A/N: Still in temporary housing, so review replies will be longer in getting done. I'm lucky enough when I get few enough interruptions to get parts of the story written! In the meantime, your readership and feedback is much appreciated and certainly not taken for granted. Thanks!
Chapter 49
"Spite ate away all that was good, kind, and loving
till nothing was left but the spite itself,
coiled 'round my heart like a great worm."
—Canticle of Maferath, Dissonant Verse
Meghan
With the rains having stopped in preparation for the onset of the southern winter, and then winter's touch having frozen the ground, the perpetually present mud of Ferelden made a retreat. Meghan took great delight in its drying, reveling in the bottom of her cloak for once not being encrusted with mud. It was a small thing to be grateful for, and she was grateful nonetheless, for she hadn't much else to celebrate. The asylum granted by King Alistair was only a step toward regaining Starkhaven, and she still wasn't even sure it was a step she wanted.
What she wanted was her family back, alive and well, and that was a gift that could never be granted by any mortal.
Since the Divine had departed Ferelden, and the Seekers who came in her wake did not care about her or who she was, Meghan was once more allowed in the house of the Maker and His prophet, Andraste. She attended often with Arlessa Isolde, the babe Rowan left behind in the hands of a capable, dedicated nurse. Meghan wasn't sure if Isolde's many trips to the chantry was because of a great faith, or because it was also a good place to keep apprised of the most recent gossip. Of late, gossip had stuck to one of three topics: the presence of the Seekers, or that it had become blatantly obvious the rumors of Prince Malcolm's Grey Warden mistress being with child were completely true, or the Queen's recently announced pregnancy.
"Cailan never managed to sire any child, bastard or legitimate," said one woman in the pew behind where Meghan and Isolde sat. "Meanwhile, those two legitimized bastards of Maric's seem to have no issues whatsoever with producing either."
"It's like with mutts," said the man next to her. "Something to be said for mixing noble blood with some commoner. You end up with something hardier, better off. Well, aside from the mabari. But then again, they make sure none of those dogs are inbred, unlike much of the esteemed nobility. They should marry and mix with the commoners more often, I say."
Isolde stiffened at the insult. Meghan felt a bit of indignation herself, but she could not dispute, knowing some of the noble Marcher families that she did, that the man did have a valid point.
"Yes. Marry and then mix, not the other way around," said the woman, unaware of the two nobles in front of her listening to her entire conversation. "While our King has done things the right way, the same cannot be said for his younger brother. Someone should step in and set that young man straight. A proper marriage would give him some perspective, as well as prevent any more illegitimate children from him."
The man snorted. "Only if you let him marry that elf Warden of his. I've worked enough guard shifts in the palace to know that any woman of the nobility wouldn't stand a chance of catching his fancy. Lad's only got eyes for his mistress, and I've not once yet seen them stray for anything more than a quick, meaningless glance."
"I think it's romantic," said the other woman sitting near the first two gossip mongers. "Two heroes of the Blight, finding each other afterward while they escorted the body of their fellow Warden to his place of honored rest at Weisshaupt? Staying by his side as they journeyed across Thedas to find the lover who had abandoned the prince on the eve of the Battle of Denerim? They've even remained together despite the discovery of Prince Cáel. I think it's a wonderful story."
"That's what it is," said the first woman. "A story. A fairytale. The prince needs a solid conversation with reality and what his duties are to his family and Ferelden. While I respect that he must love his mistress, he cannot ignore that one of his duties is to marry, and that another duty is to not sire more illegitimate children."
"I say he should just marry his mistress," said the man. "That'd save everyone heaps of trouble. She's a Grey Warden who fought for Ferelden during the Blight. That should make her worthy enough, you'd think."
"Not when she's an elf."
The second woman sighed. "It's so sad."
"He should know better," said the first. "Romance isn't for princes, no matter what the stories say." Then she went on as Meghan had heard many of them go on.
Some of the gossipers, they made the Fereldan prince sound much like her brother Sebastian had been before he'd been sent to the Chantry. Meghan herself hadn't heard the rumors about her brother until well after he'd already been sent away. To her, it had seemed like she was the only one who had viewed him as something other than a rake. To her, she'd felt like she'd been the only one left behind in Starkhaven who missed her brother. That alone made her view the Fereldan prince, Malcolm, in a warm light, nasty gossipers aside. Yet, most of the stories she'd heard from either favorable or neutral sources painted a far different picture of Malcolm than the ones who made him out to be somewhat of an irresponsible rake. Familiar fondness aside, she had no real opinion about him, considering she'd not yet met him. His brother the King had seemed an intelligent enough man, with enough humor and warmth to soften what had the potential to be a very intimidating presence. As for the younger, whom Arl Eamon seemed so eager to rein in, she had no idea which sets of rumors were true.
