Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 51: Arl Teagan of Redcliffe
Bronwyn found it a relief to be riding through the Hinterlands, far from Ostagar. If nothing else, her mission to the Frostbacks would give her time to clear her head.
Alistair was deeply scandalized by her political scheming. Her good friend was not a schemer himself, and had swallowed his Grey Warden indoctrination in its entirety—even the most absurd, unpalatable bits.
"But you can't be Queen! Grey Wardens can't hold titles!" he burst out, looking in her eyes as if trying to make her understand. "We renounce everything about our former lives when we Join."
"Alistair," she replied, "what exactly has the order done for us since Ostagar? Have they come to help? We know that the Orlesians are playing games with us, but where are the Marcher Wardens? The Nevarran Wardens? The Antivan Wardens? Only two Wardens have attempted to help us: Riordan and your mother Fiona; and they had to do it in secrecy and stealth." She took a breath and then came out with it. "When I was at the compound, I found a letter waiting for me. It was from the First Warden."
Alistair straightened, waiting intently.
Bronwyn thought about it, looked away, and then decided simply to tell him the truth. "It was an order for you and me to leave Ferelden and go to Montsimmard, putting ourselves under the command of the Orlesian Warden-Commander. The First Warden obviously did not know that we had been able to recruit."
"And then do what?' Alistair asked, brown eyes warm and innocent. Could he really not see?
"And then watch Ferelden die!" she bit out angrily. "I burned the letter. I am not deserting my country. I am going to do everything in my power to save it, in spite of Orlesians and assassins and an ancient order with a secret agenda they do not care to share with me."
"But being Queen—" He shook his head, trying to understand. "What about your brother?"
"I don't know," she admitted. "I've written to Fergus. If he feels that he should be King, I will support him. I don't think that's what he wants, though. If he really doesn't want the crown, I don't see that I have any choice. I will marry Loghain, and we will rule jointly. I'll stay with the Wardens, of course, because the one thing this country needs is to defeat the Blight. If we can do that…" she tried to imagine something beyond briefly, but failed.
"….if we can do that," she finally said, "I will have been Queen long enough."
"What if you can't…you know…have a baby?"
"Then Fergus will inherit!" she said impatiently. "I'm hardly in any position to have a child anyway, with an Archdemon to fight. Alistair, I didn't ask for Duncan to conscript me. He took advantage of a dying man and made a bargain I had no part in. I don't know what he had in mind. He isn't here to speak for himself. I have to do the best I can, and what we must do is save Ferelden, whatever it takes."
Whatever it takes.
They were moving fast along the old trails. Bronwyn had a copy of Loghain's map. A few months had not erased the tracks of hundreds of men marching to Redcliffe.
While her party was strong, she had felt some misgivings, considering Cullen's attraction to Tara, which the girl had manifestly rejected by her relationship with Zevran. Cullen was behaving well, though he clearly despised the Antivan assassin. Bronwyn knew he would have despised the elf anyway, but she thought Cullen was disciplined enough to work with someone he disliked. He must have had to do that often enough, when he was a Templar.
And he and Leliana, being very devout, were quite excited about the expedition for its own sake. They spent some time talking about it by the fire in soft voices. Bronwyn caught phrases from the Chant of Light exchanged. She was not a particularly pious person herself, but if it comforted those two, then she saw no harm in it. Zevran seemed to be a believer, in his own odd way. Tara, she knew, had reservations—unsurprising in someone forced to listen to endless sermons about her own corruption.
Bronwyn found the prosings of old priests tiresome, but Andraste herself was worth revering. A great leader…a great woman… a beacon of freedom and one who upheld the dignity of all races. It had always struck her as very odd that the center of the Chantry was in Orlais, when Andraste herself had been from the lands that would later become Ferelden. Orlais, in fact, had no part in Andraste's story at all. And Orlais, she thought sourly, with its chevaliers and their privileges, was hardly an exemplar of the kind of freedom Andraste had fought for.
She had certainly lived—a real, living woman. Having been real, she must have real remains. It was not impossible that her faithful disciples would have guarded her remains and placed them in an appropriate shrine. The real questions were: what would that be? Was it still there? How to identify it?
At their next camp, she took out Brother Genetivi's cryptic notes, and tried once again to make sense of them. The good brother certainly had not made it easy for her. Some of the notes were in a curious shorthand that was as impenetrable as code. Some of the maps were not to scale.
Zevran was on watch. Leliana plumped down beside Bronwyn, sorting through the confusion of notebooks, scrolls, and codices.
"So this is what you found in his house?"
"Yes," Bronwyn laughed ruefully. "And it was as chaotic as you see here. Tara and I took everything, since we did not know what was important and what was not."
Cullen squatted down beside her and frowned at the title of a book.
"Flame and Scale: The Secrets of Dragon Cults," he read. "What does that have to do with Andraste?"
"No idea, "Tara admitted. "But it was there, and full of bookmarks...see... we left them in. He might have been studying something else at the same time, I suppose. I've been known to read more than one book at the same time, switching off between the two…but I don't think that's the case here. It was important for some reason. He was really obsessed."
"And who was that young imposter you fought?" Leliana wondered. "How does he fit in to the story? Was he an agent of another country? Did he have an accent?"
Bronwyn shook her head. "He sounded completely Fereldan to me. It was clear that he was there to collect Genetivi's papers and make sure no one else ever saw them. As he did make a point of piling that Dragon Cult book in with the notebooks and the rest, I have to assume it was important to him."
She took the book, and read aloud:
"Chapter Ten: On the Worship of Dragons..."
"Ugh!" Leliana made a face, disgusted. "What wicked heresy!"
Bronwyn smiled at her, and kept reading. "Let us suggest, for the moment, that a high dragon is simply an animal. A cunning animal, to be sure, but in possession of no true self-awareness or sentience. There has not, after all, been a single recorded case of a dragon attempting to communicate or performing any act that could not likewise be attributed to a clever beast."
