In all, it is five days walk to Lothering. Morrigan leads them through more than one path that Marian would swear hadn't been there before. More often than not they disappear when she looks back over her shoulder. Eventually she stops looking.
She is still not quite certain what to think of their guide. Morrigan has taken such a shine to sharpening the edges of her tongue on Alistair, who retreats deeper into his shield of silence with every passing day. She has no idea how to dig him out, and no chance to do so with Morrigan around.
On the last day, Morrigan leads them through a cloud of brambles and onto what Marian recognizes as one of the old Imperial highways. Alistair pushes out behind her with a final stomp that speaks as loudly as a curse and looks around.
"Well, there it is," he says, and Marian turns to see a large town in the distance. "Lothering. Pretty as a painting."
It's not far, perhaps half a day's travel to the west. Marian has never been so glad to see anything in all her life. They need so much – things they left in Ostagar that Morrigan couldn't possibly replace, camping supplies for the most part. They need food to appease the bottomless pit her stomach is becoming, and above all, they need news. Loghain still has the army – where is he? What is he doing? What story has he come up with to explain Cailan's death, and how are they going to get the truth out? Where are the darkspawn now?
While she is lost in thought, Morrigan and Alistair snap and bicker at each other over her head. "Shut it," Marian says without looking around. She feels rather like her mother, keeping Carver and Bethany in line, and a sudden wave of pity and longing for her family rolls through her. Her mouth twists before she gets herself back under control. "Alistair," she says when she's sure her voice won't betray her. "You wanted to talk about something?"
"His navel, I suspect," Morrigan murmurs. "He's certainly been contemplating it for long enough."
"That's enough," Marian says, and the cold snap of it surprises even her. She takes a breath before continuing. "If the two of you can't get along we're done before we begin." They refuse to look at each other or at Marian, and for a brief, insane moment she wonders if she should make them apologize to each other the way her mother used to make her apologize to Carver... then she mentally throws up her hands and turns to Alistair. "Please, go ahead," she says.
"I thought we should talk about where we intend to go," he says slowly.
Marian hasn't been thinking as far ahead as Alistair apparently has, and she finds herself curiously uncaring; the future is so remote right now, consisting mostly of a list of impossible objectives. It's easier to restrict herself to the immediate present.
"I hadn't thought about it," she says out loud. "Who do we have treaties for?"
"The Circle," Alistair says, glancing over at Morrigan quickly; Marian bites her cheeks and says nothing. It would be the one bloody place in Ferelden she doesn't want to see ever again. "The dwarves of Orzammar, and the Dalish elves."
"Orzammar is in the Frostbacks, I know, but I have no idea where to find the elves," Marian says.
"If we head eastward towards the Brecilian Forest, we should hear word of one of the clans that wanders that area," Alistair says. "Hopefully they'll still be there. I also still think that Arl Eamon is our best bet for help."
"You said you knew the arl?" Marian asks. She doesn't want to pry, but... Well, all right, she does want to pry, but she's not going to. From the shifty look on Alistair's face, she thinks he wouldn't tell her even if she did.
"I grew up in Redcliffe Castle," he says.
Marian nods. "And you think he'll help us?"
"I do," Alistair assures her, much more confidently. "He's a good man."
"All right," she says. "Then Redcliffe it is."
A whistle sends Cú racing ahead of them to scout the road; after a moment to give him some lead, she follows him, leaving Alistair and Morrigan to sort themselves out.
As they approach Lothering, the stone of the Imperial Highway starts to become cracked and patched, with tufts of grass growing along the flatter parts. Night is coming on, and despite being well past Wintersend, the south of Ferelden is forever chilly and damp. Marian folds her arms around herself to hold her shivers in.
"Oh, look," Morrigan says drily. "A welcoming party."
Marian looks up to see a group of armed men scrambling up from sitting on the road. They've blocked the way, and the smiles on their faces promise things that she won't enjoy. She sighs. "I suppose I'm doing the talking?"
A dispirited silence is her only reply. She rolls her eyes and strides forward, Cú at her side, as always. She does her best to warm her hands so she can cast. Just in case.
A skinny, weasel-quick one comes forward to meet her, a bright smile on his face. "More travelers to attend to," he says to his gang. "I'd guess the pretty one is the leader."
The thick-set one on his right looks her up and down, but it's not sexual the way she's expecting – he looks worried. "Er..." he says slowly. "They don't look much like them others, you know. Maybe we should just let these ones pass..."
"Nonsense," the leader says through gritted teeth, smiling for all he's worth. "Greetings, travelers!"
Alistair stands at her left, his shield fixed on his arm. "Highwaymen," he says in disgust. "Preying on those fleeing the darkspawn, I suppose."
"They are fools to get in our way," Morrigan says behind her. "I say teach them a lesson." She is more businesslike than before, and Marian prefers her this way, instead of the icy mocking she delivers to Alistair.