Meghan hoped Malcolm wouldn't turn out to be like her brother. Sebastian's proclivities had gotten him sent away from his family, and this prince had more family depending on him emotionally than her brother ever had.
The separation had been cruel, and she wasn't sure to whom it was crueler, Sebastian or the family he left behind in Starkhaven. Yet, Sebastian had never written her back, not once. The brother she had idolized, the brother she'd believed thought her his favorite sibling, had ignored that she'd ever existed. For a long time, she hadn't believed he could be so insensitive, but perhaps his fate had made him so.
Once, she'd brought it up to her mother, and her words, followed by her outraged father's, had made the pain even worse. Given the choice, she would have endured that conversation over and over every day to have them alive again. Time spent here in the chantry, she was beginning to feel, was wasted, as much as her breath had been in asking the Chantry for asylum. Her family had been dedicated to the Chantry and the Maker, so much that they sent one child of each generation to serve as priest, sister, or brother. Before Sebastian's behavior had gotten out of hand, it had yet to be determined whether it would've been him or her middle brother. While it was traditionally the youngest who was sent, as the only daughter, Meghan had been out of the question. That left Sebastian as the youngest brother of three, but their middle brother had expressed interest in joining the Chantry himself, so the issue had been left to rest until Sebastian had forced it.
Yet, even with all her family's piety, when she had gone to the Chantry in a time of need, she had been rejected. Pushed aside first by Grand Cleric Francesca, then Grand Cleric Philippa, and finally the Divine herself. Had she not much else to do and Isolde not invited her along each day, Meghan would have entirely stopped her visits to the chantry. The Maker's mortal representatives had abandoned her as much as the Maker had turned His back on His creations.
Sitting in the chantry itself was bad enough, Meghan decided, but listening to these people, day after day, in the chantry and the market and the taverns, even the servants and guards in the arl's estate when they thought none of the family listening, piled onto her memories. Not wanting to hear anything more that would remind her of the brother she once had, Meghan stood from her seat next to Isolde and headed for one of the smaller alcoves to the side. Along with the quiet, they offered some privacy, with room for just two or three people to pray at the small shrines.
Only instead of praying, she glared at the small statue of Andraste and the candles surrounding it.
At least she could no longer hear the gossipers.
"Has Andraste offended you so that she has earned your scathing glare?" a gentle voice with an Orlesian lilt asked from behind her.
"Perhaps," said Meghan, and then sat up straight in surprise at her honesty.
Air shifted within the alcove as the intruder sat on the bench beside Meghan. The woman's Chantry robes rustled as she rearranged them for sitting properly. "If you would like to talk, I will listen. It would not do to allow Andraste's offenses to go unanswered."
The statement was said so innocently that Meghan almost smiled. She missed having someone to speak with, someone whom she could trust with complete honesty. In Starkhaven, she'd had her lady-in-waiting or the woman who'd been her nurse when she was a child. She had never failed to give her uncensored opinion on whatever troubled Meghan. Here, however, she had no one, due to how guarded she had become out of necessity. Denerim had turned out to be just as politically dangerous as Starkhaven, the difference being fewer Antivan crows.
Her desire to talk, truly talk, nearly compelled her to do just that, but this was the chantry, and she could not afford to forget that. "It would not be safe here for me to speak. The Chantry has made it quite clear to me. But I thank you for your offered kindness, Sister." After Meghan spoke, she turned to look at the sister sitting next to her.
If she'd been offended, her face, which was rather lovely, did not show it. If anything, she seemed confused, her red brows drawn together and her mouth venturing on a frown. "The Chantry provides succor and safe harbor to all who seek it."
"Not so. Would that it were." Meghan's smile was wry, but it fell as she turned her attention back to Andraste, the statue's features blurring with unexpected tears.