Cullen broke in. "There's something in that. Remember Flemeth? When she transformed, she didn't fight with anything I would call cunning."
"Morrigan says that when she's in animal form, it's hard to think like a human," Tara agreed. "She has to really concentrate. Maybe just holding the dragon form took so much concentration, Flemeth couldn't think about being clever."
"But we're talking about real dragon," Cullen said, shaking his head. "Not mage's tricks. You saw a dragon when you were among the Dalish. Did it seem like anything more than a beast to you?"
Bronwyn thought about it. "No. A powerful beast, but only that."
"Read on," Leliana urged her, interested.
Bronwyn read, "How, then, does one explain the existence of so-called "dragon cults" throughout history? It might be explained in light of the reverence of the Old Gods in the ancient Tevinter Imperium. In the wake of the first Blight, many desperate imperial citizens turned to the worship of real dragons to replace the Old Gods who had failed them. A dragon, after all, was a god-figure that they could see: It was there, as real as the archdemon itself, and, as evidence makes clear, did offer a degree of protection to its cultists."
Overhearing them, Zevran said, "Animals are wiser than people credit, sometimes. Our friend Scout here," he waved his hand at the dozing dog, who awakened briefly and wagged his tail. "Yes, our friend Scout understands human language and can follow commands. He even expresses displeasure and disagreement. Perhaps your Chantry scholars do not know much about beasts, to lump them all together as beings without cunning or understanding."
"That's an extremely good point," Bronwyn said slowly, thinking it over. Scout was a sentient being, in her opinion, whatever this Chantry brother thought of beasts. "Scout certainly communicates in his own way. It's said that the Tevinter mages first bred the mabaris for intelligence and cunning as well as strength, and set them on the Alamarri tribes. But the mabaris hated the cruel Tevinters. They defected to the tribesfolk, and have been our friends ever since." She reached down with her free hand to scratch Scout's twitching ear. He uttered a doggy snore. Bronwyn took up the book again.
"Other dragon cults could be explained in light of the first. Some cult members might have survived and spread the word. The worship of the Old Gods was as widespread as the Imperium itself—certainly such secrets could have made their way into many hands. But there have been reports of dragon cults even in places where the Imperium never ruled, among folks who had never heard of the Old Gods or had any reason to. How does one explain them?"
"Dragons are impressive," said Tara. "And if they can be trained to protect people, it's not surprising that the people would care for them. So is it actual worship, or a kind of symbiotic relationship?"
Cullen frowned briefly, and opened his mouth to speak. Thinking again, he was silent. It was a very intriguing possibility.
Bronwyn read, "Members of a dragon cult live in the same lair as a high dragon, nurturing and protecting its defenseless young. In exchange, the high dragon permits those cultists to kill a small number of those young in order to feast on draconic blood. That blood is said to have a number of strange long-term effects, including bestowing greater strength and endurance, as well as an increased desire to kill. It may breed insanity as well. Nevarran dragon-hunters have said these cultists are incredibly powerful opponents. The changes in the cultists are a form of blood magic, surely, but how did the relationship between the cult and the high dragon form in the first place? How did the cultists know to drink the dragon's blood? How did the high dragon convince them to care for its young, or know that they would?"
"Drinking dragon's blood?" Tara said eagerly."But that's like—"
Leliana pinched her hard on the upper arm. Cullen gave Tara an exasperated look and jerked his toward Zevran, who was not a Grey Warden. Tara blushed, rubbing her arm.
"Sorry," she muttered. Zevran watched the exchange, his brows nearly rising to the top of his head.
Leliana repressed her smile, and said, "The legions of Tevinter were the most powerful armies in the world, yes? Perhaps the magister who commanded them used such magic. Then, when the dragons seem to become extinct, those legions no longer had access to dragon's blood."
"Thank the Maker they don't anymore!" Cullen agreed fervently. He caught Bronwyn's eye, sensing that they were thinking the same thing. The first Grey Wardens might have known this sinister lore. It might have given them the idea for the Joining formula...
Tara said, "Anyway, you see what I mean about a symbiotic relationship. Just because they live with a dragon, that doesn't mean the cultists really think it's a god. It protects them, and they care for the offspring and use some of them for a kind of blood magic. They might not even have to kill the dragonlings."
Zevran asked, "And how would the author know all this, unless he had lived among such people? Who wrote this book?"
Bronwyn turned to the title page. "Brother Florian. Never heard of him. But," she said, looking at the date. "This is a really recent book. Flame and Scale. It was published only two years ago."
"Where did Brother Florian learn all this about dragons?" Cullen asked suspiciously.
Tara laughed. "Very likely it's all collated and translated from some old Tevinter books in Arcanum, and he's passing it off as his own research! We see than a lot in the Circle library. Some 'Chantry Scholar' comes out with a new book, and those of us who know Arcanum can see where big chunks of it are lifted from old books we've already studied. Not that many people in Ferelden know Arcanum, after all. Just the mages and a few Chantry specialists who come to use our library. You don't know Arcanum, do you, Bronwyn?"
"Hardly a word, other than a few old sayings," Bronwyn admitted. "'Na via lerno victoria...'"
"Ha!" shouted Tara, "I know that one. 'Only the living know victory.'"
"Too true!" Zevran chuckled.
"There's a bit more here," Bronwyn said. "Is there more to draconic intelligence than we have heretofore guessed at? No member of a dragon cult has ever been taken alive, and what accounts exist from the days of the Nevarran hunters record only mad rants and impossible tales of godhood. With dragons only recently reappearing and still incredibly rare, we may never know the truth, but the question remains."
She set the book aside. "Obviously the Nevarran dragon-hunters must have fought these cultists in the old days. I wish we had access to the Nevarran Royal Library!"
"Interesting," agreed Zevran. "It sounds like some of the hunters must not have fought merely the dragons themselves, but whole villages devoted to the dragons."
