kind of traps?" Loghain asked instantly, his eyes drinking in the new weapons greedily.

"Pit traps, mostly," Jowan said. "If they were just narrow enough, the dragon couldn't unfurl its wings to fly out. They also baited ambushes and used nets on the smaller specimens. Spider silk nets, I believe. for the big ones, they still used bait to lure them in. Dragons like blood, certain types more than others..."

"Well?" Bronwyn asked, seeing the man blush.

"They're very excited by..." Jowan grimaced "...er, menstrual blood. It's the prospect of maybe getting a virgin sacrifice, I think...either elf or human will do. They smell it and they'll attack."

"Jowan..." Bronwyn tried not to laugh. "Are you implying that the Archdemon is likely to be influenced into attacking me based on my time of the month?"

Loghain was staring at him, eyes icy chips of doom.

Jowan gurgled weakly. "Er...yes...maybe. Not sure about the Archdemon. Other dragons...probably. The Nevarrans always brought a girl along on their hunts, and the songs have a lot of references to the moon..."

"They didn't feed those girls to the dragons, did they?" Bronwyn asked, eyes wide.

"No...not intentionally...but sometimes things went wrong..."

He had lots more lore to share, and gained a bit more courage as they listened. He was a good researcher, and always had been. He had uncovered many secrets in the libraries of Denerim.

Loghain was nodding, taking in the information, but still focused on the weapons.

"We'll find an ogre carcass," he muttered. "And you and your Wardens can try the springloaded spear..."

"I may have to leave that you," Bronwyn said quietly. "Don't forget that I plan to leave tomorrow."

Loghain grunted irritably, not pleased at the reminder.


Merrill stopped her on the way to the Tower of Ishal, wanting to discuss the future of the Dalish land grant. Bronwyn told her that she was going on a long patrol the following day, but she also knew she could not simply brush off the Keeper. Cailan had pledged the honor of the Crown, and if everything went as she and Loghain planned, it would be left to them to fulfill Cailan's promises, one way or another.

"I know the King promised land to the west, but we're not sure what shape it's in." She thought about it. "Our patrol is going westward tomorrow, and perhaps we'll know more after that. Personally, I wondered if a grant in the Breciliian Forest, encompassing that amazing elven temple, might not be better. Perhaps you should talk more to Danith about that building and its signficance to the elves...I promise to think more on the matter, but I must speak to my Wardens right now...

They were no better pleased than Loghain with her plans. Nearly all of them were there, cleaning up, preparing for the evening meal. She made her announcement, and Alistair's jaw dropped.

"You want to go where?"

"It will not take all that long," Bronwyn said impatiently. She took a deep breath, looking at the faces of her companions: faces doubtful and concerned, or curious and eager, or outright disapproving.

Sten was of the latter group. "I do not see," he rumbled, "what searching for an ancient shrine has to do with your mission against the Blight."

Bronwyn was prepared for that. "We cannot pursue our mission if the country falls apart. The Queen must rule until the Landsmeet. If her health fails, we'll have nobles kicking her aside and taking the interim rule into their own hands, because that would give them an advantage in claiming the throne." She saw the Qunari was not convinced, and added, "And it is a matter of my personal honor. I cannot simply allow her to die, when I have had word of a possible cure. She is still the Queen of Ferelden, and it is my duty to serve her."

Leliana moved to Bronwyn's side, blue eyes afire with the glory of it. "To seek out the actual resting place of the Prophet! I shall go with you, no matter how great the danger. Such a place would bring comfort to all the world!"

"It's true," Cullen said, his voice soft. "I'll go with you, Bronwyn. We must save the Queen. And it would be an act of worship to reveal the shrine of Andraste to the faithful."

Morrigan glanced at Anders, and he back at her. The witch spoke up, exasperated. "I have never heard such rubbish! You wish to follow the long-cold trail of that credulous dreamer Genetivi, who is undoubtedly by now only a pile of rotting bones! All he had was a map—"

"—a map of dubious provenance," added Anders. "Besides which, the map only shows a village where you might hear about the shrine. It isn't even a map to the shrine itself!"