A still quiet stretched between them, long enough that Meghan brought her tears under control. Then the sister said, "The Maker made the world beautiful, but He also made it dangerous. There is no way for me to prove I am no danger to you—no matter what transgressions the Chantry has made against you, Meghan Vael—but I assure you I am not. I understand your reticence, and do not hold it against you. Remember, your family was worthy enough to be brought to the Maker's side, to experience His peace. Should you ever feel safe enough to talk, ask for Sister Nightingale." The woman stood up without sound, and then nodded at Meghan. "Maker watch over you."
Meghan watched her go, shaken that a stranger knew her full name—a stranger she'd not seen during any of her previous visits, of which there had been many. Then she hustled out of the alcove as quickly as she could without drawing undue attention.
Arlessa Isolde waited for her in the aisle, a frown sullying her features. "Who was that?"
"Who was who?"
"That woman you were speaking to."
Meghan blinked, not having realized how much attention Isolde had given to her wanderings. "Oh, that was Sister Nightingale. She seemed nice."
The frown had yet to leave Isolde's face. "She seemed familiar, somehow."
With the lay sisters all wearing the same robes, Meghan thought they all bore a great deal of resemblance. "Well, Chantry sisters and priests often have the same look about them."
Isolde let out a small sigh, and with it went the frown. "I suppose you are right." She motioned toward the doors. "Come, I've much to relay to my husband."
To Meghan, there wasn't much new information Isolde could really tell Eamon. They had heard the same rumors and gossip each day they'd visited the chantry, each day they strolled through the central market, or if they happened to go to a tavern. Meghan had gone once and heard a lovely performance from a bard from South Reach, as well as everything she'd heard before from the crowd. Eamon's obsession with gossip was becoming slightly unnerving, and Isolde's close observation of her had started to become uncomfortable. If Meghan had had a choice, she would have moved to different lodgings. However, she'd yet to figure out a way in which to make coin that wasn't scandalous, and she certainly couldn't hire out as a mercenary when she couldn't yet hold a bow. Even a simple crossbow gave her problems.
When they arrived at the estate, the arl had yet to return. It wasn't until the evening's quiet, informal supper did the subject of that morning's chantry visit come up.
"What have you heard?" Eamon asked Isolde. "Has there been any change?"
Meghan could understand why Eamon would care, but she could not, for the life of her, figure out why Eamon cared so much.
"No change, husband," said Isolde. "Among the commoners, most think it romantic. Others think it inappropriate, and some simply do not care. The nobility have been quieter on the subject, aside from those who have daughters or nieces of marriageable age. They, of course, think it highly inappropriate."
Eamon tore his chunk of bread in half. "As do I." The bite he took of his bread was vicious, and neither Isolde nor Meghan chose to speak up as he chewed. Eamon swallowed, tapped the hunk of bread he still held on the table, and then dropped it before turning to Meghan. "Would you be willing to meet with Malcolm?"
"You speak of the prince, I assume?" Eamon's lack of courtesy shown toward the King and his brother rankled at Meghan every time Eamon neglected to grant them the courtesy. Even the disgruntled people of Starkhaven, when speaking of Sebastian, still used his title. She couldn't afford to openly confront Eamon about his habit, being his guest, but she could employ gentle reminders lacking in a scolding tone.
"Yes," said Eamon, missing her subtlety. "I will be honest with you—I would like to see a match between the two of you, if it can be arranged." He leaned back in his chair and steepled his hands together over his chest. "If it could be done, it would be your best option for safety. Not only would you have Ferelden's promise of keeping you safe, but as a member of their royal family, they would have to guarantee it in a far more direct way." He lifted a hand to forestall the start of her objections. "I realize that you may have a different opinion when it comes to proper protection given to a royal family in their residence, but Ferelden is different, especially since the beginning of the Blight. Malcolm's entire foster family, save his elder foster brother, now the current teyrn of Highever, was killed due to the betrayal of a family friend. As such, security is much more rigorous there and certainly at the palace and the Grey Warden compound. Even with the attacks from the Seekers, the Warden compound itself was never breeched. Were you to marry Malcolm, I believe that is where you would reside. Not only protected by the Royal Guard, but also protected by Grey Wardens. I assure you, no better protection is available anywhere on Thedas."
Meghan couldn't very well disagree with that fact—the Grey Wardens were the fiercest fighters on Thedas, and their strongholds in every country nigh impenetrable. However, she did not think that should she be matched with Malcolm, that she would live in the Warden compound. She wasn't stupid; she knew his mistress already lived there with him, along with the other Grey Wardens assigned to Denerim. It would certainly not be possible for any wife of Malcolm's to live in the same home as his mistress.
