Deliberately, perhaps sensing that getting the conversation off the topic of the Wardens so long as his daughter was in ear shot, her father changed the subject.

"We are going to have to start the men ahead this afternoon," he said to Howe. "We are already behind as it is, we cannot wait further for the rest of your men to arrive."

"I am deeply sorry for that," Howe said, and his eyes- which somehow always looked perpetually moist-were forlorn. "Both Thomas and Nathaniel beg your apologies, but-"

Bryce Cousland raised his hands. "No need. The King is young, and while I understand the urgency, I think he sometimes simply forgets that troops do not organize themselves and move at hat's drop. That we have both the Highever and Amaranthine forces on the road to Ostagar with only three days' notice I think is remarkable."

So that explains where Nathaniel and Thomas are. Howe must have ridden ahead with a small group, leaving his boys to march the rest of the Arl's forces behind, Nike thought. It would be good for them, she supposed. Both men were older than she, but not by much, and to have the experience of moving and commanding forces of men without their father's looming presence would be beneficial to them.

The Arl must have thought so too.

Perhaps thinking the same in regards to his own son, her father said, "I will send Fergus ahead this afternoon with the men, and join you in the morning when your forces get here."

"Lady Cousland, will you as well be riding?" Duncan asked. Before she could speak, her father put a hand on her shoulder.

"No. My daughter is a skilled horseman and has some hand at archery, but she is not a soldier. As well, I do believe my wife would stretch me on the rack were I to bring both our children into war. Nike is going to remain here, govern Highever in my absence."

He said it so casually, but it was the first Nike had heard of it. She knew she was remaining behind- her parents had made that exponentially clear at the first hint of suspicion that Nike would ask to go too-but to actually govern Highever while they were gone?

"What of Mother?" she asked, afraid she had not masked the entirety of her surprise as she looked at her father. "I thought Mother would-"

"Your mother has decided that she is going to Amaranthine, to stay with the arlessa and Delilah until Rendon and the boys return."

Clearly, her parents had already discussed this at length. While she knew her mother cared about the Arlessa and Howe's daughter like family, to leave Highever for Amaranthine while both the current and future Teyrns were absent was out of character. Usually, her mother immediately took up the reins of Highever whenever her husband was unable to do so, without there being any question.

And that's why she's going, she realized. If she stays, people will be automatically looking to her instead of me. They want me to do this on my own too, without parental interference.

The amount of trust they had in her to even entertain the notion of leaving her alone and in charge, warmed her heart greatly.

"Oh," she said, still trying to recover from her surprise. "Well, it will be good for her to see them again. I know she misses the arlessa. It's been a few years since they had time to spend. I suppose if both Fergus and Mother are leaving I had best go and see them while I have the chance."

"You just don't want to be caught here listening to two dusty old war hounds catching up," her father said with a warm smile. "Go on love. I will see you at supper."

She made her polite departures to both Howe and the Warden-Commander, and slipped out of the hall. Fergus, she knew, could be anywhere in the midst of this chaos, helping to finalize preparations to move out that evening, but she knew where she'd be able to pin him down later. For now, she was more concerned with speaking to her mother than her brother.

Locating her mother served to be almost as difficult as finding her brother might have been. Were this any other day, given the weather, her mother would have been in the garden or preparing a brunch, surrounded by her usual two or three ladies- sometimes visitors from outside of Highever, sometimes old friends from within the city itself, sometimes the wives of whatever men had come to discuss business or politics with the Teyrn.

For the last six years, Fergus' wife Oriana could be counted consistently in that number, though after the first year her attentions had been distracted a bit with their son Oren. Nike's mother Eleanor allowed them to be distracted only so much- she was utterly adoring of her first and thus far only grandchild, and did not need much excuse to spend as much time with him as possible. Oren was the spitting image of his father, and Nike supposed seeing him reminded Eleanor of Fergus when he was that age with a sort of fond nostalgia.

However, today was far from a usual day around the castle, and Eleanor was not in any of her usual haunts. A bit of questioning located her in the castle's larder, taking inventory with a pair of elven servants.

"Mother, there are others that can do this," Nike said as she entered, seeing her mother crouched and rifling through a cupboard, her skirts pooling around her on the stone floor.

"There is work enough for all hands today, and mine are no less capable than another's," Eleanor said without withdrawing from the cupboard. "With all the mouths we've had to feed we're running low on quite a lot of supplies. The cook has her hands full at the moment."

"Most of these mouths are leaving this afternoon," Nike said, ignoring the two servants as she walked over.