Tara sniffed disapprovingly. "They probably slaughtered all the people to get their hands on the valuable dragonbone. That's not heroic. That's greedy and cruel."
"That is the way of the world," Zevran agreed, prepared to be philosophical about it. "At least it sounds like the dragon cultists made them earn their gold."
They arrived at Redcliffe late the following afternoon. Bronwyn had never been there before. None of them had.
"It's scenic," Tara said cheerfully. "Very scenic."
"It's very nearly vertical!" Zevran pointed out.
"'A dramatic landscape,'" Bronwyn quoted from some half-forgotten geography tome. It was, too: Redcliffe Village was on a series of hills, descending toward Lake Calenhad. The famed Red Cliffs were punctuated by waterfalls, creating a spectacular climax at the mouth of the quick-flowing Rock River. The dirt path leading down the hills to the heart of the village and the docks was steep and precarious, and she noted with a certain contempt, not improved by any paving or even wooden stepping. In the distance, the battlements of Castle Redcliffe beckoned. It was clear where the Arls of Redcliffe had chosen to spend their coin.
They should go to the castle first anyway, and pay their respects to Arl Teagan. He was not officially Arl until the Landsmeet confirmed it, but as there was no other heir, it was not premature to call him such. It would be rude not to call on him and give him news. And then, too, there was Alistair's letter.
He had written a fairly long one, in the end. Astrid had helped him, as she often did. Bronwyn wondered if the dwarven princess was interested in Alistair—personally interested. She was a very fine woman, and very intelligent. Bronwyn thought her friend could do far worse. King's by-blow or not, he had made clear that his life was with the Grey Wardens. As Astrid was also a Warden, who would care how they organized their private lives, other than those who wished them well?
There was more than one reason to visit the Arl, anyway. With luck, Teagan would be moved to offer them the hospitality of his castle, which certainly be preferable to that of the rather shabby inn Bronwyn had spotted, perched dizzily on a steep slope. Better for her companions, and certainly better for the horses.
The sentry on duty was daydreaming, but Scout uttered a loud bark, and brought the man to his feet, in a ridiculous pretense of military efficiency.
"I am Warden-Commander Bronwyn," she told the gaping man crisply, "here to see the Arl. Is he at the Castle?"
"You're the Girl Warden!" the guard blurted out.
Patiently, she agreed. "Yes, I am the Girl Warden. Is the Arl at home? I wish to see him."
The guard thought he might be. Or he might be out in the desmesne fields or orchards. Or nearby.
"I'll find him," Bronwyn finally said, ready to move on, if only to stop Zevran from smirking.
Another hill, and then a long, long stone bridge that connected the dirt road with the entrance to the Castle. They trotted over it, too accustomed to Ostagar Gorge to be uncomfortable at the sight of the depths yawning below.
The guards at the courtyard gate were not quite such imbeciles as the sentry, and welcomed the Wardens properly, though with obvious curiosity. Both they and the seneschal who showed them into the Great Hall had a certain inexperienced air. That, of course, was only to be expected, since the demon infestation that Loghain and his troops had cleared away a few months ago had killed nearly all the servants in Redcliffe Castle, and many of the villagers as well.
Redcliffe, in fact, had been so damaged by that disaster that the arling was almost unrepresented in the army. Arl Teagan, of course, was needed to restore order to the place. Nonetheless, Bronwyn wondered that the Arl could spare none of his knights for the struggle with the darkspawn. Perhaps, if she came through on her way back, she might discover a likely candidate or two for the Wardens…
"Warden-Commander!"
Teagan had always been an attractive man; well barbered and well dressed almost to the point of being a dandy. Now he emerged from a door beyond, clearly having come straight from the harvest, dressed in a rough leather jerkin, heavy work breeches and even heavier boots. His hair was disordered, and there was mud on his gloves and a smudge on his nose. He looked harassed and exhausted.
There were lines and shadows in his face she had never before seen there. It had been a bad year for the Guerrins, all around: Arl Eamon was dead; his son and heir revealed as a mage and slain. The unfortunate Arlessa Isolde was dead as well. The King, royal nephew of the Guerrins, had perished only a few days since. Loghain had sent word, she knew. What a painful loss for Arl Teagan Cailan's death must be.
He made a good show of welcome, but she sensed that he was not particularly glad to be burdened with visitors at such a time.
Except…
"You were with the King in his last hours, I understand," said Teagan. "It would mean a great deal to me to hear of them from you. Parchment and ink can only say so much."
No, he probably had not found Loghain's letter a great comfort.
"My lord Arl, I am at your service. If we might trouble you for a night's lodging, I shall tell you everything I know."
A courteous lie. She would certainly not tell him everything, but she would tell him the truth as far as she could.
"Of course…" He paused, eyes widening, as he noticed her strange green eyes and scarred face. Politely looking away, he addressed his seneschal instead. "Laurey, see that the Wardens have the best we can offer." He composed himself and turned back to Bronwyn. " When you are refreshed, Warden-Commander, I hope you will join me in my study to talk over these sad times."
The guest rooms at Castle Redcliffe were very fine. Her own bedchamber was large and luxurious, with an immense fireplace and a wide and inviting bed. The maids were clumsy and talked too much; but they brought the necessary hot water, and resigned themselves to serving Tara and Zevran after Bronwyn gave them a short, sharp word or two. Tara was a Warden. A Warden! What did these yokels not understand about that?`
She had not brought her gown, of course, but she had clean shirt, breeches, and griffon tunic to change into after her wash. She set off to find Teagan, glancing in at her people as she went downstairs. Cullen was being harassed by admiring maidservants. Leliana was ordering hers about, demanding a bath. Both of them had fine quarters. Zevran and Tara had been given the smallest and darkest of the guestrooms, but at least it had a good bed. That was all they were likely to care about.
