Characters: Alistair, mention of OMC Ser Nils and OFC Mother Amity, OMC Lan, OFC Mari, OFC Diona Blackstone, (unnamed) Bryce Cousland, Eamon Guerrin, Teagan Guerrin, Anora Mac Tir, Cailan Theirin

Pairings: Cailan/Anora; one-sided, teased Alistair/OFC Diona Blackstone; aborted setup between Alistair and unnamed OFC; reference to Blessed-Age-era Rendorn Guerrin/Connor

AU Elements: None

9:25 Dragon

Gwaren, the Teyrnir of Gwaren, Ferelden

The atmosphere in Gwaren's main street was like a circus. Or, rather, it was like what Alistair imagined circuses were like from reading about them. That just didn't make for as exciting of a simile, though: "Oh, it's like my imagining of something I've actually never seen but read about in a dusty, old book."

Anyway, there were minstrels on every street corner, traveling players, vendors selling fried dough sprinkled with cinnamon, spiced apples, cider, or sausages. Also a lot of enterprising hunters or domestic-types selling fur throws or knitted blankets and scarves. It was important the new king keep the people's spirits up, touring the most important corners of Ferelden even in the dead of winter to show them everything was fine, someone was still in charge, the country wasn't about to dissolve into chaos and civil war or fall prey to invasion just because the legendary Maric had been missing so long the Landsmeet had actually declared him dead. It was just as important people didn't freeze off their bottoms coming out of their homes to take a look at the spectacle.

It was lucky, really, that he had graduated from the ordinary ward at the monastery just in time to come see Cailan's coronation procession. Mother Amity had given him leave to come to Gwaren for a few days as a reward before he entered official training for the Templars. The sisters had packed him up with Ser Nils and sent him off to the city. They were supposed to purchase more supplies for the scholars while they were here, as well as summer cloth for the wards, sold at a discount just now, in the middle of winter.

Ser Nils was somewhere around here. He'd run into some chancellor or chamberlain or someone else he knew from here—someone whose title started with a c-h—and gone off to grab a drink. "You're old enough to look after yourself a while, lad," he'd said, clapping Alistair on the shoulder and winking. "Keep a hand to your purse, and mind the difference between a pretty girl—or boy, I s'pose—who thinks you're handsome and a whore. If I don't catch up with you later on main street, meet me back at our room at the tavern. You'll be fine."

Alistair was left in the middle of a larger crowd than he had ever seen in his life to basically freeze his bottom off—when he wasn't sweating from pushing through the crowd. It was impossible to decide where to look, what to do. Bystanders told him three different times for when King Cailan's entourage was due to parade down the street, so that was excellent. And he couldn't decide whether he wanted to buy a cheese pastry first, go watch the tumbling act down the ally, have a look at the book and curio shop on the corner, or pick a spot on the street and stay there, so he wouldn't miss a thing later on. He felt overwhelmed, lost, and a little lonely, and had just decided that that cheese pastry sounded really good, when someone bumped into his right shoulder, and then he felt a brushing at his belt.

Ignoring the woman who had bumped into him, Alistair's hand shot out to grab at his belt; caught a greasy, tiny little wrist; and tugged. He blinked to see a boy, maybe ten years old, with shoulder-length, matted sandy hair, a fading bruise on his jaw, and wearing a threadbare jacket about two sizes too small. He was shaking all over, and as Alistair stared down at him, his left hand darted to his own belt, plucking at a little knife. Alistair reached out with his other hand in a second and twisted the boy's left wrist. The little knife fell to the street with a clatter.

Alistair stared at the boy. The boy stared back at him. Honestly, Alistair didn't really know what to do now, so, to play for time while he made up his mind, he started babbling. As usual. "Well," Alistair said. "What do you know? I really did need to keep a hand to my purse. Hullo there."

Maker, the boy really was trembling, and not from cold, either. He was terrified. He thrust his chin out, his skinny little chest. "You gonna call the guard or what?"

Alistair thought about it. "I could call the guard, I suppose. Attempted robbery, attempted murder. Or at least attempted stabbing." He supposed he really should feel more upset about the attempted stabbing, but if a boy twice his size and several years older had grabbed him when he was ten years old, and he'd had a knife, he imagined he might possibly have done the same thing, even if he'd been grabbed in response to an attempted theft. Not that Alistair had ever been stupid enough to go around robbing people. Anyway, with the way the boy was looking at him, all eyes and defiance, just shaking, Alistair couldn't really manage to feel anything toward him but mild concern. But he had to do something with the thief, before someone else got robbed or murdered.

"Please!"

That was another voice, one from even farther down. A small girl had broken away from the crowd to come toward them. She was as thin and miserable-looking as the child he had hold of, maybe eight years old, but at least she was somewhat cleaner. There was a certain resemblance in their pinched little faces, in their close-set, bright, dark eyes, like eyes of little sparrows. Brother and sister, definitely. "Don't take him away, sir," the girl said, hands clasped in front of her in supplication. "You en't hurt, and you still got all your coin, swear to the Lady! You caught us out fair 'n' square, 'n' you cen't blame Lan for trying to get away. You throw him to the guardsmen, and they'll send him to the mine shafts like Dad, and with Mum sick, they'll put me in the orph'nage, and I don't want to go! Swear to the Lady, Lan's no murderer. He just has that tickler for protection, 'n' . . ."

Maker, she could babble better than he could. The problem was, as she babbled, she was stooping for the knife he'd taken from her brother. Acting like she was going to hold it up as an example, but it could be a weapon for the girl as easily as it had been for the boy.

Alistair frowned and stepped out, placing his booted foot on top of the knife blade. The girl was centimeters away from it. "I think I'll keep that, thanks," he said.

The girl stepped back, holding her hands up. The boy Alistair still held made a noise. "Give it up, Mari!" he snapped. "He's got us. He can do what he likes with us now."

The girl's lip trembled. "I was just trying to help," she said reproachfully. "Please, sir," she said to Alistair, in a much softer voice. "You got all your coin. Just let us go."

Alistair bent down without releasing Lan for a second. He picked up the little knife and flipped it in his hands. It was poorly balanced, dulling iron. Low quality, for all it did have a prettily painted hilt. Maker, the thing was a cheap novelty letter opener, he realized. He pointed it at the boy's grimy nose. "Right. Lan, are you a murderer?" he asked.

"You're a knight, en't you? You should know," Lan retorted, rolling his eyes. "If I'm a murderer, I'm a piss-poor one."

Alistair flipped the knife in his hand and tapped Lan's nose with the hilt. "You really are," he agreed. "Not too good of a pickpocket either. And I'm only a recruit, not a knight. Now. Is your sister telling the truth about your parents?"

Mari clasped her hands, eyes shining. She bounced on her heels as hope washed over her face like a sunrise. Lan was hardly glowing, but he had relaxed a little. Stopped trembling, anyway. He could tell Alistair wasn't sold on throwing him to the guardsmen, as his sister put it, and he answered freely. "Dad had too much to drink two years back," he said. "Caused some trouble in the tavern. 'Nother couple drunken bastards left drooling, and their women took exception, so he gets carted off to the mine for five year, and Mum, Mari, and me get left flat. Not too much trouble, home's better without 'em, and folk drop off their washin' gladder for Mum without him around. But she's sick late and can't do the washin'. I en't big enough to get a job on the docks yet, but Mari's hungry. So'm I. And if we start starvin' out in the street, someone is liable to send us to the orph'nage. Kids there are even worse off than Mari and me. Matron's awful mean, and they fight in that yard all day long. So king comes to town, big to-do all over the city, lots of stupid country boys like you everywhere, I figure the two of us can scrape somethin' we can use. Guess I'm the stupid one. Sir—please don't call the guard."