"If it is a false lead," Bronwyn allowed, "I shall return immediately. Look," she went on, her voice urgent, "I'll only be gone a few weeks at most. We can give out that there were rumors of darkspawn in the Frostbacks, and that I'm going to check them out."

"No!" Leliana broke in. "We mustn't let anyone know where we are actually going. Let us say that we are simply going west."

The dwarves muttered among themselves, very uneasy about the adventure's prospects.

Brosca, happily devouring a whole roasted rabbit, swallowed a bite, and then spoke up. "Boss, I'm with you whatever you decide. You know that. It's just... are you sure you want to go wandering off into the mountains right now?"

"You know," Astrid agreed, "that you might really come across darkspawn. Then what would you do, with such a small party? I also thought, that with the Fereldan succession unsettled, you would need to be close at hand..."

Oghren looked up from a tankard, and squinted at her. "Does Loghain know about this? What does he say?"

Should she tell them about her planned marriage? Should she tell them that she intended to be Queen? Bronwyn paused, her heart sinking at the prospect, and then she prevaricated. "Obviously, Teyrn Loghain is concerned for his daughter. As to the succession, I have already let the nobles know my views about it. A few weeks will not change things. If I am to go, however, I must go immediately, and get back before the Landsmeet."

Jowan was ready to volunteer, the words on his lips, when his eyes met Cullen's. The former Templar glared at him, and Jowan imagined an extended camping trip, and meeting that glare over the campfire every night...

And Tara had already stepped up. "I'll go. You need a mage. We're a good team."

"And if either of the ladies whom I serve wishes to take a restful holiday in the mountains," smirked Zevran, "then I must go too, if only to keep them out of trouble."

Leliana, Cullen, Tara, Zevran. With Scout it was quite enough. Bronwyn took heart at their support.

"Thank you. You four will come with me. Alistair, you're in charge while I'm gone. Anders, you're acting Senior Mage."

"My dream comes true at last," Anders snarked. Tara thumped him on the head. "Ow!"

Bronwyn swept crumbs from the table and pulled out her map. Unrolling it, she showed them her proposed route. There was pushing and shoving as everyone crowded around to see.

"We are leaving at first light. Here we are at Ostagar," said Bronwyn, her finger on the tiny painted castle. "I plan to travel to Redcliffe along the hunters' trails...like so."

"That's the way they went when the King relieved Redcliffe," Alistair said, nodding. "Loghain showed me. It's still probably pretty clear."

"At Redcliffe," Bronwyn said, tracing a voyage across a painted lake. "I hope to find a boat that will take our party to the mouth of the River Sulcher. It is not far through the secret pass Genetvi marked to the village of—" her fingernail tapped on a scribbled 'X'—"Haven. That is our goal."

"Haven," murmured Leliana. "Such a pretty name."

Adaia's croaking voice was raised, the greatest contrast possible to Leliana's. "If you're leaving, maybe we'd better have a story tonight. Otherwise we won't have one for weeks!"

Bronwyn was pleased with her. A good idea to distract people from their discontent about her plans. "Yes, let's all fill our cups and have a story. Jowan, it's your turn."

"My turn!" the mage gasped. "But..."

Danith shook her head, smirking. "I was called upon by the King himself, while you were idling in the fleshpots of Denerim!"

Jowan ran his hand through his black hair, trying to come up with an idea. The only stories he could remember at the moment were gruesome tales of dragon hunting; or the story associated with a little trinket belonging to Queen Anora...something he saw every day at the Palace...

"All right," he said, and tried to remember his favorite version. "I've got a story. Queen Anora has a music box that plays an old tune. I can't sing to save my life, but I can tell the story in words."


Jowan's Tale of The Princess on the Glass Hill

There was once, in a land far away, a great hill of glittering glass. At the top of the hill stood a castle made of pure gold, and in front of the castle there grew an enchanted tree on which there were golden apples.

Anyone who picked an apple gained admittance into the golden castle, and there in a silver room sat a princess of surpassing fairness and beauty. Locked in the castle, she had been awaiting a lover for a long, long, time. She was as rich as she was beautiful, for the cellars of the castle were full of precious stones, and great chests of the finest gold stood round the walls of all the rooms. Whoever could climb the glass hill would win the hand of the princess in marriage and half the kingdom besides.