The study was a noble place, clearly a room intended for one man only, and that the master of the castle. Perhaps it was the way the desk was positioned, facing the door, with no other place for readers. It could not have been more different from the library at Castle Highever, that inviting, cluttered room packed with books and furnished with various tables and benches for the scholar or casual visitor. Father's study had been just off it, but even there, entrance was not forbidden. What was private was under lock and key, but people were in and out all day, with the books free to all in the castle to enjoy—as long as they were noted down in the librarian's lending register.
This room, however, opulent and well-lit, was the Arl's private retreat. Across from the elaborate Orlesian-style desk, a comfortable chair had been placed, evidently for her, or others deemed worthy of entrance.
Teagan had changed into a brocade doublet and brushed his hair. He was leaning on the mantel, staring into the fire, when the seneschal announced her.
"Come in, come in, Warden-Commander." He smiled handsomely, showing her to the comfortable chair and dismissing the servant. "I have mulled wine for you. Dinner will be ready fairly soon."
"You are a hero amongst hosts, my lord Arl," she laughed. "It has been a hard and chilly few days on the road."
"Too true. The nights are turning cold." He gave her a fine silver cup of the spicy liquor, steaming and fragrant.
Bronwyn breathed it in, warming her hands. She took a cautious sip. "This is perfect."
He poured for himself, and took the elaborate chair behind the desk, his smile turning melancholy. "You are the first visitor of note to come since the disaster here. I am well aware of the scale of the struggles at Ostagar, but the last few months have been difficult. And we get few travelers nowadays. Many fear trouble on the roads. We have have been left ourselves to ourselves."
It had not occurred to her that he might have felt deserted, with the King and his captains departing after destroying the demons, leaving Teagan to put Redcliffe to rights with no help.
She said, "It is appalling what you and your people have suffered, and at such a time. They say disasters come in threes. Indeed, I hope no more befall this country. There is the tragedy here in Redcliffe, and Arl Howe's treason in the north, which is occupying all my brother's attention. And then in the south we are holding the darkspawn back, but nearly nothing is left left over for troubles unforseen."
Teagan did not know much of the events at Highever, other than the bare facts of the massacre. Bronwyn could tell him what she knew: that Arl Howe and two of his children were dead at the hands of the Crows, sent by the rather sinister Antivan noblewoman who was the mother of Fergus' late wife. Teagan spared some sympathy for Lady Delilah Howe, the unhappy innocent caught up in her father's treachery. Bronwyn wondered briefly if Rendon Howe had sent out some marriage feelers there. He had always wanted Fergus to marry Delilah, and the collapse of those plans would have angered him, certainly, but he would still have wanted Delilah married to his advantage. Teagan was only a bann at the time, but the brother of the Arl of Redcliffe, whose only child was very young.
"But Teyrn Fergus was victorious, you say," Teagan said, taking another long draught of the delicious wine. "That is good news. Surely with their leader gone, the rebels will surrender."
"So I hope. And those who do not are welcome to go to the Void," Bronwyn said feelingly. "Fergus must secure the North, lest our neighbors see us as ripe for the picking."
"That is a consideration, indeed. I heard a rumor from a trader..." Teagan hesitated. "...that there had been an attempt on Teyrn Loghain's life."
"A pair of assassins," Bronwyn nodded. "They were killed before they could be made to speak, but we have every reason to believe they were in Orlesian pay. We will never know, of course."
"But the Teyrn was not badly hurt, I trust."
"I was not there at the time, but our excellent Warden Healer was, and he can work miracles. The Teyrn was in perfect health when last I saw him." Bronwyn felt her face heat, just a little, and hoped her blush was not apparent. In fact, Loghain had proved himself in very robust health indeed, the night before she left on her quest. Luckily, Teagan's thoughts were elsewhere. He gazed into the fire for a moment, and then changed the subject.
"I am surprised to see you so far from the conflict with the darkpsawn. You have been doing good work in the south. They call you Dragonslayer now, and not without cause, as I understand."
"I did not fight the dragon alone. Hard as the fight was, we were glad of the chance to practice and learn more about how to kill such a huge creature. Without griffons to take the battle to the skies, the Grey Wardens must develop new tactics."
"Very sensible of you." He set down his cup, and leaned forward. "So, if I may ask, why are you here?"
She must tell him something, and so told him the previously arranged lie, feeling a little sorry that she must alarm this decent man.
"We have had reports of darkspawn west of Lake Calenhad. I am concerned that they may be coming to the surface in a less defended place. I hoped to catch a boat here that would take me to the mouth of the Sulcher River."
She was right: he was very alarmed.
"I shall send my men to arrange a boat for you at once!" He was up and striding to the door, calling urgently for a guardsman. A brief conference, and the soldier was hurrying away. Bronwyn was ashamed of the lie, but also pleased that she would not have to track down a boat herself. Threatening people with darkspawn was frighteningly effective.
"There!" Teagan said, taking his seat again. "It's all arranged. The Lady of the Lake can take you where you wish to go in the morning. I pray you, let me know as soon as possible what you discover!"
"I do intend to come through Redcliffe on my journey back to Ostagar," she promised. "You'll be the first to know. It may be nothing. I certainly hope so!" Her wine was gone. Teagan obligingly filled her cup again. "Thank you. Ferelden needs no more troubles than the ones we are already facing. I wish that Fergus was not forced to leave us, with all that has happened."
He gave her a fleeting, intense look, and then settled back casually.
"Amaranthine will need an arl, of course. Is there any word of Lord Nathaniel?"
"Not as far as I know. Rendon Howe sent him to the Free Marches years ago. I do not even know if he is alive. If he wishes to claim Amaranthine, he must come to the Landsmeet."
"Yes... the Landsmeet. It was in Loghain's letter. I must go to that myself, of course. Travel in the month of Haring will not be easy or pleasant for anyone. However, it will be the most important Landsmeet in many a year."