Alistair stared at the boy for a long, long moment, turning his cheap little letter opener over in his hand again and again. He'd probably be a moron to believe the old sob story. The boy and his sister probably had half a dozen just like it ready especially for stupid country boys who happened to be just a little too quick with their hands for comfort. More likely, they already lived at the orphanage; or were runaways belonging to a thief ring in the city; or had five or six other siblings back at home and perfectly healthy, unscrupulous parents just waiting to get their hands on these two's take today at the parade.

Abruptly, he decided he didn't care. He didn't want to spoil today by turning either of these two over to the guard, and anyway, whether they were lying or telling the truth, hardened little criminals or desperate children in a bad situation only just beginning to consider less-than-savory methods of rectifying that, he could probably keep them out of trouble. Today, at least.

Alistair let go of the boy's wrist and straightened his jacket. He saw Lan glance at his sister, consider bolting, but then stay put, wary, waiting.

"Look," Alistair said, "you can't have my purse. That's all the coin I have, and I'll need to get some personal supplies with it before I go back to the Templars, or Mother Amity will never let me hear the end of it. But I don't object to sharing what I have to spend today with you and your sister. Should be enough for something hot to eat for all of us, plus something fun to do. And you two seem to know your way around. What do you say? Do you object to showing a stupid country boy around for the day?"

The girl, Mari, had come up to stand beside her brother. She looked at Lan now, silently asking him what he thought. He looked Alistair in the eye, suspicious. "How much coin for spending are we talking?" he asked.

Alistair raised his eyebrows. "Two silver," he said. Ser Nils had the purse for supplies for the monastery, but Mother Amity had given him three silver fifty for amusement this weekend and his own, personal supplies for his training this winter and spring. He didn't mind going to the low-rent shops tomorrow if he had to, or telling the Templars later on he hadn't known how much paper and ink to order if he ran out. It wouldn't even be a total lie. "You and your sister can have a whole silver fifty bits for yourself, if you want. I'll even give it to you now. But I would enjoy the company."

Lan scoffed. "A knight Templar wants the company of a couple of kids like us?"

"I'm not a knight Templar yet," Alistair reminded him. "Not even a first-year trainee. It's totally different." He looked down at Mari and raised his right hand solemnly. "Swear to the Lady."

Mari grinned then, and the sight of her grin seemed to decide her brother. He spat on his hand, and Alistair spat on his own without hesitation. They shook. "Right. So I was thinking right before I had the pleasure of making your acquaintances that a cheese pastry sounded absolutely delicious. Want one?"

Mari shook her head pitifully. "You en't made our 'quaintance, Mr. Knight Templar Recruit, sir," she informed him. "You know our names. But what's yours? Seems that's the best way to do things."

"You're right, of course. I apologize for forgetting my manners," Alistair agreed, bowing. "Mistress Mari, Master Lan, my name is Alistair. Delighted to make your acquaintance. Now, about that cheese pastry?"

"Hey, if you're buying," Lan said, gesturing for Alistair to proceed him and his sister. He did not object when Alistair thrust his letter opener into his own belt. Just in case.

They got their cheese pastries, hot and flaky and all melting inside. Alistair did his best not to notice how quickly Lan and Mari gobbled them down, despite their burned, greasy fingers. Instead, he let Lan walk him up and down the main thoroughfare, tell him which crossings led to the docks, to the craft district, to the magistrate's manor, to the Deep Roads entrance where King Maric had once brought the rebels out to attack the Orlesians in the war.

"He was a proper king, he was," Lan said knowingly. "Sliced up them Orlesians and sent the rest of 'em packin', easy as anything. Came out here every few years or so, kept the magistrate and the lawmen honest, or as honest as authorities ever are. This is the first time King Cailan's been anywhere near us. Spent all his time in his fancy palace in Denerim." He rolled his eyes at Alistair to show what he thought about that.

"Maybe his dad didn't want him comin' out here," Mari argued. "You ever think of that, Lan? He's the only prince we ever had, anyway, before they made him king. If somethin' happened to him, what then?" She tossed her head at her brother, confident this argument had no answer at all. "Asides, they say King Cailan's awful handsome."

"You would care about that," Lan said scornfully. "Girls! Don't matter if a king's ugly as a darkspawn, so long as he knows what he's doin'. Right, Alistair?" He looked up at Alistair, and Alistair held up both hands.

"What makes you think I'd know anything at all about kings and princes?" he laughed. "That's beyond the likes of me. Revered Chantry Mothers and Knight-Commanders, that's all I know about."

Lan sniffed. "I don't buy it," he said flatly. "You're a knight's son, or a noble. Rich 'n' educated anyway. Bet anything you can read as well as fight."

Mari shoved her brother with her thin little shoulder. "Leave him alone, Lan," she scolded. "He's been awful nice to us, even if he is noble." She slipped her hand into Alistair's and looked up at him. "So, what is your story, sir? Where you from?"

Alistair was so disarmed for a moment, he almost didn't catch her other hand creeping around his back toward his purse again. But she meant for him to catch her. As soon as he tapped her wrist, she grinned up at him mischievously. "Just makin' sure you're paying attention," she promised. "Swear to the Lady. We en't the worst out here by leagues. You're lucky you found us, actually. Kid nice as you's liable to get eaten alive out here."

Alistair stared at her. He laughed. "Mari, I could probably pick you up and throw you into the harbor with one hand."

She tossed her head again. "Yeah, but you wouldn't," she said confidently. "That's why you'd get eaten alive."

"So?" Lan prompted. Alistair looked at him.

"So what?"

"Where you from?" the boy urged. He was curious too.

Alistair shrugged. "Would you believe me if I told you I came from an orphanage?" he asked them.

"No," Lan said flatly.

But Mari was frowning. "Is that the truth, Mr. Alistair?" she demanded.

"Swear to the Lady," he told her solemnly, swinging her hand back and forth and hoisting her up from the pavement a little until she giggled. "A monastery ward, anyway, which can be but isn't always exactly the same. A bit west of here, in a forest village called Bournshire."

"I heard of there," Lan said, now looking as hard at Alistair as his sister had been. "No lie?"

"No lie," Alistair promised again.

Lan frowned. "But you've got coin," he objected. "And a cloak that fits."

Alistair shrugged. "Well, I'm not an orphan anymore," he pointed out. Then, seeing the children look skeptical, and remembering that people didn't technically ever stop being orphans, he added, "or I'm a nearly grown-up orphan, I suppose. I'm a Templar recruit. It's like a job. We do receive a small stipend, you know, for supplies and travel expenses and so on. I'm here helping an older Templar here with an errand. I'll have to meet back up with him tonight."

"Was it awful on the ward in Bournshire, like it is in the orph'nage here?" Mari asked, holding his hand tighter.

Alistair hesitated. He was starting to think they hadn't lied to him. The girl seemed genuinely afraid of the Gwaren orphanage, like someone who might live near the place and had seen other children placed there before, hadn't actually ever lived there herself, but really thought someday soon she might. Instinctively, he tightened his own hand around the little girl's, responding to her fear.

"I didn't care for it," he said finally. "But the other monastery wards and I always had enough, and most of the brothers and sisters that looked after us meant well and did their best. And yes, Lan, we were taught to read, write, and figure, as well as a few other things. I'm not exactly leaving, even now. Just leaving the ward for a Templar barracks."