Many knights had come from afar to try their luck, but none had succeeded. In spite of having their horses shod with sharp nails, no one managed to get more than half-way up, and then they all fell back right down to the bottom of the steep slippery hill. Many were maimed. Many more had died in the attempt. A heap of corpses, both of riders and horses, lay round the foot of the hill, and carrion crows had picked their bones clean.

The beautiful princess sat at her window and watched the bold knights trying to reach her on their splendid horses. The sight of her always gave men fresh courage, and they flocked from all over Thedas to attempt the work of rescuing her. But all had failed, and for seven years the Princess had sat and waited for someone to scale the Glass Hill.

One knight, cleverer than the rest, came to take up the challenge. He had heard of the beautiful Princess who sat in the golden castle at the top of the Glass Mountain. He listened to all he heard, and determined that he too would try his luck.

He came, and saw that many had died in vain, leaving their bones to rattle in their rusted armor like dried peas in a pod. He did not spur his horse up the hill straightaway, but instead walked all the way around it, looking and thinking. He stepped onto the side of the hill, and his foot could find no purchase on the slippery surface. The princess saw him, far below, and was disappointed when he rode away.

"He did not look like a coward," she sighed.

However, the knight had not given up the attempt. Instead, he rode to the closest village and spoke to a blacksmith.

Now the knight was poor, and had only his horse, his armor, and his sword. He was fond of his horse, and needed his sword if any enemy were to attack, and so he traded his knightly armor for iron claws that could be strapped to his hands and feet. With these, he rode back to his camp.

The next morning, he arrayed himself for the challenge. Leaving his horse tied below, he boldly started up the Glass Hill.

It was much harder than he had expected. The claws worked well enough, but only with great effort. Shards of glass broke off every time he dug in the claws. Some of the bits flew back and cut his face, and others became enmeshed in the claws themselves, tearing at his fingers and working their way into his boots.

All day he climbed, one hand after the other; one foot after the other. He could hardly draw breath he was so worn out, and his mouth was parched by thirst. The sun blazed hotly, and the light reflecting off the glass was so bright it hurt his eyes. He dared not moved a hand to his water flask, for fear of falling to his death. He could not see the castle of gold above him, nor the pit under his feet. All there was in the world was the Glass Hill.

Evening closed in, and he was only halfway up. Exhausted, he sagged against the claw straps, but the claws, stuck in deeply, supported his weight. The stars came out and were reflected in the glass like tiny jewels. The knight awaited death calmly, and fell into a peaceful slumber. He slept thus all night long, suspended between life and death.

Just before dawn, a huge black cloud gathered over the hill. Thunder rolled, and lightning split the sky. Rain poured down in a torrent, and the knight awoke, gratefully drinking in the blessed water. The storm passed, and the knight took new courage and strength, and resumed his climb.

The hill was no more merciful to him than it had been the day before. Soon the wounds on his face and hands and feet reopened and bled freely, the blood trickling down the hard glass, coloring it like a great ruby. On the knight went, slower and slower, panting and in pain.

The princess had awakened and looked out from the tower. To her amazement, she saw the knight clinging to the Glass Hill only a short distance from the summit! With horror, she saw the blood running from his wounds, and she feared that he would perish before his reached his goal.

"Ser Knight!" she called out. "Ser Knight! You are almost to the enchanted tree! I cannot come to you, but if you take a bite of one of the golden apples, you will be healed and can enter the castle!"

Nearly dead of exhaustion and loss of blood, the knight heard her as through deep water. He struggled to move a hand, a foot; moving with painful slowness, inch by inch. He was at the summit now, crawling along, digging in the claws, for the hill was still slippery, even at the top. He reached the tree's trunk, and stopped, too weak to rise.

Terrified that her rescuer would die right then and there, the Princess hurled her silver cup at the tree with all her strength. An apple fell from a bough and rolled to the knight

The knight looked up and saw the glittering palace, lit by the early morning light. He saw the high window, and framed in it the Princess, her beautiful face full of hope and fear. He saw the apple, a hands-breadth away. With a great effort, he pulled his right hand claw from the glass and reached for the apple, catching it on the claw's sharp points.