There was a long silence. Bronwyn decided to the let the man ask his questions in his own time.
"Did you see the King's will?" he said, rather surprising her. It was not the question she had expected.
"I did. As you know, he declared that there was to be a Landmeet, to be held three months after his death. That took place on the sixth of Kingsway, which would make the sixth of Haring the date the Landsmeet begins. In the interim, Queen Anora is to rule. King Cailan also indicated that the Dalish elves were to be given a land grant as a reward for their loyal service."
"He truly did not name a successor?"
"He did not. Not a single name was mentioned in the document. I don't think that the King really believed that he was going to die, and so he did not take the making of his will as seriously as he otherwise might have."
"You were with him? You are certain it was the Blight sickness?"
"It was, without doubt. He rushed forward to personally engage an ogre in the battle that day and was grabbed by the creature. He must have been infected then. It progressed very rapidly, and there was nothing even the best Healer could do, in the end."
He was quiet for some time. Then he wanted to know every detail of Cailan's death, however painful. Bronwyn gave him an edited version, telling him nothing of the attempt to make the king a Grey Warden. She included Cailan's rewards to the Wardens who had fought by his side, and the knighting of Ser Adam Hawke, who had saved the king— at least in the short term. Then she described the scene as the King began showing signs of rapidly advancing Blight sickness, the quick writing of his will, the brief farewells, and his death. She told him of the funeral the next day, and recited as much of Loghain's funeral address as she could remember.
"I am very sorry for your loss," she concluded gently. "He was not only your king, but a dear kinsman."
Teagan's voice thickened. "Cailan... such a scamp he was as a boy. Everyone loved him."
Bronwyn had never loved King Cailan, but said, "He had a gift for winning people to him. He was very like his father in that way."
"He was." His face contracted, and for a moment Bronwyn thought he would weep. "The thought of the ancient line of Calenhad coming to end like that... It grieves me more than I can say. The Theirins have meant so much to Ferelden. For that matter, there would be no Ferelden without them." He paused, and then said abruptly. "How is Alistair?"
Ah, here it comes... she thought.
She did not allow her thoughts to appear on her face. She laid the folded parchment on the desk. Smoothly, she said, "He's very well, and here is his letter. I could not have a better Senior Warden. Now that he's had a chance to prove his worth and become known, he's gained a great deal of respect. Teyrn Loghain thinks very highly of him."
That made Teagan smile. "Does he? That's good hearing. Like fa—"
He broke off. Bronwyn knew what he had nearly said. Like father, like son.
"And who," Teagan asked, "is Loghain backing for King?"
"He has made no public announcement," Bronwyn said. "I think we're all in shock at the moment." She watched him, eyes carefully limpid, to see if he would accept that.
He did, not evidently conversant with Ostagar gossip, which would put Bronwyn so close in Loghain's counsels as to practically be sitting in his lap. "We'll see, I suppose. I daresay you have hopes for your brother."
"Couslands always do their duty, my lord. If Fergus is given the crown, I know that he will serve this country with diligence, courage, and good sense. Our family is the next in line to inherit, as you know." She also knew that Teagan, like Eamon, had voted against her father and for their nephew Cailan. Understandable but wrong-headed. The country would not be in the fix it was in if wisdom and experience had carried the day, and King Bryce ruled in Ferelden.
"Well..." he paused. "It could be that there is another heir, closer in blood than your brother..."
Bronwyn raised her brows in polite inquiry.
"He's such a modest lad," Teagan said. "I'm sure he hasn't confided in you, but if people knew..." He saw that she was still waiting, and then bit his lip and came out with it. "I'm speaking of our mutual friend Alistair. I wonder that Loghain hasn't marked the resemblance to Maric. Alistair is King Maric's son. On the wrong side of the blanket, unfortunately." He managed a melancholy chuckle.
"Yes, I do know," Bronwyn told him. "Alistair is a very good friend and confided to me what Arl Eamon had told him of his birth. It is a great pity King Maric did not choose to acknowledge him."
"He is a Theirin, and the nearest heir."
Bronwyn set down her cup. "Tell me, my lord: did King Maric tell you this personally?"
Teagan took a breath, and the corners of his mouth turned down. "No. My brother told me what the king told him when Alistair was given into his care."
"Well then, you see the difficulty," Bronwyn said mildly. "There is no one left in the world who can take oath that King Maric told him personally that Alistair was his son. Is there anything in writing? Did Arl Eamon," she pressed, "mention Alistair in his will?" She saw the look on his face and raised a hand in a peaceful gesture. "I am not doubting Alistair's word, my lord. Not in the least. I believe him. However, think of how the Landsmeet will receive this claim. They will demand proof, and there is none—or at least none that will satisfy Arl Wulffe and his sons, or Arl Bryland, or Arl Urien, or even Nathaniel Howe, if he is present. Every one of them has Theirin blood to some degree or other. Do you think that any of them will stand aside for an unacknowledged bastard?"
"Eamon did not mention Alistair in his will, but that was written after Alistair became a Warden. He took Alistair into his household..." His words faded in the face of the expression Bronwyn turned on him.
"If we put Alistair before the Landsmeet, people will look into his years at Redcliffe. I do not wish to speak against your brother, but we must consider the matter rationally. They will discover that Alistair was not raised as Arl Eamon's ward, but slept in the stables, and worked as a dogboy and stablehand until he was sent to the Chantry. He was not given a bed or taught his letters or given the kind of training due a noble—not to mention royal—fosterling. When the Landsmeet learns of the treatment your brother thought appropriate, Alistair's claim will fall to pieces."
"Eamon feared that people would think Alistair his own bastard." Teagan winced, and put his head in his hands. "That doesn't sound any better, does it?"
"I'm afraid not. And there is another possible difficulty. Alistair knows nothing of his mother, other than that she was a Redcliffe serving maid. Was she, in fact, human? Or not?"