The issue of Highever she ignored entirely, deciding it was in bad taste for Eamon to have brought it up. She knew it was less about the protection provided at the palace and more about Eamon attempting to have her identify with Malcolm. The similarities between the deaths of their respective families in their own homes were evident enough without needing to draw attention to it. Eamon might as well have said, "He lost his entire family, just like you!" because that's exactly the message she got, which she knew quite well he intended.
"And you would not be waiting through a long betrothal, either," Eamon continued saying when Meghan did not reply during his pause. "With the birth of his second bastard child growing closer each day, the need for haste in marrying him off increases. Alistair and Queen Anora must realize this, as well, and will probably be eager to rush a match."
After what she'd overheard before her meeting with the King and Queen, she doubted it. The two of them seemed to rather like Malcolm's mistress, and she doubted they would be eager to force what would assuredly cause a rift. Meghan wasn't terribly eager to do so, either. She had always expected to marry for politics, but had never wanted a marriage that allowed for mistresses. From what she'd heard, she wasn't sure if Malcolm would even agree to an alliance that would essentially force him to abandon the soon to be mother of his second child. Nor did Meghan particularly relish the idea of breaking up a family, even unblessed by the Chantry as it was. The children were innocent in the circumstances of their births.
Yet, none of those thoughts negated the fact that Eamon did have some good points. Most of all, she was his guest. She had to at least entertain the idea or risk losing her shelter. "I would like to have a chance to speak with him," she said, "before I decide either way."
Eamon nodded. "That is fair." He rubbed at his short beard and briefly looked away as a flicker of remorse passed through his eyes. "Despite what I've said about the boy, he does have some virtues. I know most of what you've heard me say about him hasn't portrayed him in the best light, and perhaps that's what's made you hesitant."
If Eamon thought that was what made her hesitate, Meghan wondered if the arl had only just remembered that the prince had good attributes over his indiscretions, since those had seemed to be the only things Eamon saw in him. Could he even come up with anything complimentary? "Somewhat," she said to Eamon. "From what you've said of him, I had wondered if there was anything redeeming about him."
"He is not a bad man. He has a temper, yes, like any other human being, but he's never shown that he would harm anyone undeserving with it. He is not a dullard; the Couslands were not remiss with his education. His ability to lead has certainly come a long way from what it was during the Blight. The fine job he's done with the Wardens here in Denerim honestly took me by surprise. He's also very much a Theirin. By this, I mean that when he believes something unjust, he will do his level best to see that it's remedied, and will not be swayed from that course." Eamon exchanged a sympathetic look with Isolde, one that set Meghan to wondering what it was about. Then Eamon returned his attention to her. "That determination is sometimes to his detriment, but more often than not, as it has been with his ancestors, it has proven to be a strength. If you can bring yourself to look past his indiscretions, he has the makings of a fine young man." Eamon stood, pressing his hands on the table to help himself up. "I will arranged a luncheon within the next few days, if that is acceptable to you, Lady Vael."
Against her better judgement, yet knowing she had no other choice than to appear to be considering Eamon's idea, Meghan nodded. "That would be fine, Arl Eamon."
To Meghan's surprise, the arl managed to arrange the meeting for the next day—far sooner than she had assumed was possible. If the prince had agreed that quickly, it had to be either because he wanted the match, or because he wanted its possibility to be put out of the question as soon as was able. Her inclination was to believe it the latter, but there was a chance the prince had been convinced otherwise. She would have to determine which through their conversation, if she could manage it.
A servant had led her to the arl's private dining room, even though she'd dined there enough times that she could find it on her own. So, either Eamon thought she was not sincere and would somehow arrange to miss the meeting, or he was being more formal than a luncheon meeting indicated.
The arl waited for her in the dining room, standing at the head of a table set for only two. Meghan barely refrained from flinching. This could be very awkward without any sort of buffer. Then again, there was a strong chance they could be frank and honest without a chaperone present, so long as the lack of chaperone did not prove a scandal in of itself, which could be Eamon's intention.
Maker, this was turning out to be as fraught as navigating Starkhaven's court.
"Lady Vael," Eamon said with a slight bow. "Malcolm should be along shortly."
She nodded in return. "I look forward to meeting him." That, at least, was honest. She did look forward to conversing with the prince, though not quite under the current circumstances.