Never was fruit sweeter or more juicy; never was food more welcome. The knight ate the apple and was restored. He got carefully to his feet and removed his iron claws, one by one. Then he plucked two apples, one in each hand, and approached the gate of the castle.

As he stepped onto the path leading to the gate, a great dragon flew down and roared, but the knight knew what he must do. He threw an apple at the dragon, and the beast vanished in a puff of cloud.

Instantly the gate opened before him, and the knight perceived a courtyard full of flowers and beautiful trees, and standing, her arms out, the beautiful princess.

"Have you come at last, my rescuer? All that I have is yours!"

The knight drew his dagger, and divided the golden apple in two parts. When the princess and knight ate the apple, their hearts were filled with love for each other.

"Let us leave this place!" cried the princess. "I wish to go out into the world with you and share your fortunes."

Now that the gate was open, nothing prevented her escape. Together, the princess and the knight knotted a long rope together. They gathered the treasures of the castle and let them down, down the Glass Hill to the ground. Then they climbed down together, and the princess and the knight rejoiced to feel the good earth and grass beneath their feet once more.

The horse awaited them, and together they rode to the palace of the king, that the knight might claim the promised reward: the hand of the princess and half the kingdom. Together they ruled wisely and well, and they lived happily to the end of their days.


"It's nice that the princess helped him," Adaia said. "I like that part best. I don't like stories where the princess sits around waiting to be saved. In real life, nobody ever comes to save you. Except for Teyrn Fergus," she amended, remembering that night. "He saves people."

"Bronwyn saved me!" Tara declared. "She saved Anders, too."

"She saved me!" Brosca declared, waving at Bronwyn. "But I agree about princesses. They ought to do something to save themselves."

"They certainly should," agreed Astrid.

Brosca laughed. "Knocked a apple off the tree with her drinking cup! Hey, Oghren! I challenge you! I bet I can knock more apples down than you!"

The red-hair dwarf chuckled, fingering his axe. "I'd win, Cutie! I'd cut down the whole sodding tree!"

Carver grunted, "I wish we would kill dragons by throwing apples at them!"

"We can throw bombs," Adaia shot back bravely. "They look sort of like apples..."

"It is a charming story," Leliana said. "You say there's a song, Jowan?"

Tara said hastily, "You don't want Jowan to sing. Really. Or me. I can tell you the song, but maybe somewhere private. When we're in the mountains and nobody can hear us."

Leliana laughed. "I shall hold you to that!"

"A curious way to choose a ruler," mused Sten, "but I suppose that resourcefulness and perseverance are not without value. Those, and the ability to endure pain."

"I'm just glad they didn't forget to take the treasure with them," Carver said. Adaia nodded back at him, very seriously.

The council broke up in general talk and drinking. Brosca lurked by the fire, casting hungry looks at the oblivious Cullen. Astrid whispered to her, and then punched her lightly on the shoulder. Brosca nodded, and swaggered over to the ex-Templar.

"Cullen..." She cleared her throat. "I need to talk to you!" She glared at the faint smiles on too many of her companion's faces. "Privately."

"All right," said the mystified Cullen, following her out the door.

Alistair laughed, and then turned to Bronwyn, the smile on his handsome face fading. "I need to talk to you, too. And privately."

"Fine," Bronwyn agreed. "And I can tell you more about Master Wade's experiments. We have only the sample weapons, but he'll make more if we approve of them."

"Let's go outside."

They walked down the stairs, through the Great Hall, past the bustling servants putting dinner on the table. Bronwyn chatted about springloaded spears while Alistair nodded dutifully. No sooner had they stepped out of doors than he pulled her over to a low wall.

"You're going to Redcliffe."

"Yes, we're going to Redcliffe. Would you like me to take Arl Teagan a letter? I know you're fond of him."

He looked at her blankly for a moment, and then sputtered. "A letter? Wait. Yeah. I suppose I should write him a letter. I know he's probably having a hard time... Sure. I'll write him a letter. And I suppose I should write some things about myself."