"And the cupboards will be as bare as bones for the next week if we don't make a proper order soon. No reason to leave the rest hungry once the men have gone on."

She pulled out of the cupboard and got to her feet, dusting her hands together lightly as she looked at the servants. "We're at our last bag of flour and all but a handful of oats. Make sure the miller is notified, we can purchase more wheat for grinding if he's wanting."

As the elf painstakingly scribbled that down, Nike looked at her mother.

"There is no reason you cannot be writing down the order, and let the servants crawl on the floor," she said. Eleanor gave a brief, tutting little laugh- the kind she gave when she thought Nike had said something particularly ridiculous. As was also her habit, she then completely ignored the thing she thought so silly, stepping over and winding an affectionate arm around Nike's waist as she started out of the larder.

"So your father has told you that they are leaving this evening?" she asked. Nike shook her head.

"No, Howe's arrived but his men are delayed. Father wants Fergus to take the men out this afternoon and he'll follow in the morning with Howe when Nate and Tom get here. You are going to Amaranthine?"

Eleanor paused in the small pantry before they would enter into the mad bustle of the kitchens again, and took her daughter's shoulders. "Does that trouble you?"

"That you are leaving? So long as you are safe, no. I am far more worried about Fergus and Father."

"As am I," Eleanor said softly, then shook her head. Her eyes, a pale blue where Nike's were copper, then twinkled a little. "Your father was concerned that you would be troubled about shouldering the burden of Highever in their absence."

Nike smiled slightly. "Were you?"

"Not for a moment. I love your father, Nike, but when he looks at you he still sees pigtails and baby teeth. I suppose it is in the nature of all fathers to have a bit of a blind eye to their daughter's growing up, but I have not missed it. You are familiar with the running of the household, and you are smart enough not to be manipulated easily. You know enough of the inner workings of Highever politics to keep things running smoothly on your own."

"From the appearances of those striding the halls there will barely be a soul left in the entirety of Highever to govern," Nike said with a smile. "My biggest concern will be solving squabbles between the rats in the larder over who cheated whom out of a crust of bread."

Eleanor let out a light laugh, letting her hands drop. "Not with the state it's in right now. There is barely so much as a crust to start the squabble. I need to get those orders in, I will not leave you with an empty kitchen. Also, before I depart tomorrow I will make sure you have the household accountings and my ledger."

Nike nodded, then followed her mother out into the bustling kitchen and then through into the halls. As before when she was alone, those rushing around seemed to automatically change courses as they approached, parting before the two Cousland ladies as if they generated their own unseen force, closing in behind them once again as they passed.

"Will you be taking Oriana and Oren with you?" Nike asked as some of the noise of the kitchens died down behind them.

Eleanor shook her head. "I have been trying, and may yet convince Oriana to do so," she said. "She, however, is of the notion that she must be here to welcome Fergus back, the moment he returns over that threshold, no matter when that might happen. I've told her we will have several day's notice, plenty of time to return, but she will not risk it. Ah, to be that young and so foolish in love again."

"You are not foolish in love with Father?" Nike teased. Eleanor laughed.

"I love your father, and am devoted to him completely, but we have both grown beyond the foolishness of young romance I think- into the deeper practicality of maturity. My heart still swoons to see him but I no longer feel the need to actually swoon myself at his feet."

Nike chuckled at the image this produced, of her aging mother dramatically swooning at her father's booted feet. The idea of her mother swooning for any reason and for anyone at all was in itself preposterous. Even were her mother one day to meet the Maker Himself, made flesh and standing in all His glory in front of her, she would not swoon- though she would curtsy with regal grace.

Right before offering Him some tea and calling for a boy to stable His horses, she thought and her grin widened a little.

People had been telling Nike her entire life how much she resembled her mother. She had seen paintings and etchings of Eleanor when she had been younger, and physically she could not deny it. Nike had her father's eyes, but the rest of her was almost a twin to her mother in her youth- when her hair had been the deep color of dark honey instead of gray, and her figure hadn't been padded a little from the live birth of two children and the stillbirth of one.

According to those who had known Eleanor in her youth- her husband and Arl Howe among them- Nike was much as she was in terms of personality was well. Nike found this slightly harder to believe, though she had to remind herself when she first picked up the bow it had been Eleanor, not her father or brother, who had taken steps to correct her technique.

Cousland women should always know how to defend themselves, Bryce had often said. Eleanor had always amended that to 'women should know how to defend themselves' and touted it was not a special happenstance that came about solely because the woman in question was a Cousland.