Before Eamon could continue the conversation, the seneschal knocked and announced the prince's arrival, and then opened the door for him to walk through.
The young man who entered was dressed not as any of her brothers would have been in a similar situation. Instead of finery, he wore an arming jacket with the Grey Warden sigil. Considering this was Ferelden, Meghan suppose she should have been grateful he didn't wear armor. He was well-proportioned, and the breadth of his shoulders reminded her of the strength she'd seen in Starkhaven's archers. After seeing King Alistair and now his younger brother, rumors she'd heard even up in Starkhaven seemed proven true enough: the Theirin line tended to produce exceedingly acceptable looking men and women.
Eamon cleared his throat and extended a hand toward the prince once he took a few more steps into the room. "Lady Vael, this is Prince Malcolm Theirin."
Malcolm nodded and gave her a hesitant, yet somehow open, friendly smile, revealing teeth that were straight and clean.
The arl's hand moved to indicate Meghan. "Malcolm, this is Lady Meghan Vael of Starkhaven, formerly a princess, before her family was displaced."
At those words, Malcolm's polite smile faded, and he raised a brow at Eamon, not quite managing to hide his distaste for the remark. Meghan had to agree. It was poor form to mention the deaths of her family, especially by describing their murders as displacement. If Malcolm reacted enough to doubt the arl's comment, he must have heard something of her situation from his brother.
If Eamon took note of the questioning eyebrow, he did not acknowledge it. "Now, if you would excuse me, I will leave you to your luncheon. Should you have need of anything, servants will be nearby." Another slight bow, and then Eamon left the room, closing the door behind him.
Malcolm's eyes were keen as they warily glanced around the room like he were searching for some sort of plot to leap out, not that Meghan could blame him. Given what she'd seen so far, were the situation different, she would not object to the match based on her initial impression. Yet, since she knew quite well about his mistress, she found herself unable to nudge her subconscious into even considering it. Why did it bother her so? It was common enough in the nobility, somewhat in the Free Marches and practically the norm in Antiva, for a marriage to hold no love and merely exist for the alliance of noble houses and the production of heirs. Mistresses were often kept, sometimes with the approval of the wife once there were legitimate heirs. Often enough, sharing no love for her husband, the wife would be relieved to no longer have the pressure of providing companionship. Even the wife would take an outside lover, if she were the regnant noble, her husband having done his duty in aiding the continuation of the line.
Were she to agree to this alliance, it could be much the same. Part of it would not be objectionable. She did not see any cruelty lurking behind Malcolm's eyes. Therefore, she did not think he would treat her poorly, even though she would be taking the place of another woman. However, his heart, attention, and beloved children would always belong to another, and she would be an outsider.
She did not want that. Perhaps, once, when her family was alive in Starkhaven, she might have agreed to such a thing, for she would still have her own family that would always welcome her.
No, that wasn't it. It was her parents and their example that barred her from a loveless arrangement. Her parents, though their marriage had been arranged, had grown to love one another. With them gone, she dearly wanted what they had, and the realization took her by surprise. Yet, once she knew it was what she wanted, she found she could not let the idea go.
Even still, it remained that she had to convincingly go through the motions of making an attempt at an alliance, or risk finding herself, once again, on the streets of Denerim.
Malcolm's wary look had finally settled on the closed door. "I think this is his idea of matchmaking. I really think it is," he said, not quite loud enough to be directed at her.
She still offered him an amused glance. "I believe you're right."
He shook his head despite his wry smile. "Seriously, he's married to an Orlesian woman. You'd think he would've at least consulted her. I believe Isolde would be decent at romance." He gestured around the room. "This awkward setup? I think my brother could do better, and that's saying something." Anything further he might have said was interrupted by servants bustling in to set out the meal. Malcolm's eyes lit up on seeing the food. "I won't, however, turn down the offer of food. Thierry spent an hour beating me up in the sparring ring earlier and I'm famished." He waited to sit until she'd taken her seat, evidence of his manners.
As they ate and somewhat awkwardly chatted, she discovered that Malcolm was as intelligent as Eamon had suggested, though he tended toward speaking of the Wardens rather than much else. Each time she mentioned the governance of Ferelden under either of his brothers, he changed the subject. She didn't dare bring up Prince Cáel nor Ferelden's current troubles with the Chantry, Seekers included. Nor did she want to speak of her own city of origin or her family, which left them with not a great many things to talk about.