Something in his tone must have caught Mari's attention, because she cocked her head at him in that way she had. "Don't you want to be a Templar, Mr. Alistair? I mean, if you get paid 'n' all and don't have to be an orphan no more with the rest of 'em?"

Lan had his mind on other things. "How come you wards in Bournshire learned all that stuff, and the kids in the orph'nage 'n' kids like Mari and me don't learn none of it?" he said, mostly to himself. "Do you know what kind of work I could get if I knew all that? Wouldn't see me tryin' to pick no pockets in the market 'n' riskin' the guardsmen and the mines like Dad. Wouldn't matter I'm not big enough to work on the docks. Wouldn't be no trouble for Mari and me, even if Mum . . . even if she . . ." he broke off. His chin wobbled.

"Look, let's do something fun," Alistair suggested. He had wanted to make Mari feel better, to tell her it was possible to survive as an orphan, but the harder truth was that Lan was right. Alistair lived on a well-funded monastery ward in a remote forest village. It educated mages' children, noble bastards, and future ladies-in-waiting, well-to-do craftsmen, and knights, whether they were orphans or not. There was a Templar training ground there as well as the monastery itself: two built-in future paths for the children on the ward. And it was a far, far cry from an overcrowded city orphanage that apparently served as a dumping ground for poor, common children, the children of crime and tragedy, abused and abandoned and neglected, as a place for them simply to stay until they were old enough to care for themselves, with not a lot of care as to how they would go about it. Nothing he could do or say could change that. Distraction was an inferior tactic, but it was all that he had left.

"We've still got some coin left to play a game or see one of these players, and dinner besides, even without your silver fifty bits for showing me around Gwaren," he went on. "And there are all these people here. Anything you two have always wanted to do?"

A lot, it turned out, and it seemed like they couldn't agree on any of it. Lan wanted to buy into a jacks game or bet on a nug race some visiting dwarves had set up down an ally. Mari wanted to go see some players put on a puppet show or buy some hats or scarves from the vendors. Finally, Alistair caught sight of an elf girl set up on a wooden box at a table on the street, with a bigger crate in front of her. She herself wore a sensible, old leather jacket and a hand-knit yellow woolen stocking cap pulled down over her ears, but the mass of scarves she wore with the jacket were sheer and silken, hung and embroidered with a dozen jangling charms. The tablecloth over the crate in front of her was showily embroidered with a succession of magical runes. Or runes that looked magical anyway.

"How about fortune-telling?" Alistair asked. He was getting a headache. "Have either of you ever had your fortunes told?"

Both Lan and Mari's eyes lit up with interest. "You believe that rubbish?" Lan asked, seeing the girl. "She's a con! Just some lady from the alienage. No way she's a real mage. No kind of seer or demon-worshipper."

"If she was, I would probably have to tell my friend on her when I got back to the inn tonight," Alistair admitted. "But it's just in good fun, isn't it? And who knows? Maybe fate will speak through her. Tell her about your destinies—great battles in your future, your true loves!" He put on a spooky player's voice.

They went for it. "Rubbish," Lan muttered, but he was already heading toward the elf girl. Mari's cheeks were pink with more than just the cold.

Alistair followed them over. The kids were pulling over more storage crates from a rubbish heap behind a restaurant.

The fortune teller was probably a few years older than he was, Alistair thought. Pretty too, with bright blue eyes, almost sapphire, a little turned up nose, and red hair flowing loose out from under her cap and over the collar of her leather coat.

"I am Diona," the girl intoned, "Mistress of Mysteries!" She had her own player's voice, theatrical and accented. Was she trying to sound Antivan, Alistair wondered? Rivaini? "Would you like your fortunes told? The cards know the past, the present, and the future. The spirits guide my hands. But this knowledge is valuable. Can you pay for the privilege?"

She was putting on the show, but her blue eyes were narrowed, suspicious. There wasn't exactly a line up to her crate, but she didn't want to waste time with Lan and Mari when a paying customer might come along. Alistair waved. "It's on me, Mistress Diona."

The fortune teller looked him up and down, but she did not relax. If anything, she tensed up, her blue eyes flitting between him and the faces of the children. Her nails, exposed through her fingerless gloves, yellow that matched her cap, twisted in the fabric of her tablecloth. "And who are you, fine sir?" she asked finally. "Not father to these children, nor brother either."

Alistair frowned as he realized what she was implying. "They're my guides through the city," he told her. "In return, I suspect I've agreed to be their servant for the entire rest of the day."

Mari giggled, and that, with the tone of Alistair's response, eased the fortune teller's mind somewhat, he could tell. But it was Lan's reassurance that put her at ease. "He's a friend," the boy said. "He's all right. Bit stupid, nicer 'n' what's good for him, but all right. Pay the lady, Alistair."

He made an imperious gesture, and when Alistair bowed and handed over a few bits, the amount the sign on Mistress Diona's crate read, twice over, Mistress Diona relaxed entirely. She took Alistair's money and counted it up. "Just two readings, sir?" she asked, in a friendlier tone, thrusting the coin through the folds of her coat and charm-studded scarves.

"Just the two," Alistair confirmed. Over the children's heads, he raised his eyebrows and lowered them again, trying to warn her with his face to be gentle with Lan and Mari. The fortune teller made no sign she had heard but turned to the children sitting around her table.

"Now, which of you first, I wonder?" she asked.

"Me! Me!" Mari said, bouncing up and down on her crate. The fortune teller looked at Lan, then shrugged.

"Very well. The young lady first." She produced a handful of cards from her jacket, shuffled them, murmuring nonsense words under her breath as she did. The cards looked vaguely Tevinter, with dragons on their backs, but Alistair suspected he could purchase a pack just like them in that curio shop he had noticed earlier.

"We must ask the spirits to light our way," Mistress Diona explained to Mari. "Now. The three cards I draw first will tell us all about you—past, present, and future. But they cannot do it without your help, however much the spirits whisper. Is there one question you especially want answered, young lady?"

Mari nodded. Suddenly she was pale, clenching her hands together, shaking, just as her older brother had, caught in Alistair's grip. Mistress Diona's mouth quirked down, just a little, and her blue eyes flicked to Alistair.

Yes. She's scared. Be kind, but don't lie to her.

"Whisper it in my ear," Mistress Diona told Mari. "Tell the spirits what it is you want to know."

Alistair didn't hear what Mari said to the elf, but he could guess. Is Mummy going to be all right? He leaned against the stone wall of the building the fortune-teller had set up beside and thought of his own mother, dead now fifteen years. If a winter sickness took Mari and Lan's mother, they wouldn't be orphans. He hadn't been an orphan when he had been sent to the Bournshire monastery ward. He probably was now. In fact, that was part of the reason for the whole procession today.

Wouldn't Mari be surprised if she knew that. It was strange to think about.

In fact, most of the children he knew on the monastery ward weren't technically orphans any more than Lan and Mari were, or would be, if their mother died and before their father came back from the mines. If he came back from the mines. It seemed like there should be some sort of distinction between orphans and all the other children in the world who were abandoned or forgotten. Too often there wasn't, in law or in reality.

Alistair didn't feel too different now that his father was most likely actually dead than he had when his father was alive. Well, why would he? For the first decade and a bit, he had been told his father really was dead, and even after Eamon had told him that wasn't quite the case, he had never once heard from Maric. A proper king? Maybe he had been. Alistair had never heard any different. But Maric had never been a father to him. On the other hand, if Mari and Lan lost their mother, they would feel it like Alistair's sister had probably felt it when their mother died, giving birth to Alistair. He wondered if she hated him, living with her relatives up in Denerim. He hoped not.