Teagan, his head still in his hands, groaned aloud.
Bronwyn had more to say about that. "I bring it up, my lord, because King Maric's penchant for elven beauties was very well known. The Landsmeet will never support a claimant of half-elven blood, no matter who the father."
She decided not to get into the whole matter of the Orlesians apparently knowing who Alistair was. Arlessa Isolde must have let slip that bit of gossip, but a claim supported only by the Orlesians would be laughed out of the Landsmeet. Loghain, too, seemed to know all about Alistair, but Bronwyn had never asked him how he had come to learn about her friend. Possibly Maric had confided in him eventually, or Loghain had an agent in Redcliffe with his ear to closed doors. Loghain was certainly not going to support Alistair before the Landsmeet, so the point was moot anyway.
"Furthermore," she said. "Alistair does not want to be King."
He sat straight up and stared at her. "And how would you know that?"
"Because, my lord," she said, with some asperity, "I asked him. No doubt Alistair found it rather startling— being asked for once what he would like to do. I don't think anyone ever had before. I talked to him about his claim to the throne, and asked him outright if he wished to pursue it. He actually shouted at me, which believe me has not often happened before. He was horrified at the idea. He hates being put in a position of authority. I have been trying to encourage leadership in him—with no small amount of difficulty, I may add. Somehow, it was ingrained in Alistair that he was nothing and nobody, and that terrible things would happen if he took command. Furthermore, he loves being a Grey Warden and does not want to leave the order."
Teagan rose from his chair and walked to the window, clearly upset. He turned on Bronwyn and said, "You do not consider him disqualified because he is a Grey Warden?"
He was no fool, certainly. She only said, "I think that would be absurd, as we are in a Blight. The Grey Wardens are going to be involved to some degree in Fereldan politics while the Blight lasts. No, I would not disqualify Alistair because he is a Warden, but because his claim cannot be substantiated to the degree that the Landsmeet will demand. It would be putting him through a hideous experience for nothing. No, my lord Arl: the Couslands have the closest, legitimate, proven claim to the throne."
Teagan chose his words carefully. "I may not know who Teyrn Loghain intends to support, but it is clear you prefer your brother's claim to Alistair's. I suppose it is only natural."
"Alistair is my dear friend, and we have saved one another's lives any number of times. My brother, however, is my brother. Not only is my support for a Cousland claim natural: I consider it rational, honorable, and having a good chance of success." She pushed Alistair's letter in the Arl's direction, smiling sympathetically. "Alistair made a point of telling me not to let you talk me into pushing his claim. Read his letter for yourself: it may be that he touches on the subject."
The seneschal reappeared, making enough noise for them to notice him. "Dinner is served, my lord."
"Very well, Laurey," Teagan told the man. "We shall be there directly." To Bronwyn he bowed courteously. "We can agree to disagree, I hope. I cannot let go of the Theirin line so easily. I will read Alistair's letter, and then make my case to him. In the meantime, let us enjoy the finest dinner Castle Redcliffe can offer the Warden-Commander of Ferelden!"
It was a very fine dinner indeed. Redcliffe, Brownyn was told, was enjoying a most successful harvest; and because of the casualties months before, there were far fewer mouths to feed. People from smaller villages to the south had come to the arl's seat, and moved into the empty cottages, into the shops and the smithy. Some of the new folk had found work in the castle itself. It certainly explained the inexperience of some of the staff. Fortunately, the cook was sound.
Mother Hannah, the superior of Redcliffe Chantry, was among the guests, and proved a very pleasant and kindly old woman. One of her priests accompanied her, and her senior Templar, by name Ser Henric. As Tara was not carrying or wearing anything that screamed "mage," there were no suspicious or frightened stares. A remarkably pretty young woman and a small boy were with the Chantry folk, dressed very simply. Introductions were made, and the girl's name was Kaitlyn Merton, a poor relation of the Bann of Whitewood Hills and a distant cousin of the Guerrins themselves. Her little brother Bevin was thrilled to dine in the Arl's Great Hall—and also to meet the famous Grey Wardens.
"Dear Kaitlyn is not taking vows in the Chantry, though I think it would be best for her," Mother Hannah whispered to Bronwyn. "She and her little brother are quite alone in the world, and have nothing but their little cottage and a small pension our good Arl has kindly granted them. He would have them move into the Castle itself, but I told him it would ruin the poor child's reputation, as there is no chaperone for her there. If Kaitlyn were to enter the religious life, then Bevin could be taken on by Arl Teagan as a page, and trained up to be a knight some day. As it is, the children cannot bear to be separated."
"I would hate to be separated from my brother, were I in similar circumstances," Bronwyn said. Young Kaitlyn seemed nice, and was certainly very pretty. Teagan had avoided marriage for years and years, but as the last Guerrin, he could avoid it no longer. If he disliked the company of the proud and highborn, perhaps he need look no farther than this appealing young orphan, who had at least had good looks and a bit of noble blood to commend her. At any rate, she could hardly be a worse Arlessa than the late Isolde, whose only child had brought ruin and death to the arling.
Cullen spoke up. "I wonder if Mother Hannah or her priests know Brother Genetivi?"
As it happened, none of them did. The only person present who knew even the name was Teagan himself, who recognized it from the same biography of the Rebel Queen that Bronwyn had read.
"What is your interest in him?" the arl asked.
"I met him on my way to Orzammar," Bronwyn said lightly. "He was an old friend of my late tutor. I thought it a risky time to go traveling, and told him so; but of course he was unconvinced, having already traveled so widely around Thedas. I have been wondering what happened to him."
There was some grave discussion of the dangers of the roads. The most senior of the nights, Ser Perth, predicted dire consequences for any lone traveler.