When the meal had been eaten, Malcolm drummed his fingers on the table and did another assessment of the room before saying, "This is stupid."
She blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"Not you. I think you're rather smart, actually. But this scheme of Eamon's—unless this was your idea?"
"Maker, no. Finding a husband really isn't my priority right now."
He grinned, a spark of it touching his eyes, and she could see that had this been another time, she could have easily agreed to a betrothal with him. "Good," he said. "Because I've already got a wife and she'd be pretty pissed if I tried to get another."
"You..." She smiled, truly touched by the situation. "A clandestine marriage? That's so romantic. Is it the Warden you fell in love with after the Witch of the Wilds left you before the Battle of Denerim?"
His eyes widened slightly. "Wynne was right. I'll be damned."
She became uneasy in her confusion. Had she been completely wrong about the who? "I thought Wynne was the elderly court mage?"
"She is." He gave her an equally confused look before it sank in. "Oh! No, no, I didn't marry her. Maker, she's old enough to be my grandmother, and treats me like a grandchild, too. Not her. Líadan. Dalish bonding."
"Yes! The Dalish Warden." She clapped her hands together. "You two have quite the story passing through the taverns and courts by way of the bards."
He looked at her in askance. "Stories?"
"Lovely ones."
A blush instantly formed on his cheeks and Meghan decided she rather liked his blush. Yet, if she made any sort of alliance with this man, it would be of friendship rather than anything else. He seemed the honest sort who believed in such things.
"Thank you, I think," he said, and then tilted his head to the side. "Does this mean you think this idea is stupid, as well?"
"I don't think 'stupid' was what came to mind, but I do share the same sentiment, yes."
He let out a sigh of relief. "Glad we're on the same page." Malcolm rose from his chair, and Meghan did likewise. He offered her his elbow. "I think it's about time I took my leave from the good arl. I think Thierry wanted to beat up on me some more this afternoon. If I get back to the compound quick enough, I might be able to convince Wynne to heal my bruises before I get more."
"You let your other Wardens win often?"
"What? Oh, no. The ones who win earn it, mostly because they're better than I am, like Thierry or Alistair. Oghren, too, but mostly because he's a berserker and they're scary. Or he's scary when he's fighting. Something like that. But, if you ever truly want to see a force on the battlefield, you should watch Teyrna Cauthrien. Holy Maker, she's a one-woman army. Last time I sparred with her, she knocked me around so bad that Wynne forbid me from sparring with her ever again." He shuddered. "Not that I was so inclined. I know when I'm outmatched. Well, usually. Some would say I don't realize it until afterwards, but still."
"Out of curiosity, do you intend to inform the arl about..."
"It's what I'm contemplating right now. There's pros and cons—mostly pros, at this point—and I'm honestly sick of hiding it, especially after all that's happened with the Seekers. Now that he's pulled you into this mess, which indicates to me that he won't be giving up on this matchmaking thing, I'm leaning towards telling him. Maybe I'll just do it now and get it over with."
Meghan raised a brow and cast a quick look over at him. "Should you not inform your brother first? Perhaps forewarn Warden Líadan?"
He pulled a face. "Probably. Thing is, he'll probably also provide me with a perfect opening when we go tell him that we aren't going to agree to a betrothal. Good thing they're both forgiving. Mostly." He grinned down at her. "Don't worry. If anyone gets mad, it'll be at me, and not you."
"I'll have to take your word for it, ser." She consciously chose the Fereldan honorific instead of the Marcher one. After all, she was in Ferelden, now.
His smile continued to be genuine and friendly as they talked while walking to Arl Eamon's study. She still grasped the crook of his elbow when they were admitted to Eamon's sanctum, which brought Eamon to his feet behind his desk.
The arl did nothing to hide his pleasure at the discovery. "I see the two of you have gotten on well enough thus far," he said, and then motioned for them to sit. Meghan did so, but Malcolm remained standing in front of one of the chairs. Eamon frowned a little, but did not allow Malcolm's action to displace his newly found pleasure. "Now, what do you think of arrangements for a betrothal?"
"As pleasant company as Lady Vael is," Malcolm said mildly, "I don't think it would be wise for her to become my betrothed. You see, Eamon, I have a wife."
"You..." Eamon stared.