She bit back a smile. "That does make for a better letter."

He managed a self-deprecating laugh. "I've never really had reason to write letters. There was nobody...well. actually, that's not what I wanted to talk about. It's the whole succession thing."

Bronwyn looked at him in astonishment. Was he going to say what she thought he was going to say?

"I mean," he blundered on. "I'm Maric's son and all that, but nobody's going to try to make me be King, are they? Are they?" He saw her face and was genuinely alarmed. "Or are they?"

"Do you want to be king?" she asked.

"Maker, no!" he nearly shouted. He saw people looking their way, and lowered his voice. "I'd hate it! Loghain isn't thinking about putting me forward at the Landsmeet, is he?"

"Loghain," Bronwyn answered carefully, "got the impression from you that you did not want to be king. That is why he has not pressed you on the matter. He thinks you're doing a splendid job as a Warden. It seems to be what you prefer. If you don't want to be king, no one will force you."

He sagged against the rough stones with relief. "Thank the Maker! And when you see Teagan, don't let him talk you into making me king, either!"

They had discussed Alistair, of course. Loghain did like him, and thought that with more training, Alistair would be an excellent Warden-Commander. That was a position of responsibility worthy of a son of Maric. It would give the lad the public notice and respect he deserved. Loghain had also, in more veiled terms, broached the idea of giving Alistair the teyrnir of Gwaren, if something too terrible to speak of plainly were to happen to Anora. Bronwyn decided not to mention that. She would prefer that Anora live, and that her own conscience be clear.

Alistair had moved on to his next thought. "So who is Loghain going to propose as king? Fergus?"

"I'm waiting to hear from Fergus," she said honestly. "I don't know if he wants to be king, either. There is so much to do in Highever, and he loves the teyrnir. Fergus certainly never planned on being king."

"Then who?" he pressed. "You don't think...Anora? But she's not well enough is she? Or is that why you're trying to find the Ashes for her?"

"No, Loghain isn't thinking of proposing Anora, either, though of course he wants her to live. Look here, Alistair, it all may be coming out soon, and I want you to think it over. Don't talk about it to anyone, all right?"

His face was already changing, as he leaped to the next possible conclusion.

"Loghain? He's going for the crown? Wow... I mean... Really? He's not a descendant of Calenhad, you know. People won't like that."

"No, he's not a descendant of Calenhad," Bronwyn agreed. "But I am."


Thanks to my reviewers: MsBarrows, Blinded in a bolthole, Jenna53, mutive, JTheClivz, demonicnargles, Aoi24, EpitomeofShyness, Halm Vendrella, Josie Lange, The Moidart, almostinsane, Jyggilag, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, Kira Kyuu, Herbedrongs66, Mike, Juliafied, Zute, Have Socks. Will Travel, cloud1004, JackOfBladesX, EroSlackerMicha, KnightOfHolyLight, undeadyeti, Shakespira, Biannel, KCousland, Rexiselic, Tikigod784, Granoc, karinfan123, vertigomunchkin, Costin, Dante Alighieri1308, Ryvateil Songstress, Enaid Aderyn, sizuka2, Notnahtanha, euromellows, Sarah1281, and chocolatebrownie12.

And thanks also to anon for the beta. It's fixed now.

I think a goat would be a big deal in the Alienage, if the elves can keep it hidden from Arl Urien's men. I would think the elves could keep a few goats and some chickens, at least. There's a little hidden courtyard back of the apartments in canon, that in my opinion the elves should put under cultivation. The goat might be able to get a little forage there. Given the collapse of the elven population and the scandalous hints of Vaughan's involvement, I think that Urien is going to back off from the Alienage for some time—if only because there's no money in it at the moment.

I know the developers can't do everything, but the lack of sheep, goats, horses, pigs and a number of other animals, wild and domestic, is something of an annoyance in canon. One doesn't know if it's something they didn't bother with, or that Thedas simply doesn't have such creatures. I'll pretend they all exist. While we never see a rabbit, after all, we know they exist in Ferelden, because the dog hides a dead one in Morrigan's pack.