His sister was probably grown now. She probably didn't actually live with whoever it was she had gone to live with when their mother had died anymore. She might be married. Might have children of her own, even. Little nieces or nephews he had never even met, like he'd never met her. He wondered if she remembered he had ever even existed.

He had never met his sister or the brother they were all here to see today, but for some reason, his sister—Goldanna—had always felt more real to him. Maybe because he had always known about her and only found out about Cailan a few years ago. Maybe because Goldanna was common, like he was, while Cailan was a prince. He really should find out what had happened to Goldanna now. Templar recruits did get that stipend, part of which was traditionally used as a travel budget so recruits could visit their families. Maybe he could go to Denerim. That was an even bigger city than Gwaren. He wondered how he'd ever find Goldanna. His brother would be much, much easier to find. He wondered if Cailan knew about him.

Mistress Diona was poring over three cards she had laid flat upon her makeshift table. "Your family has been through great ordeals," the elf girl said to Mari, passing her hands over the first card. "Poverty and illness, reversals and betrayals. Yet your mother and brother here have always stood stalwart protectors over you." She moved to the second card. "You are their light, their joy—" her eyes flicked to Lan, sitting beside his sister, absorbed in her reading— "and sometimes their eyes in the darkness. You are quick and clever, and despite what you may at times believe, they need you as much as you need them." Mari elbowed her brother, who stuck his tongue out at her.

The fortune teller moved her hands over the third card. "Now, see here: this says your family will continue to need you. Whatever comes next, whether storm or calm, you will be their anchor, child. You have as much strength and steadfastness in you as you have ever seen in them. This card tells me that, if the Maker looks with favor upon you, your Mother will come back to you for your love. But if he calls her to his side, you will have what power you need to release her, to let her ship take sail."

The elf pressed Mari's hand. Mari was crying, rubbing her hands against the sting.

That's no good, in this cold. And she doesn't have mittens either. Alistair stepped away from Mistress Diona's station briefly, toward a vendor stall down the street. He fished his mug out of his pack and gave it to the vendor. "Mug of mulled cider, please," he said, giving the woman two copper bits. She ladled the hot, steaming cider into his mug and handed it back to him.

"Maker's blessings to you, sir," she said.

Alistair slipped back to the fortune teller's table, bent down, and pressed the mug into Mari's hands. "Here," he said. "Drink this. Share with your brother."

Mari sniffed the mug. She wiped her nose and wiped her tears and nodded. "Thanks, Mr. Alistair," she said. "Mum used to get together with some of the neighbors to make cider in the winter." She sipped the drink. "Mmm. Good," she said.

The fortune teller was looking over Lan's cards now, but she spared a look away from his table for Alistair, giving him a little smile. "See here:" she was telling Lan, pointing at the middle card. "You stand at a crossroads, child. The spirits move the cards, and the cards tell me. A choice of two ways is before you. The mountain path, high and narrow, rocky and difficult, full of twists and turns and switchbacks. Or the forest path, lower, seemingly easier, with berries and roots and mushrooms aplenty by the wayside. But some of those berries will make you sick, and some of those mushrooms are toadstools, and there are wolves and bears and other beasts of the wild in the underbrush. The mountain path may exhaust you. It's a long, cold, and weary way up, with rough sleeping every step of the way. You may stumble and fall and crash all the way back down to earth again. But the view at the end may be a sight to make the Maker smile. There are plenty of sweet piles of leaves to sleep in along the forest way. You may make it through all right, or find buried treasure in your road. Or you may find yourself losing your way forever."

The girl was clever. With little more than a few words and knowledge of people, she was telling Mari and Lan not just what they wanted to hear, what they'd paid to hear, but what they needed to hear. For Mari, that whatever came, she was strong enough to bear it, that she was as important to her little family as her brother. For Lan, that he could choose what he did next, and there would be consequences, whatever he did.

Then Alistair had an idea, and he drew two more items out of his little pack. Mistress Diona saw him, and her eyebrows lifted slightly as she turned to Lan's third card.

"Rubbish," Lan was muttering again, hands wrapped around the mug his sister had passed to him, eyes absolutely fixed on the fortune teller's table.

"But whichever way you choose," the fortune teller told him, stroking the face of his third card, "this card says you won't be alone. Your good little sister will stand by you, of course. Her fortune tells me that. But you, child, will make other friends, and if you lean on them, learn from them, and trust their advice, you'll see how the Maker cares for you, and how his children can care for one another."

Lan scoffed again. "Well. That was interestin'," he said. "Don't buy a word of it, but your act's pretty good, mum." He reached out and hugged Mari around the shoulders briefly, without looking at her, and stood up. "Say, Alistair, this cider is pretty good. Didn't see you go. Didn't come out of our silver fifty bits, did it?"

Alistair closed the book he had been scribbling in and tucked it and his pencil back in his pack. He laid a hand over his heart in mock offense. "Lan! Do you think I would do that to you?"

Lan grinned up at him. "Thanks," he said. "For everything. Really."

"Don't mention it," Alistair said. "Really: don't mention it. Can you imagine what the Templars would say if they found out I needed a couple of kids like you to hold my hand on my first visit to Gwaren? My reputation would be ruined!"

The fortune teller smiled again, and Alistair couldn't quite keep from blushing. She had to be at least four years older than he was, but he liked when she looked at him like that, like he was doing something good, something noble and worthwhile. "Are you certain you don't want your fortune told, Ser Knight?" she asked.

"Oh, really, I'm not a knight!" Alistair protested, "I swear! And I can't. I wish I could, but we have to save my tour guides' silver fifty bits, and there's dinner still to get. I'm not made of coin, you know."

"Come!" the elf woman ordered him, holding out a hand. "Sit. It's good luck to do a kindness for someone so kind to others. I'll read the cards for you. No charge."

A light snow was falling now, catching in the bobble on her hat, lighting on her golden eyelashes. Alistair looked up at the sky. The snow would clear up soon, he thought. It wasn't going to storm. He looked back at Mistress Diona. "Really, it's not necessary," he insisted. "I'm sure there are other folk who can pay for your time."

He looked behind him, checking for a line. Of course there was none to save him from the awkwardness. "The parade will start soon, sir, and I'll have to pack up for a bit anyways," the elf girl told him, losing some of her fake accent and speaking in the more natural voice of a coastal girl. "Come on. Free reading. I don't offer to every handsome young man that comes along, you know."

She thought he was handsome? He was blushing, he knew it. "I—"

Mari snorted, seized his hand, and pulled him down on one of the crates. "Come on, Mr. Alistair, she's nice," she said. "Let's see what the cards say for you."

"Like you said: it's just a bit of fun," Lan agreed. He handed the mug of cider back to Mari and took up a place behind Alistair, looking down over his shoulder.

Alistair saw there was really no way to refuse without offending Mistress Diona now. He didn't believe in anything she could tell him, and he knew she wouldn't either. She would make up a bunch of silliness for the children. Maybe flatter him a little. She was nice. Talented too. The only thing was, since she wasn't busy, he guessed it probably was close to Cailan's processional. He could see people lining up back toward main street. He didn't want to miss it.

But Mari and Lan were both watching him, waiting. They wanted to see what she said for him too. He didn't want to disappoint them. "Oh, very well," Alistair agreed. "Let's see what you've got for me."