For that matter, all of Teagan's surviving knights were well-bred men, and capable of being polite even to elven Grey Wardens and their companions. They were particularly gracious to Bronwyn, Cullen, and above all to Leliana, whose bright red hair and lovely face attracted a great deal of attention. She loved to dress up, and had talked the maids into finding her a gown from the cupboards. The late Arlessa had possessed so many gowns that Teagan did not recognize the expensive confection of blue and lavender silk Leliana wore to dinner. She had also brought her lute, which caused a stir of pleasurable excitement.
The general pleasure was even greater when she sang for them: Black Fox and the Bounty Hunter; Childe Briony; The Battle of River Dane.
Servants gathered at the back of the Great Hall to listen. The knights and Wardens grew mellow with good drink and the beauty of the music. Bronwyn felt herself relaxing a little; for the moment not having to deal with politics or war.
"A Warden Minstrel!" Teagan's pleasant voice rose above the cheers and applause that followed the last rippling chord, He lifted his cup in salute. "I did not know there could be anything so charming. Warden-Commander, you certainly run the Wardens on pleasanter lines than others have! Look here, Warden Leliana...I hope you won't take offense at a gift, but we've had so little cheer in Redcliffe these past months. Permit me to give you something as a keepsake of a memorable evening."
Leliana dimpled at him. "My lord, would it possible... to keep this gown?"
Light laughter and more applause. Teagan bowed graciously. "As you wish, Warden! It becomes you far better than it would me!"
"How about a story?" an over-excited young Bevin shouted. His sister blushed and silenced him, but there was support for the suggestion.
"Yes! A story!" A knight urged, and then others echoed him.
Leliana smiled and seemed willing. There was a pleasant air of expectation.
"An improving story," Mother Hannah prompted.
The expectant air deflated somewhat, but Leliana was not unwilling to oblige a priest. "I shall tell my favorite story. All of you know this...some of you very well...but I love to recite it and to think about it. I have heard many versions of it and put them all together for this. I shall speak of our beloved Prophet and her deeds."
Quite a few people actually looked pleased. It was a famously devout Court, after all. Bronwyn forbore to sigh, and took solace in the music of Leliana's voice.
Leliana's story of Andraste, Bride of the Maker
There is a great rock near the palace in the city of Denerim. That is the Birth Rock, where it is said that the Prophet Andraste first saw the light of day. In those days, long ago, the city was no more than a little fishing village. One day, a ship dropped anchor, and Tevinter soldiers stormed ashore. They captured and enslaved the villagers, leaving behind only the old and infirm. The prisoners were chained in the dark and filthy hold of the ship, and were taken far away, to be sold in the markets of the great city of Minrathous. One of the captives was the child Andraste.
She was raised in slavery in a foreign land. After some years, she escaped, then made the long and treacherous journey back to her homeland alone. She rose from nothing to be the wife of an Alamarri warlord, the mighty Maferath.
Andraste's face was a shining light of beauty, and her voice the sweetest that ever has been heard in the world, from that day to this. Each day she sang to the gods, asking them to help her people in bondage. The ancient tribal gods of the mountains and the winds did not answer her, but the true god did.
The Maker spoke. He showed her all the works of His hands: the Fade, the world, and all the creatures therein. He showed her how men had forgotten Him, lavishing devotion upon mute idols and demons and dragons; and how in disgust He had left them to their fate. But her voice had reached Him, and so captivated Him that He offered her a place at His side, that she might rule all of creation.
But Andraste would not forsake her people.
She begged the Maker to return, to save His children from the cruelty of the Imperium. Reluctantly, the Maker agreed to give mankind another chance.
Andraste went back to her husband Maferath, and told him all that the Maker had revealed to her. Together, they rallied the Alamarri and marched forth against the mage-lords of the Imperium; and the Maker was with them.
The Maker's sword was creation itself: fire and flood, famine and earthquake. The Blight, the judgement of the Maker for the wickedness of the magisters, had ravaged Thedas. Everywhere they went, Andraste sang to the people of the Maker, and they heard her. This was Andraste's March: the first and greatest of all Exalted Marches. The ranks of Andraste's followers grew until they were a vast tide washing over the Imperium. And when Maferath saw that the people loved Andraste and not him, and that she loved the Maker more than she did Maferath, a worm grew within his heart, gnawing upon it.
At last, the armies of Andraste and Maferath stood before the very gates of Minrathous, but Andraste was not with them.
For Maferath had schemed in secret to hand Andraste over to the Tevinters. For this, Archon Hessarian would give Maferath all the lands to the south of the Waking Sea.
And so, before all the armies of the Alamarri and of Tevinter, Andraste was tied to a stake and burned while her earthly husband turned his armies aside and did nothing; for his heart had been hardened by jealousy. But as the archon watched the pyre, he was seized with sudden, overwhelming compassion. He took pity on Andraste, and drew his sword, granting her the mercy of a quick death.
The Maker wept for His Beloved, cursed Maferath, cursed mankind for their betrayal, and turned once again from creation, taking only Andraste with him. And Our Lady sits still at his side, where still, ceaselessly, she urges Him to take pity on His children.
"My dear child!" cried Mother Hannah. "How beautifully you tell that greatest of stories! It is a blessing to hear it!"
Cullen leaned over, brown eyes warm, to whisper praise in Leliana's ear. She smiled back him, clearly in sympathy.
There was a great deal of applause, even a great deal from the back of the Hall. It occurred to Bronwyn that poor folk from the Hinterlands might never have heard the story told as a coherent whole. Even little Bevin liked it, but then it was full of fighting and Swords of Mercy and heroic adventure.
And since it was Redcliffe, and a famously devout Court, Mother Hannah blessed them, and they trooped upstairs to the chapel for evening prayers.
It was quite the chapel: far bigger and more elaborate than the chapel at Castle Highever. Bronwyn tried to keep her face a mask of bland piety, but after seeing the poverty of the little village nearby, it was difficult to approve of the luxury and opulence of Redcliffe Castle. Bronwyn sat, and knelt, and made the proper responses; but her mind was already on the journey ahead, and what they might find on the other side of the lake.