"I have a wife," Malcolm said again, but more slowly. "Continuing this would be a pointless waste of everyone's time."
"You didn't." As the satisfaction had waned on Eamon's face, his cheeks blanched despite the warmth of the fire in the room's small hearth. "In secret, with that—of course you did." He began to pace in the small area behind his desk, his hands making harsh cutting movements as he talked. "Of course, because why not? It isn't like you have a duty to your line, an obligation which you chose to ignore."
Meghan thought that, even for a former chancellor, Eamon was overstepping his bounds. To her surprise, the Fereldan prince remained calm, though firm, even with the provocation.
"Maybe you should recall that the Queen is expecting?" he asked the arl. "And that I have a legitimate son who has a place in the line of succession?"
Eamon spun to face him and crossed his arms over his chest. "What about your duty to ensure there are no more Theirin bastards? What about the bastard your wh—"
"Wife, Eamon." Gone was the mildness from before. "Recall that you're speaking about my wife, and what will be my legitimate child. Watch what you say."
There was the rise of temper Meghan had expected to see earlier. Not that she or anyone else could fault him for it.
"Was it a Chantry marriage?" asked Eamon.
"You know as well as I do it wouldn't have been allowed by the Divine."
Eamon nodded. "Then it isn't valid. The child will yet be a bastard, and you are still unwed in the eyes of the Chantry."
"You act as if theirs are the only eyes that matter."
Meghan well knew that when it came to the ruling houses in Thedas, it truly was only the Chantry's eyes that mattered. It seemed the young prince had yet to learn that lesson. She hoped he would not need to learn it the hard way, though he looked to be heading in that unfortunate direction. "Because they are," she said softly, hoping that if the confirmation came from her, it wouldn't be quite as bad.
Malcolm's eyes flicked quickly over to her to acknowledge her comment, and she couldn't see any rancor in them.
Eamon had resumed his pacing. "They'll have to be sent away, for they must be forgotten."
The arl's myopic take on the situation surprised Meghan. The mistress in question wasn't some unknown washerwoman—she was a very well-known hero of the Fifth Blight. While Eamon seemed to have forgotten that fact, Meghan knew Fereldans and Thedas would not. Warden Líadan, like the other heroes of the Blight, were not people who could fade into obscurity. Eamon seemed blind to Líadan's true status, seeing only an elf, and a threat of a strength that baffled Meghan. Malcolm had a legitimate heir who did not have elven blood. Beyond that, the Queen was expecting the heir-apparent. Ferelden's affairs were more secure than they'd been before the Blight. While an elven wife—though one of the Warden's status was new and untried—would be a minor scandal, Meghan didn't think the impact would amount to much more. It certainly wouldn't be whatever doom Eamon seemed to foresee.
He had yet to stop. "There's still time, especially if we marry you off. A royal wedding will distract the populace enough to sweep these little problems under the rug. If they ask afterward, you can just say she left you to return to the Dalish." Eamon's determined eyes fell on Meghan. "You will agree to this, of course? Being from a royal family yourself, you understand the necessity."
It was only the scarcely masked panic behind the arl's expression that kept Meghan from speaking harshly. "Please leave me out of this, Arl Eamon," she said as neutrally as she could. "While I understand the need for political marriage amongst the nobility of Thedas, you're more than a little too late in this case, I believe. In the Free Marches, at least, Dalish bondings are recognized as valid marriages. The decree came from the Grand Cleric of Kirkwall, of all people. So, no, I will certainly not agree to wedding a married man, and I will certainly not play a part in the separation of a family. I know all too well how that feels. While I'm grateful for your help—"
"I doubt that very much, considering your lack of cooperation." Eamon huffed and pinched the bridge of his nose before addressing Malcolm. "I trust you realize that I must bring this matter to the King's attention? Immediately, if possible. A member of the royal house marrying without the reigning monarch's permission is grounds for treason, in some cases."
Malcolm shrugged, his temper having visibly faded. "Go ahead."
"If you think that your brother will go easy on you, young man, think again. His hands will be tied, and the matter brought to the Landsmeet at Wintersend. They won't take well to the news that one of their royal family married an elf without such much as a by your leave."
Malcolm met Eamon's steady gaze. "Do what you feel you must, as we all do."
"I shall." Eamon turned to Meghan. "It would do you well to find yourself new accommodations in the meantime, Lady Vael. You have overstayed your welcome in my household." Then he walked out, his fists clenched stiffly at his sides.