The elf girl smiled again and started shuffling the cards. This time, she didn't say any of her little chant over the motion. She knew he didn't believe in the cards or in her, that it was all just for fun. She plucked three cards from the deck and laid them face down, then turned them over one by one.

Then she frowned. Her fingers came up to rest on her lips, she bent over, and stared.

"What?" Mari asked her. "What do they say about him?"

"Hush!" the elf girl told Mari. "Do not rush the spirits!" She said it automatically but without her put-on accent.

"Come on, you just picked 'em out the deck, like you did for Mari 'n' me, right? They say what you want 'em to," Lan said.

"I didn't," the elf girl started, then recovered herself. "You insult my good name, child," she said, back in her accent once again. "Believe what you will, but I am not like those charlatans, cutting the deck here, pulling a card from sleeve or glove there, spelling a fortune out of craft and cleverness instead of reading what the fates and the Maker decree, by the light of what the spirits reveal to me."

"Although you seem to know a lot about how those other charlatans work," Alistair murmured, smiling. He looked over his shoulder, back at the main street. The crowd was louder, gathering in lines, anticipating the king's arrival.

Mistress Diona shot him an annoyed glance. She was distracted too, he realized. She had set up the readings for Mari and Lan, planning out what she wanted to say to them. For him, she had just drawn three random cards off of the deck, either because she was giving him the reading for free or because she was rushing it, not wanting to miss the procession herself. But now, there was a problem. Whichever cards she'd drawn, they just didn't lend themselves to the kind of narrative she'd had in her head to tell him.

"This is uncertainty," she said, pointing to the first card, the one that was supposed to represent his past. Again, she'd forgotten the accent. She was thinking. Rather hard. "Lies and deception, insecurity, indecisiveness or ambiguity. This—" pointing to the second card—"well, it has the exact opposite meaning of your friend here's future card. It's the traveler, sometimes the hermit or the penitent. It means—" she hesitated.

Alistair smiled. "Nothing cheerful, I imagine, from the look on your face."

The elf girl shook her head. "It isn't a bad card, really," she said reassuringly. "In a future reading, it might mean a long journey, a needed time of reflection or thoughtfulness or repentance. In a past one, it could mean years of study and learning. But this card is meant to be your present, and with the past one—"

"What's this third one?" Lan asked, moving ahead, pointing at the next card himself. "The one like a compass?"

The fortune teller pressed her lips together. She plucked at one of her scarves. "It's not too different from your signpost present card, really," she said. "Only on a larger scale. Choices. Changes. Fate. What's strange, Ser Alistair, is that three face cards like this don't usually show up in a single reading, and read together—" she closed her eyes, licked her lips. Mari pressed the mug of cider into her hand, and she opened her eyes to smile at the child. "With your permission?" she asked Lan.

Lan shrugged. "Go ahead," he said. "Might as well finish it."

"My thanks," Mistress Diona said, draining the mug and handing it back to Alistair. She closed her eyes again, and laid her hand on the first card.

"You're a traveler," she said, in still a different voice from any of the ones she'd used already—not accented, but slow and thoughtful. "But you haven't just come from outside the city to see the king's procession today. You've come a long, long way in your life—physically, and not just mentally."

Alistair was impressed. "Heard that in the accent, did you? I was raised in Redcliffe before I came to Gwaren."

The fortune teller ignored him, going on. "As a child, you were confused . . ." her voice went up again, like it was a question. She opened her eyes and caught his. Alistair realized what she was doing, and he shifted. She was reading his face instead of the cards. "Confused," Mistress Diona said again, more confidently. "Surrounded by chaos . . . no. By that ambiguity the card represents. By deception, by lies. People you weren't sure if you could trust. People who made you wonder whether you could trust yourself. You felt alone then, and you are alone now. I see no parents, no guardian, no friends who are close to you, no lover, no sweetheart."

"Right. Very cheerful present then," Alistair said, smiling tightly. She was too good. He didn't like this. He felt vulnerable, naked in the cold. It was none of her business, how he'd grown up or what was happening in his life now. He hadn't asked her to read him. He'd only come here at all for Mari and Lan.

Mistress Diona went on. "But instead of making you wary, hard, or suspicious, your loneliness has made you kind, Alistair," she said. "Partly as a penitent, out of the lingering insecurity and doubt of the past, and partly in cause of justice, out of compassion and sympathy, you reach for others, to show them a little grace. But you feel as though you can't reach them, or not yet, haven't come into your own yet or . . ." she hesitated, frowned. "Or are set apart," she decided, "where you'll never be able to truly connect with another living soul."

Alistair sat, frozen. His shoulders were rigid. His jaw was tight.

"That's mean," Mari said suddenly, grabbing Alistair's hand again. "What do you mean, he's alone? That he'll never be able to connect to another living soul? You said nice things about me 'n' Lan. You keep on like this, and Mr. Alistair's liable to start cryin' too, and in a bad way! 'He'll be lonely the rest of his life!' Honestly! You're right, Lan, this is rubbish! Come on, Mr. Alistair. Let's get a place for the parade."

The fortune teller turned to Mari, recovering her character. "I didn't say he'll be alone the rest of his life, child, and the cards don't say that either. They say, or seem to say, that he's alone right now, or feels that way. They may be wrong. The spirits have misled me before, or I have misinterpreted their whispers about the meanings of the cards. They are tricky things, full of possibilities, potentialities. This card, here," she tapped the third card, "says that your friend Mr. Alistair's future could be just about anything."

Alistair snorted. "Tell the Templars that."

The fortune teller looked back at him, blue eyes piercing. "No one's fate is certain. The Chantry called the last age 'Blessed,' claiming the signs foretold a season of bounty and prosperity for Thedas, and what happened here in Ferelden? If you do not wish to be a Templar, you are not bound to that destiny, whatever anyone says." Her voice changed again, back to the coastal girl voice. Alistair liked that one better, even if she did say uncanny things in it, things that were none of her business. "That's not in your reading, that's just fact, Ser Alistair. But for what it's worth, your future card supports it. Anything could lie in your future. But I could venture to guess a few things about it—it won't be what folk expect, it won't be what you expect, and . . ." she hesitated once again, looked at Mari and Lan, and smiled wryly, "and it'll set the course for more than just you," she finished. "This is the compass, like your young friend here said, and folk use them to find the way for whole ships and travel groups."

Alistair smiled then. "I find myself inclined to agree with Lan here," he said, looking down at the boy.

Lan raised an eyebrow at him and grinned. "Rubbish?"

"Rubbish," Alistair agreed. But he held out his hand to the elf girl. Mistress Diona meant well. He knew she did. "But thank you. I appreciate your generosity and the time you've given us today."

Then a shout rose up down the road. In the distance, there was the sound of trumpets. The procession was coming. I didn't know people could be so loud, Alistair thought, wincing. Then, If I don't hurry, I'll miss him.

"Come on!" Mistress Diona cried. She dropped his hand, shoved her card deck in one jacket pocket, whipped the cloth off the crate serving as her table, and shoved it and her price sign in the other pocket. The end of the cloth hung out from her pocket like a tail.

She darted out from her station and grabbed hold of Alistair again, taking hold of Lan in her other hand. She grinned at all of them in turn. "Come on!" she urged again. "Let's find a good place to stand or we won't see a thing!"