"Now is that any way to greet someone?" the leader demands. He sighs mockingly. "A simple ten silvers and you're free to move on."
Marian rests her hand on Cú's head. "You should listen to your friend," she says quietly. "We're not refugees."
Marian is aware that she's not the most imposing of people – she's short, after all, and skinny and sort of knobbly. But surely Alistair, who is six feet if he's an inch and all over muscles, is slightly more intimidating. Come to think of it, haven't they ever seen a Grey Warden uniform? Or a war dog?
"The toll applies to everyone, Hanric," the leader says patiently. "That's why it's a toll and not, say, a refugee tax."
The light dawns in Hanric's eyes. "Oh, right. Even if you're no refugee, you still gotta pay."
Even if she wanted to, they couldn't afford to pay the 'toll'; they need every silver they've scraped up along the way, and in fact Alistair and Marian are carrying a good deal of miscellaneous items that Alistair says will be worth their weight in trade with the first merchant they meet.
That's all beside the point, though. She doesn't want to pay and sees no reason why they should. "Alistair, do you happen to have ten silver on you?" she asks lightly, never taking her eyes off the leader.
"I'm afraid you find me financially embarrassed," Alistair returns in the same tone of voice. He takes one step to his left, giving them both clear room to draw their weapons.
"Well, you heard him, lads," she says, dropping her hand from Cú's head. Cú is being impossibly good; he's not even growling. Only she can feel how tense he is, his muscles coiled and ready for the initial lunge that would bring his target down to his level. "We don't seem to have a single coin on us."
"Ah! And if I don't believe you?" the leader asks, mocking. "How do we solve this predicament?"
Marian reaches around and draws her staff. A heartbeat later Alistair has his longsword in his hand, and Cú shows his teeth. She doesn't need to look around to know that Morrigan has her staff out – she can feel Morrigan tapping into the Fade.
"Pity," the leader says. "Let's finish this, gents!"
Cú is in the air before she can blink, barreling into Hanric and knocking him over. She slaps a force field around the leader and when she looks back, Cú has ripped out Hanric's throat.
"Disable, Cú," she screams over the battle's noise, fighting the urge to vomit. "Disable, don't kill!"
It goes better from that point; she freezes another bandit and leaves him to Alistair, turning to the next target. There were only five of them, and soon Morrigan is picking at an archer behind them while Cú snaps at his heels, and Marian and Alistair are tag-teaming the leader.
"All right," the leader says, throwing down his sword. "All right, we surrender!" He swallows, looking around at the bodies of his men. "We... we're just trying to get by, all right? Before the darkspawn get us all!"
"You're extorting helpless people fleeing the darkspawn," Marian says flatly. Cú returns to her side, and despite her horror at what she'd inadvertently commanded him to do, and despite the blood soaking his fur, she leans into her dog. "You're a criminal."
"Yes, I'm a criminal," he says slowly. He sounds confused. "I admit it." When her face doesn't change, he adds, "I... apologize?"
Marian shakes her head and glances over at Alistair, who shrugs and continues cleaning the blood off his longsword.
"No," she says. "We're taking you to the guard, you and whoever else is still alive."
"There's no guard here," the leader says desperately. "There's just the templars, and they'll execute me!"
Marian sucks in a surprised breath and holds it, feverishly thinking; she doesn't want to kill them, but... Then another thought comes to her, and she relaxes with a laugh. "Yes, and I'm sure you're being totally honest with me, but let's just go check for ourselves, all right?"
He looks from her resolute face to Alistair, who is giving a great impression of ignoring him completely, and then to Morrigan behind her; she has no idea what impression Morrigan is giving him, but he looks completely unnerved. "I'm not going down without a fight!" he cries, and lunges for his sword.
Marian wasn't expecting anything like this; Cú lunges from under her hand, but shaking her off costs him and she's too slow with her frost spell. The bandit nearly cuts her throat before Alistair impales him on his sword. Morrigan kills the archer behind them and then there is silence.
Marian bites her lip until she thinks her voice is steady again. Then she says, "Thanks."
"Don't mention it," Alistair says dismissively, already leaning over the bandit leader's body. Then he glances up. "But you could stand to be a little sharper on the draw."
This part has never been to Marian's taste, but it's necessary if they want to buy any of the supplies they need... She sighs and leans over the body of the nearest bandit, searching for his coin purse.
The bandits have done a brisk trade, indeed; they triple their coin and find a few choice items in the crates forming part of the barricade. Marian stands looking at the coin in her hands. She knows where it came from, and to her it looks dirty. She glances at Alistair. "Can we afford to give half of it to the Chantry?"
He smiles. "I think we'll manage." She smiles back, and after a moment Morrigan snorts.
"Perhaps you should wait for us on the other side of the town," Marian says to her. "You don't exactly blend in."