When the door closed, Malcolm dropped into a chair and exhaled a long breath. "That was fun," he said before giving Meghan an apologetic look. "Sorry you ended up in the middle of that."
Meghan regarded him thoughtfully. "Do you love her?"
"Who?"
"Your wife."
Some of the frustration in his eyes shifted into warmth as his thoughts must have turned to the woman in question. "I wouldn't go through all this trouble if I didn't. Way less stress if you just do what Eamon says, but his ideas have sucked lately."
"I believe I would have put it as 'less than ideal,' but I agree." She clapped her hands on her lap before standing. "Now, if you would excuse me, I must go pack my meager possessions and take up a room elsewhere." She wasn't sure where that would be, but it wouldn't be here.
"Just go to the palace," said Malcolm. "I'll speak with Warrick and have rooms prepared for you. You still require asylum, it's largely my fault that you got kicked out of your current place, and I have to do something in return for you for your ability to see reason."
"I... thank you, Your Highness."
He gave her another one of his grins. "Malcolm. I think we're at least on a first name basis after that little confrontation."
She nodded, seeing more of what Fereldans must see in him beyond his well composed Theirin features. "Meghan." She headed for the door, and then stopped before she'd taken three steps. "Arl Eamon is right, you know, for all his bluster. The repercussions for your clandestine marriage—"
His grin grew wider. "What Eamon doesn't know is that my brother gave me permission ages ago, as did Anora. It was practically a command. I know he would've preferred a Chantry marriage he could've been witness to, but sometimes we have to take what we can get."
"What about your Landsmeet?" While she couldn't imagine the Starkhaven nobility allowing one of their royal family, or probably even one of the other nobles, taking an elven wife, Ferelden had the potential to be different. Elsewhere, it just wasn't done, but there had yet to be an elf married into the nobility who possessed the status that Warden Líadan did, especially in Ferelden. Rules, Meghan knew, were often different for heroes—champions, to use the Marcher term. With the heir situation already solved, the solution could be as easy as denying the forthcoming child the ability to inherit royal status, and to not grant Líadan royal status, either. Perhaps a courtesy title, given she was bonded to a prince. With Denerim's elves already possessing of an elven bann, an elf counted among the nobility was not without precedent. Done the right way, coupled with the nobility being in a giving mood, there was the possibility of it working out. Maybe.
Malcolm's smile dropped away. "I'm not sure. Due to her being one of the Heroes of the Blight, they might accept it, given an assortment of restrictions and provisions. It's hard to tell. They're a loud, unpredictable, independent, and stubborn lot."
"One might say the same is true of all your countrymen."
"I see our reputation in the Free Marches hasn't suffered." He rose from his seat. "I'll go see Steward Warrick, find Líadan and warn her that Eamon knows, and then try to speak with my brother before Eamon does. Alistair might agree with the marriage, but I don't think he'll take kindly to hearing it from Eamon first."
"Won't take kindly?"
"Yelling. He'll yell. You should hear him; he's pretty good at it."
She'd heard quite enough of nobility yelling. "I believe I will have to turn down such a lovely offer."
"I hear from a good source that you'll be missing out."
"I'll just have to find consolation elsewhere."
"You could dry your tears in the silks and brocade of the palace's provided bedding, I suppose." His eyes widened when he realized what his words sounded like. "That came out wrong. Obviously. Whatever it sounded like, it was entirely not what I meant. I mean, I like you, but not like that." He scrubbed a hand over his face in despair. "Maker, I sound like Oghren." Then he dropped his hand and cautiously looked over at her. "What I should say is, despite my atrocious manners, inability to express myself properly, and our horrible incompatibility when it comes to marriage, would you like to be friends?"
His sudden transition from confident prince to awkward young man gave her enough cause to genuinely smile for the first time since she'd arrived in Denerim. "I believe we could be friends, yes. I'd like that."
"Excellent." He nodded. "All right, I've got to get to the palace before Eamon manages to get hold of my brother. You pack up and I'll let Warrick know on my way in that you're expected." He waited for the briefest of moments for her acknowledgement, and then dashed out the door.
Meghan went to her room to pack, feeling lighter than she had in weeks. She hadn't realized how oppressive the arl of Denerim's estate had been until she'd found a way to escape. Perhaps Ferelden would not be as bad as she had previously thought.