"Oh, are we together now?" Alistair asked, but the roar of the crowd and a winter wind had already whipped his words away through the streets, over the buildings of Gwaren, and out to harbor. Mari, holding his other hand, was laughing, and Lan, on Mistress Diona's other side was smiling too, so it had to be all right. But it was a touch head-spinning, to so suddenly be at the heart of this little group. It felt a lot like having friends. And I thought this was a circus before. Is this what cities do? Or is it parades?

It was a job and a half finding a place to stand to see the parade. You almost forgot about the cold in the press of bodies, the push of moving through them. Before too long, Alistair and all the others were sweating, and they all had to shout if they wanted to hear one another over the sound of the crowd's excited cheering and chatter. Holding hands was less about affection in this kind of situation, Alistair found, and more about making sure they didn't lose one another.

"How long will you be in town?" Mistress Diona called over the uproar.

Alistair staggered a step, and Mari tripped behind him. "Mr. Alistair!" she complained.

"Why—I—just a couple more days," Alistair called back. "We'll be in the markets and shops most tomorrow, stop in at a local Chantry the next day, and then leave for Bournshire first thing on Monday."

"We?" Mistress Diona asked. "You and Mari and Lan?"

"No," Alistair shouted. "The three of us just met. Ser Nils and I. He's in charge of the Templars at the monastery, but he ran into some friends in town."

"There's a break up ahead," Lan yelled. "Come on!" He plunged the four of them through a gap in the crowd that was really only large enough for him and his sister. When all four of them were through, Mistress Diona's cap was askew, but for the first time, they could see a glimpse of the street ahead, of polished boots between the legs of the people ahead. Just the boots. The livery and faces of the marchers were still completely concealed. But the trumpets were louder.

"We're not going to make it," Alistair gasped. His heart sank. Just typical, isn't it? Got distracted and showed up late to the main event, missed the only chance I'm likely to have in my life to see Cailan Theirin.

"We will!" Mistress Diona said fiercely, charging forward once again. Then she called back to Alistair again. "If your Ser Nils can run into some friends in town, surely you can do the same. Know you're supposed to be Templars and all, but you surely don't have to stay all day at the Chantry on rest day. Not even your Chantry, is it? There!"

She had seen a place for them, and she pulled Lan and Alistair toward it, with Alistair drawing Mari along behind. They broke through the gap, panting, exhilarated, laughing, and fell into a victory hug that felt like impulse. They were the next thing to strangers, the four of them: a Templar recruit, a visitor to the city; an elven street performer; two dirty, neglected, half-wild children. But a royal parade was no thing to see on your own. So here they were, together to share the experience, citizens of Ferelden.

In the end, that was all he was today, Alistair knew. That was all he would ever be. Just a citizen of Ferelden, a face in the crowd, a boy on the street. Cailan probably wouldn't even see him. But he would see Cailan. And it would be enough.

It looked like the honor guard was mostly past by now—the minstrels, the dancers, the bulk of the soldiers. But they'd arrived in time for the main event. The nobles were passing through now, each accompanied by his or her own retinue—servants, guards, dogs, and horses, all wearing the colors of the house or province they represented and accompanied by a crier that called to the crowd who they were and where they came from.

"Hurrah!" Lan cheered with the others. Mari was bouncing up and down, eyes like dark stars in her pink-flushed face.

Beneath her yellow cap, Mistress Diona's face was almost as red as her hair. She was watching the parade like the children, but she kept looking back at him too, more often than either Mari or Lan did. "You could get away, couldn't you, day after tomorrow?" she called. "Got a little cousin who would love you. Got a real thing for sad, funny human boys. Drives my aunt and uncle mad. Sure she'll never make a good marriage!"

Alistair was trying to determine how they had organized the parade. He had just decided the nobles weren't riding in order of rank so much as in order of importance, honored according to their closeness to the king. But this caught his attention. "Are you married, Mistress Diona?" he called.

"No," she told him, watching the soldiers. "I drive my mum and dad mad too. I like women, and I won't spend the time with a man even to give them grandkids."

"Oh, I—" Alistair broke off. "Oh." He blinked. It wasn't that it was that unusual for women to prefer women or men to prefer men. Arl Eamon had named his son after his father's lover. It was somewhat unusual for a person to proclaim their preferences so openly. Or maybe, he thought, that's a side effect of spending the last three years living at a Chantry monastery.

Mistress Diona was laughing at him. "Come meet my cousin," she invited him again. "She's about your age, smart and witty. You'll have a good time. She'll like you."

I think I need to sit down, Alistair thought. It was close to midwinter, but he felt hot all over. The crowd pressed in around him. He could feel their bodies pressing in on him. Nothing seemed real, not Mari and Lan, laughing and cheering on either side of him and the fortune teller, not the nobles riding horses between the lines of marching infantry. The horses were dressed up as beautifully as the nobles, wearing skirts and ribbons and wreaths of winter flowers around their braided manes. He wondered how long it had taken the stablehands to make them up, how long they would spend grooming them afterwards to get rid of all the folderol. Feathered plumes on helmets, winter light flashing off of armor, a thousand devices and mascots grinning out at him from a dozen places on every rider. And this beautiful woman—who didn't like men—telling him she thought he'd make a good date for her cousin?

Am I dreaming? "I really don't have any more money," he yelled. "I'm not a knight. I'm not a noble. I'm an orphan! I haven't even started with the Templars yet. I'm just . . . Alistair."

"Wasn't asking for your money, was I?" Diona called back. "Never did! You think I've lived twenty years in the Gwaren alienage without being able to tell who's got it and who doesn't? I was asking for your company. For me and for my cousin, Sunday night—"

"That must be the teyrn of Highever," Alistair interrupted, pointing at a contingent from Highever, all dressed up in cobalt blue with gold-and-green leaf embroidery. He nodded at the handsome lord in the center of the group—Eamon's age, or a little older. "Highest-ranking lord in Ferelden, since Teyrn Loghain is out of the country."

"They sure are fine, en't they?" Mari said admiringly, clapping her hands as they passed. "Look at all the horses! En't seen that many together my whole life, and they weren't so pretty either!"

Alistair didn't answer her. There was Eamon himself, riding with Teagan and several knights from Redcliffe. He knew several. He swallowed.

"Where are you, Ser Alistair?" Mistress Diona asked, looking at him. "You aren't here with us anymore!"

"I'm just a recruit," Alistair muttered. He didn't think she heard him, but Lan was looking at him too now.

"You know them fancy lords, don't you?" he yelled.

"That's the contingent from Redcliffe," Alistair answered. "Arl Eamon Guerrin and his brother, Bann Teagan. They were brothers to the late Queen Rowan. Uncles to King Cailan."

"Wait, you grew up in Redcliffe, didn't you?" Lan remembered. "That's what you said. Before you were an orphan. They were your lords, weren't they?" He turned to the parade again, cupped both hands around his mouth, and whooped.

Alistair wanted to shout too, to wave until they saw him. The only question was, if he did, would they even see him? Everyone was waving and shouting. Anyway, he had avoided Eamon for years. Refused to see him when he visited the monastery. Burned every one of his letters. He didn't come to Bournshire now.

Alistair had written back and forth with Bann Teagan on occasion. About two letters a year all told. But Teagan had never traveled to Bournshire himself, nor would he spare a messenger more often. He had explained why not: If Maric and Eamon's wishes for Alistair were to be obeyed, people couldn't ever suspect there was anything special about the friendship between the Guerrin brothers and the son of Eamon's old servant. Alistair wondered how much pain he might have been spared in childhood if Eamon or Teagan had told him that before.