"Gladly," Morrigan bites, and stalks off. She is walking down the road, directly toward the break in the stone, a foot from falling to a painful death; Marian opens her mouth to warn her, but then Morrigan shimmers. In her place is a hawk, which beats at the air with powerful wings and flies off down the road.
Marian blinks. "Did you know she could do that?" she asks Alistair.
He shakes his head, watching the hawk that is Morrigan disappear into the distance.
"Me neither," she says. She resolves to ask Morrigan to teach her that very night, if she can; Morrigan might be annoyed with her now, but Marian has a very pretty surprise that might change her mind.
They take one last look around and it's only then that Marian notices another body hidden behind one of the carts in the barricade. She goes over to check him, but when she draws near she realizes that this isn't a bandit. The body is wearing plate armor, and it's difficult to turn over, but she finally manages to get the right leverage and the body flops onto its back.
The templar emblem stares at her from the chestpiece.
"Oh, bugger," Marian swears.
"What?" Alistair asks, mildly alarmed. He drops the much-used cloth and starts over to her.
"This one's a templar," she says, watching him out of the corner of her eye.
"They must have robbed him before we came along," Alistair says, kneeling down by the man's legs. "Poor sod." He doesn't seem unduly upset, and Marian turns back to the body.
"Do you think the Chantry will want his things?" she asks.
"I'm sure of it," he replies. "I'll check down here."
Between them they find a note and a locket with a cameo painted inside. Marian reads the note, humming.
"He was on a quest," she says to Alistair, offering him the note. He shakes his head and she folds it up tight and presses it inside the locket. "For the Urn of Sacred Ashes, of all things."
Alistair shakes his head, but he seems more amused than anything. "A few of them go off every year to look for it. Most of the time they just come back, poorer but wiser. Some don't come back at all." He stands and pulls his tabard back into position.
Marian stands too, but she looks at the locket in her hands thoughtfully. "The note seemed more urgent than that. He said something about a conspiracy, and that many knights are seeking."
Alistair frowns. "Maybe something's happened?"
"Something like the king of Ferelden dying?" Marian points out.
"Oh. Right," he says, drooping a little. Marian wishes she hadn't said anything, but it's too late to take it back; she turns and looks at the town to give him some space, and he leans over and picks up their packs.
Lothering is both larger and smaller than Marian imagined; it's quite a large town, with scattered farming houses spreading out into the distance, but half of the houses are empty. A thin, steady stream of refugees pours in from the south, fleeing the Blight; they leave almost as soon as they come, heading for points north. Everyone seems to believe that the darkspawn are coming to Lothering next, and as Marian examines a map of Ferelden in her head, she has to agree. Much as Ostagar is the choke point for anyone wishing to move north from the Korcari Wilds, Lothering is the first stop the darkspawn will make before spilling out into the Bannorn.
They make their way to the center of town, and Alistair starts asking passers-by about merchants, and for any news they may have. Marian quietly listens to one woman's story of demons passing in the night to take her baby, and then drifts away. She is not as patient as Alistair seems to be, and she's nervous about the staff holstered on her back. Perhaps she should go wait with Morrigan –
" – Bethany? You're sure?"
Marian whirls. There are two women behind her, walking away toward the other end of the street, their heads close together. One has long, grey hair, and the other, much younger, has curly black hair not unlike Marian's.
Marian takes one hesitant step, then another. Then she stops. It's not an uncommon name, she tells herself. You know what happens when you get your hopes up –
It's too late, though; she knows that, too.
She says something to Alistair and Cú, though she will never remember what, and follows the women to the end of the street, staying close by the housefronts as she passes. She's not sure why she's lurking around like a thief in the night – it would be easier to just go up and ask, but what if she's wrong? It's been ten years, and all she remembers of her mother is a child's idealized view of her parents. Bethany has had ten years to grow up. She's just seeing what she wants to see, that's all.
Marian's heart feels like it's two sizes too large, gigantic with fear and hope in equal proportion, feeding on each other until she is a mess of emotions with no outlet. She feels like she's going to explode.
What if she's right?
The women turn into a tiny side alley leading to the river and Marian hesitates before peering around the corner. The alley is empty, and she takes a step in. Where did they go? she wonders; there is no exit save the river, or climbing over someone's roof.
"Someone you're looking for?" A voice asks from behind her, and she turns. The younger woman stands before her, walking stick in hand, and glares at her. She cannot be more than sixteen, and Marian inhales sharply as the hope blooming in her chest becomes near unbearable. "Why are you following us?"
Marian swallows. "I heard... Is one of you named Bethany?" she asks.
"Why do you ask?" the young one snaps.
The older woman narrows her eyes, though, and searches every inch of her face. "I had a sister named Bethany," Marian says to the young one, though she cannot take her eyes from the older woman's face. "And I had a snot-nosed little brother named Carver – " Her voice creaks embarrassingly, and she stops.