It was a two-day journey, north-northwest, from Redcliffe to Sulcher. The Lady of the Lake was not a particularly comfortable vessel, but at least they were safe from darkspawn when aboard her. The shoreline slipped past with dream-like slowness; while Bronwyn and her companions used the forced inactivity to further study the maps, books, and notes left behind by Brother Genetivi, trying to draw out every possible bit of information from them.
The shoreline itself told them nothing. In time, the forbidding red cliffs of the south gave way to low-lying forests, dark green almost to black. Hills rose up behind the forests, and beyond them, in the far west, were the distant Frostback Mountains, misty grey and forbidding.
As day faded to twilight, they arrived at the the village of Sulcher, and docked.
They had thought Redcliffe a poor village, but Sulcher was even smaller. A few cottages, a merchant's little shop, a smithy, a mill, and a tumble-down tavern: that was the village in its entirety. There was no Chantry there, nor even the smallest chapel.
Of course they stopped at the tavern, and there they had a curious encounter.
"Brother Genetivi?" the innkeeper asked, eyes wide and blinking. "Never heard of him. Haven't seen any strangers around here but you lot and that trader Felix."
Leliana cleared her throat and caught Bronwyn's eye. Even without the bard's help, Bronwyn had no trouble seeing that the man was lying…and rather frightened.
"How odd," Bronwyn said smoothly. "For I saw the good brother when he took ship to come here some months ago. He was traveling to a village called Haven. Is it far from here?"
The man froze, knuckles whitening as he gripped a half-filled tankard like a shield. His lips moved, struggling to find words. He stuttered, "H-H-Haven? Never heard of it!"
Tara gazed up at him with her big elven eyes. "That's really peculiar, since our map shows it's only a half-day's journey from here as the crow flies. It's your closest neighbor, in fact."
The innkeeper slammed the tankard down, foamy ale slopping onto the bar. "I've never heard of it! And I'll thank you to leave my inn!"
"I don't think so," Bronwyn told him kindly. "We're staying the night, and our horses will remain in the shanty you call a stable. I don't know what it is about the name of Haven that frightens you, but I assure you that you are in no danger with a force of Wardens here to protect you."
Her companions crowded up to the bar. Cullen loomed over the innkeeper, his shadow falling across the man's face. For a moment Bronwyn thought the man would burst into tears.
"Please," he whispered, mouth barely moving. "Please. Don't talk about Haven."
No one else wanted to talk to them about Haven either. Faces folded closed at the questions, stubborn as locked doors.
At a table far from the rest of the regulars, Zevran expressed his opinion. "We must be very cautious here. These people are afraid. They are so afraid they will not even confide to us what it is they fear. That means that we cannot know what it is and guard against it."
Only one man approached them: another traveler. This individual was a trader with the improbably pretentious name of Felix de Grosbois. He sidled up to their table, oozed on to a bench, and began hawking his goods with impressive effrontery.
"An Ontraprenyure such as myself finds many a rarity. I can see that you're all the sort who can appreciate the finer things—" he leered at Leliana, who was amused rather than offended. "—so I must tell you straight out that this your lucky day. I have an Objay Dee Art in my possession which is far too extraordinary to show to lesser folk. I couldn't think of letting it go, 'cept to Grey Wardens and members of the nobility."
He showed them a curious short stick of metal: about the width of a finger, incised with dwarven runes, and gleaming dully in his dirty palm.
"Very nice," said Bronwyn patiently. "What is it?"
"Well might you ask!" replied the eager merchant. "Something which even a highborn lady like yourself has never seen! This, my friends, is a golem's control rod."
Bronwyn scowled, remembering the golems in Orzammar. If this charlatan had a control rod, did that mean that some golem was on a rampage somewhere else?
Tara was entertained, however, and gave the man the silver he wanted. Bronwyn got rid of him with a promise to look over his other goods the following morning, and the young mage was left to gloat over her curio.
"I suppose I can thump someone over the head with it," she laughed.
Bronwyn hefted it in her right hand, considering the weight. "If you held it in your hand and punched someone, it would probably hurt quite a lot."
It was a brief, bright moment in a gloomy place. In the end, they decided to stay in the same room and to take turns keeping watch that night. The inn was an edgy place.
But the night passed without incident. Bronwyn quietly paid off the innkeeper, and they left early, after a some quick purchases from amongst Trader Felix's foodstuffs. The villagers watched them silently as they rode west from the village, but shrank away when looked at directly. The sensation of being watched did not fade, even after the village was long out of sight.
Thank you, my reviewers: demonicnargles, mutive, Zute, Mike, Kira Kyuu, Jyggilag, Tidigod784, EroSlackerMicha, Reyvateil Songstress, Notnahtanha, Pirate Ninjas of the Abyss, anon, cloud1004, JackOfBladesX, Mystricka, Wedger, Blinded in a bolthole, Josie Lange, KngihtOfHolyLight, Jenna53, MsBarrows, SkaterGirl246, Juliafied, Shakespira, Girl-chama, Ellyanah, GLCW2, Have Travel, Sarah1281, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, Halm Vendrella, Ardonia-Servant-Of-Zeta, graydevilforever, almostinsane, Zikarn Krais, WhosAmandaPhillips, EpitomeofShyness, Enaid Aderyn, mille libri, Cobar713, karinfan123, Tsu Doh Nimh, Keralai Worthward, Tyanilth, and riverdaleswhiteflash.
Andraste's story is adapted from various codices. However, canon often contradicts itself, and I have tried to make sense of it. For example, one codex says that Andraste came from Denerim; another says a fishing village on the Waking Sea. Denerim is on the Amaranthine Ocean. It could be that the story about the village on the Waking Sea is the basis for the claim by the Orlesian city of Jader that it is the birthplace of Andraste.