A small, yellow-mittened hand slipped into his. Long fingers laced through his. Alistair looked to his right and saw Mistress Diona, watching him again instead of the parade. He shifted, feeling as vulnerable now as he had back at her fortune-telling station.

"What's your second name, Just Alistair?" she asked.

Alistair shook her off, moving away. Not that he could move very far away in this maddening crowd. Or not without losing his view. He felt dizzy. "What's yours, Diona, Mistress of Mysteries?" he retorted.

"It's Blackstone," she told him. "But to you, it's just Diona."

Alistair looked to Mari, to Lan, pathetically hoping either one of the children could save them from this uncomfortably perceptive elf woman, but they were ignoring the grown-ups with all the fervor of—well, all the fervor of two children at a parade.

"I don't have a second name," Alistair answered finally. "Nothing legal, anyway. But you've guessed that."

"Alistair, look!" Lan called, excited to identify one of the fancy nobles he knew and Alistair might not. He was pointing into the crowd. "That's Lady Anora, Teryn Loghain's daughter, heir to Gwaren!" Alistair could hardly hear him, or anyone specific. The roar of the crowd was deafening now. But as Lan started jumping like his sister, pointing back to the street, Alistair knew what he was saying now, because it was the same thing everyone was saying.

Even the intrusive Mistress Diona had forgotten him again now, cheering at the top of her lungs.

"It's the king!"

"It's King Cailan!"

"All hail King Cailan!"

"Hail, King Cailan!"

"Hurrah! Hurrah!"

Mari seized his hand, squeezed it, released, then squeezed past him and Diona to her brother. She hugged him around the shoulders, screaming something none of them could hear.

Cailan Theirin and Anora Mac Tir looked like a couple out of a fairy story. In the bleak winter sunlight, they shone like the promise of spring. Four mabari gamboled around the hooves of their horses, straining at their handlers' golden leads. The king's horse was white, draped in yellow and brown, embroidered with more mabari. Anora's was a lovely chestnut, tossing her head high. She was also draped in yellow, edged with black, embroidered with the wyverns of the local province. The colors of the king and the lady seemed complementary. Although Alistair doubted the ancient lords of Gwaren or Calenhad Theirin had designed their arms to match, the kit of Cailan and Anora today did seem designed that way. Alistair had heard talk this morning that Cailan was betrothed to Anora Mac Tir. It certainly looked that way. Both of them wore black armbands for Maric, but they hadn't made any further concessions to mourning conventions. Instead, they presented a strong, bright, hopeful front for the people.

Anora was truly lovely. Really, perhaps the most beautiful woman Alistair had seen his whole life. More beautiful than Isolde, more beautiful than any of the wards or the sisters at the monastery, even the noble ones who spent some coin on hairdressers and high-quality cloth and the like. Lady Anora Mac Tir was just like a painting, with those sculpted, delicate features; mounds of shining golden hair; and large eyes. Cool and collected too, in her fur-lined riding habit. Regal, you might say. You could tell she had more going on than just looks.

But of course, it was Cailan that really held his attention. His brother. Maker, nothing felt real.

Cailan was older—five years, broader and stronger-looking. He wore his hair long, to his shoulders, with the front part pulled back from a clean-shaven face. He wore the kind of armor Alistair would never be able to afford, even once he had become a Templar. A fur-lined cloth-of-gold cape, streaming down. There was a massive greatsword and a carved hunting horn slung from his saddle. He looked every centimeter the king he was.

Alistair stared. And then he laughed.

Two dead women. That was all that separated the two of them. Two dead women that made the difference between a man on a war horse at the heart of a procession, making his way back to a palace, and a boy with no second name on the street, on his way to a position he had no desire to fill.

He remembered the compass card Diona Blackstone had said symbolized his future, one of unlimited possibilities. She had no idea what she was talking about. The Chantry had control of whatever paltry resources he possessed. It was either do what they wanted for him or run away, head out with a mere handful of coin into a world where he didn't have a lot of friends, and probably had a few enemies he wasn't aware of.

Honestly, Alistair didn't envy Cailan. He wouldn't want to be a prince, let alone charged with the care of all Ferelden. He would probably foul up just being a Templar. Still. Just a twist of fate and two dead women, and one brother a king, the other a nameless no one.

He thought he would have liked a brother.

But Cailan now was worse than a stranger. Someday, Alistair might be able to find Goldanna. Someday, he might be able to reunite with her. But odds were, he would never see Cailan again. He certainly wouldn't be able to go to him.

Or, maybe, he thought, it's that I don't want to. Since Eamon had told him the truth, both he and Teagan had said a lot, comparatively speaking, about what Maric had wanted. Alistair didn't care what Maric had wanted. He was probably dead, and since Alistair had neither met nor heard from him, he didn't feel particularly bound to respect his father's wishes. But going to Cailan would be complicated. He might misunderstand. And Alistair really didn't want to be a prince.

Looking left and right, Alistair realized belatedly he was one of the only ones on the street not cheering. Everyone was cheering, throwing winter flowers and hard candies and coins into the street. Alistair joined in on the clapping. After all, there he was, the king of Ferelden. He and Anora were almost past now, with only their rear guard left at the end of the parade.

Alistair fixed the sight of them in his mind, young and shining and golden, his brother and the beautiful noblewoman who would be both his queen and secret sister-in-law. He wished them well. He hoped they would be happy, as well as wise rulers for Ferelden.

To their left, the crowd had begun to disperse, moving out into the street again behind the king's rear guard. The noise was dropping as they began talking instead of shouting—still all about King Cailan, his nobles, the dogs, the horses, and all the finery—but in tones that let him think.

Lan and Mari were still beaming, but now that the parade was over, Lan was eager to prove he had actually been above all the excitement. "Huh," he said to them all, still with that grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Don't see what's so special about King Cailan. Just a man in fancy clothes. He looks a lot like Alistair." He jerked his thumb at Alistair derisively.

Mari shrugged, refusing to let her brother dampen her enjoyment of the event. "Mr. Alistair's handsome too," she said reasonably. "But he's not the king."

Now that the crowd was beginning to disperse, they could all of them feel the cold again, and Mari blew into her hands and thrust them into her armpits. Around them, their neighbors were heading for home, to the local taverns, or back to amusements down side streets and alleys again.

Mistress Diona watched them go. "I should go set up again," she said distractedly. "Astonish more people with my rubbish. But Ser Alistair—you really should—" she stopped, looking back at him. All the pink drained out of her face, and her blue eyes went wide. She laughed once, nervously. "You know, Lan's right: you do look a lot like the king. What was that you were saying before, right before the king . . . the king . . ." She was backing up, and it was like she didn't know it, boots crunching in the snow. One of her bootlaces was untied.

"You know, your shoe is untied," Alistair told her. "You should be careful. You could trip."

She nodded several times. Laughed once, nervously. She bent, knotted the string once, but her fingers were shaking, and after today, Alistair thought he could tell the difference between a person shivering with cold and a person who was afraid. "Look, what I was saying before," she said, "just forget it, all right? It's crazy. We're strangers, and you're leaving Monday. Journey into the forest, middle of winter. Can't be easy, even if Bournshire isn't far. You'll probably want to rest on Sunday after this and all that shopping tomorrow. Just . . . Maker bless you. All of you. And—I'm sorry." She turned and ran.

Lan and Mari watched her go. "What's her problem?" Lan wanted to know. "I thought she was all right."

Alistair sighed. "Who knows?" he smiled. "But who needs her anyway, right?" He slapped his hands together brightly. "Well. What do you say to some dinner?"