"Marian?" her mother whispers. "Can that truly be you?"
She nods, taking a deep breath. "It's me," she says, and a tremulous smile grows on her face even while she's wiping tears from her eyes. "I'm home, Mama."
Her mother takes two long steps and folds Marian into her arms, and now she's not sure whose tears are running down her face but she knows she's laughing at the same time. Someone tugs her into a house and then Bethany is there too, and she lifts an arm from her mother's waist to cling to her little sister.
It's a long time before Marian feels able to disengage, but she keeps hold of their hands as she sinks down onto a chair and looks around. They're in a tiny kitchen with a tiny table and three chairs, and Marian recognizes a few things from her childhood: her mother's massive kettle and tiny cream pot, the breadboard, even the woven baskets. This kitchen smells just like she remembers their kitchen in Byerley. She takes great breaths in through her nose, relishing the smells of baking bread, of her mother's favorite sachets, and she sighs happily.
"I can't believe I found you," she says, laughing. "I thought I'd have to search all of Ferelden."
"I'm so glad you did," Mother says, squeezing her hand. "Though I can't believe it either!"
"But where have you been?" Bethany bursts out, leaning forward over the table on her elbows. "I don't even remember what happened, but we had to move – and you didn't come with us? Where were you?"
"I nearly roasted an annoying boy in the market," Marian says, her eyes drifting as she remembers that day. "He was a right little pig, though I suppose even he didn't deserve a fire cone," she admits grudgingly.
"Oh, Marian, you didn't – " her mother begins, looking so aggrieved that Marian is half afraid she will travel back to Byerley just to apologize to the boy's mother.
"I didn't!" she says. "I swear! And it was a complete accident and no one should get upset in any way," she rushes on when it looks like her mother will go on about something that happened ten years ago.
"Anyway, his mother went straight to the templars, and I knew that they'd come looking for me... " She is finding it hard to explain her reasons, and in the end decides to skip over that part. It's too much like justifying her decision, and she doesn't feel like it needs any justification. "So I ran out and told you and Carver to tell Father that the templars were coming," Marian says to Bethany. "And then I went back and waited for them."
"But why?" her mother asks, horrified. "Marian – " she takes Marian's hands and covers them with her own, like she's trying to shield the child Marian was. "We would have protected you, darling. If nothing else, we know how to cover our tracks." She glances at Bethany, and there's amusement there, sharing a joke that Marian doesn't understand.
"But it was my fault," Marian says, frowning. "And I couldn't just lead them to Father." She looks around. "Where is Father, anyway? And Carver?"
Her mother and Bethany exchange glances. A half-formed dread begins in her mind; what aren't they telling her?
"Carver joined the army," Bethany says, a faint note of pride in her voice. "He went to Ostagar with King Cailan."
"He what?" Marian demands. Her voice rises half an octave in distress. "Don't you – do you know what happened at Ostagar?"
"Yes," Mother says gravely. "Teryn Loghain marched the army through two days ago. He took the bann with him, and all his soldiers."
"Was Carver with them?" Marian asks, seized by a sudden hope.
"No," Bethany says. "But he's not dead." She smiles, so sure in herself that Marian cannot help but believe her.
"How do you know?" she asks.
"I've always known," Bethany says. "I always know where he is – he always knows where I am. We know if one of us is hurt. I would know if he were dead, because part of me would be dead too."
Marian waits for Bethany to say something else, to explain what on the surface is a completely mad statement, but she just laughs and Marian looks at their mother in confusion.
"They've always been like that," Mother says, looking at Bethany in wry amusement. "I don't know how she knows half of the things she does about him, but... " She trails off. "I believe her. I have to."
"Then where is he?" Marian demands.
Bethany looks over her shoulder, to the south. "That way," she says, pointing south-west. "Two days. He keeps running into the foothills," she says with a wry twist to her mouth. "He's no bloody sense of direction at all."
There are only three chairs in the kitchen.
Marian's never heard of anything even remotely like this. She wants very badly to dissect it, to understand it, but there is something niggling at the edges of her mind, and it won't be quieted.
"Then Carver's all right," she says slowly. "Fine. Where's Father?"
Bethany and Mother exchange another one of those glances, the ones that leave her feeling disturbed. "What is it?" Marian demands. "What aren't you telling me?"
There are only three chairs.
"Your father died, my darling," her mother says slowly, holding Marian's hands so tightly they'll leave marks. "Three years ago."
"No," she says desperately. Her stomach drops, leaving an empty space in her chest where her heart should be. Her breath comes slow and shaking, and she can feel tears starting to form. Her eyes burn. "No – " But her mother gathers Marian into her arms and Bethany comes around the table to pet her hair, and then the tears fall, hot and angry.