Mari looked up at him suspiciously. "Did you say something to her, Mr. Alistair? I thought she liked you. Didn't she want to be friends too?"

Alistair shrugged. "I guess not," he said. "Try not to blame her too much. I find I'm much more appealing in very small doses."

Lan shrugged. "Whatever. Dinner sounds good."

"Then I imagine you two will be wanting to head home with your silver fifty bits. Check on your mother."

"Sure you'll be able to find your way back to your inn without us?" Lan wanted to know.

"Oh, I should manage," Alistair told them.

The three of them bought some fresh, hot meat pies. They filled up Alistair's mug again at the cider stand, and Alistair even got a commemorative mug with a rough painting of King Cailan's face on it so they could have more cider between them. At any rate, Cailan's smiling, blond visage on the outside of the mug left Alistair chuckling.

Lan led them down to the docks again to eat their meal, and they sat on a pier, looking out to the gray-green sea and smelling the salt on the air. Alistair had never been to the sea before. It was so much darker and wilder than Lake Calenhad ever got, even on a day like today when it wasn't storming.

The parade was over. Mari and Lan were thinking of their mother again. And Alistair kept switching between two images—Cailan and Anora riding under the winter sun, and Mistress Diona, backing away, pale as snow as her uncanny powers of perception put together all the odds and ends she'd read in him over the course of an hour and came up with something she didn't want her little cousin anywhere near. Unlimited possibilities. Right.

Alistair fumbled in his pack and brought out the book he had written in earlier, his own personal copy of the Chant of Light. He wasn't sure why he had brought it, except he had put too much effort into the drawings in the margins to let it get found and confiscated by some disapproving sister at the monastery.

He handed the book to Lan. "Here," he said. The book was open to the page he had been marking during the boy's fortune-telling. "Don't give me that look; I know you can't read yet. Those are the verses they sing at the beginning of every rest day service. You know them; everyone knows them. If you follow along, you'll be able to work out how the written words correspond to what they sing. Then you might be able to find those words in other sections of the Chant, in other places around the city. If you're clever and work at it, you'll be reading in no time. You can teach Mari. Teach your mother, when she gets well." If she gets well, he didn't say. "You said that might make a difference for you?"

"I—" Lan's fingers ran over the words. "Yeah, it would. It will. If I could read, I could get a job as a messenger, a shop assistant. Right now, and not when I'm bigger. Better pay too. And I could get the other books, the ones that show you how to figure, tell you how to do things. Or borrow 'em. Alistair, if I can do this, it could change everythin'. We could be all right, Mari 'n' me, even if Dad never . . . this is yours. You sure you want to give it to us?"

Even as he spoke, his fingers were closing over the little book. Alistair smiled. "I reckon I'll have enough of the Chant soon enough. Templars have to memorize whole canticles of it, you know, almost the same as if they were Chantry sisters. Take it. You need it more than I do."

Lan pressed his lips together. His chin wobbled. He wiped gravy from his fingers on the leg of his pants. Then he stuffed the little book in an inside pocket of his jacket. "I'm sorry I tried to pick your pocket, before," he said. "Lady! I would've stabbed you! You done so much for us today."

Mari leaned up against him, sharing in her brother's mood, but quieter, now, than she'd been the entire rest of the day. Alistair looked over at her, back at Lan. Maker, he hoped their mum came through it. He hoped that they would be all right. "I wouldn't worry too much about it," he said. "I suppose I am fairly stabbable."

"You en't," Mari said softly. "You're a proper friend, Mr. Alistair. Don't know why Mistress Diona ran off before."

"Don't worry about it," Alistair said again. "It's boring grown-up stuff."

"You're not really a grown-up, though," Lan pointed out. "Just a recruit, right?" He shouldered Alistair in a friendly way.

"Just a recruit," Alistair agreed.

"Mum would like you," Mari told him suddenly. She finished her pie and yawned.

"I need to get her home," Lan said quietly. "Be dark out afore too long. Will we see you again?"

Alistair shook his head. "I don't think so," he answered, just as quietly. "I'll need to be with Ser Nils the rest of the time we're in Gwaren. But I'll light a candle for your mum when we go to the Chantry, day after tomorrow. And for your dad."

He disentangled the tired Mari from his arm and passed her back to her big brother. Then he climbed to his feet, looking out over the harbor. The water reflected the sun setting behind them over the city. He shivered.

"We'll light one for you," Mari's little voice said from behind him. "Mr. Alistair, don't be a Templar, if you don't want. Be a knight for someone else. Someone who lives in Gwaren, maybe. Then you could come back and see us someday."

Alistair looked back at them and smiled. Then he reached back into his belt. He counted the silver fifty bits out into hand, then pulled out Lan's sad little novelty iron letter opener. "A word of advice?" he said. "You probably shouldn't actually go around trying to stab people with this. You won't manage to kill anyone, unless you're really creative about it. But most people won't know at a glance how useless it is, and when they don't actually die, well. They're witnesses, aren't they?" He raised his eyebrows to show Lan he was joking. "I would probably keep it for paper."

He handed it over to Lan, hilt first. Lan grinned back at him, and took the coin with his other hand. "Whatever happens, happens," he joked. Then, seriously. "You got it, Ser Alistair."

Lan shook his hand, Mari hugged his arm, and the two children slipped down the pier, took a side street, and disappeared out of sight.

Alistair stared at the place they had vanished for a long time. Then he shrugged his shoulders and shook his head and left the harbor, heading toward the tavern where he and Ser Nils were staying and the future that had been chosen for him. He flashed back again on Mistress Diona's face after the parade. Is the resemblance between Cailan and me really so strong? He wished Cailan had seen him. He was glad he hadn't.

Alistair drained the last bit of cider out of his mug. This one didn't have Cailan's face on it. He had let Mari take the commemorative one home as a souvenir to show her mother. It was just a plain old travel mug, one Ser Nils had lent him for the journey. But he could imagine Cailan's face painted on it. "All hail King Cailan," he murmured.

A/N: Another chapter that really is its own little self-contained story. This marks the final chapter of this volume of Subjects and Singers. This volume really begins and ends with Alistair. He's much less prominent in the next volume, which has more of a focus on Cullen Rutherford and Kaycee Hawke.

This chapter also marks the first instance where characters who appeared first in someone else's POV chapter really cross over. (I don't count Cullen's childhood residence in one of the villages Arl Eamon's lord of, or his father's acquaintance with Eamon, which only his brother discovered.) This is one POV character focusing on side characters another POV character met earlier, as Alistair takes note of Gwyn's father, Teyrn Cousland, and Cailan Theirin and Anora Mac Tir, who are acquaintances of hers. In about five years, we'll be crossing over all over the place, and these characters will start to be in one another's stories, or impact them, at least, and then some of them might start telling one another's stories. ;)

We're five years out from the Blight. Cailan Theirin is on the throne of Ferelden, betrothed to Anora Mac Tir. Cullen is almost through Templar training, Alistair is just starting it across the country. Gwyn Cousland is staring down the barrel of a bevy of unwelcome proposals of marriage, struggling to assert her right to be her own kind of lady, Varric Tethras is wishing his proposal had been more welcome to his lady. Tirrian Tabris is learning to fight in alleyways in Denerim, Katja Brosca is learning to fight at the carta's heels in Orzammar. Cassandra Pentaghast has risen even above her already-royal blood as Right Hand to the Divine, while Fenris is being used against his will to summon demons in the Imperium. And there's a couple of mages, stowed away in Lothering and in the riverlands of the Free Marches.

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LMSharp