Defending herself was about as far as the Lord Cousland would allow it to go, however. So long as his daughter knew how to use a dagger for close quarters he was satisfied. The bow, he winked at- archery was a tradition among the women of his house and his wife's, and he saw no fault in Nike's interest in it. Should she have tried to pick up a longsword, however, or engage herself in the rougher play of war, she would have been quite sternly lectured and even more sternly dissuaded.

Bryce Cousland had no problem with women becoming soldiers- indeed, there were quite a number of them in Highever- but it was too crude, violent, and rough an occupation for a highborn lady in his estimation.

Not that he had much reason to fear. Nike had no interest in being a solider, or swinging around a sword like a barbarian, sweating under pounds of beaten armor and mail. She was not a great fan of sweat and grime at the best of times, and even the women who swung a sword on any regular basis got the most horridly rough hands, almost as bad as those of washer women.

Still, for some reason Bryce Cousland seemed to be of the notion that his daughter was just longing to take off and play at soldier the moment the opportunity struck her. He had made it clear he did not want her even asking to come along to Ostagar, but it was a wasted effort- she had no particular desire to do so, and never had. Then, he had done it again, getting that look in his eye the moment she met Duncan, as if he expected her to leap on the fellow and demand he conscript her into the Wardens right then and there.

What a silly thought, me as a Warden! I'd sooner see swine wearing fine silks.

The Wardens made her curious of course- and the presence of Duncan here worried her about her family to no end, but she was hardly at risk of abandoning Highever, her life, family, and her title, just to go tromping around who knew where for the rest of her life slaughtering filthy, ungodly darkspawn.

That reminded her that Duncan had mentioned going to the yards to look at the troops, and that she might be missing her only chance to speak to him. He may reassure her fears, or he might affirm them, but she'd rather be certain in where they stood than left in the dark.

Kissing her mother's cheek, making some excuse or another, she bid her farewell and headed down through the winding corridors to the muster yards.

She was not disappointed when she stepped outside. Thick clots of men in armor of leather, iron, and steel were still assembling, gathered in knots or forming into ranks under one commander or another's order. Horses were being tacked, or shoed, or led about- from sleek and agile coursers to the heavy, stalwart and muscled war horses whose very hooves seemed as heavy as the maul hammers their masters wore slung over their backs.

Dogs, as well, joined the milling crowds. The heavy, jowly tracker hounds; the whiplike messenger hounds; the broad boned, bear-footed tanks of mabari- the war hounds.

In one of the fenced paddocks, several men were gathered, watching a pair that had taken to sparring. Nike spotted Duncan among the observing crowd at the fence immediately, and started that way. As she did, one of the mabari, who was as eagerly snuffing about as the others, broke away from the pack and ran over to her, nub tail wiggling. Nike smiled down at her.

"Hello, Holly. Enjoying all the excitement?"

Holly had well blossomed from her days as a gangly, easily distracted pup. Now a mature mabari of eight, she was pound for pound the equal of any of the war trained hounds, lousy with muscle and thick as a bruin. Bryce and Fergus loved to joke at times that her big broad head could make it through walls, if she just got up enough speed.

Fergus had also once joked that Nike should put a saddle on her. Holly seemed to appreciate the idea she could bust through walls, but the thought of being saddled had upset her. The next day, Fergus could find nothing of his good Antivan riding boots but a well-gnawed buckle- that Holly had no doubt deliberately left at the foot of his bed.

Fergus had never dared tease the dog about being a horse again after that, not even in good natured fun.

Mabari are just smart enough not to talk, was the old Ferelden saying. Most people from Orlais, Antiva, or the Marches might not believe it, might think the tales about mabari were just exaggerated- but anyone Ferelden born or bred knew it was true. Mabari had been bred for intelligence, not just strength, for countless ages. They understood much of what was said, and had enough self-awareness to even get their feelings hurt over comments- as Holly had demonstrated.

Give them another age or so, and you'll be able to put a sword in their paw and not tell them apart from any other soldier, Nike thought as she worked her way over to Duncan, Holly at her side.

With all the bustle and noise, Nike was a bit surprised when Duncan turned around and looked at her before she even reached his side, as if he had heard her coming. She gave him a polite nod, and he returned it.

"Good afternoon, Lady Cousland," he said as she joined him at the fence, turning his eyes back to the match.

"Well met Commander," she replied, also watching the fight. "It seems you have no shortage of prospects for recruitment."

"There are slimmer prospects here than it would seem," he replied. She lifted her brows slightly, then gestured at the gathered crowds.

"I see no shortage of able-bodied folk here vying to impress you, desiring to be Wardens."

"Yes, and that is the problem," he replied.

"You do not want men who want to be Wardens? That seems a peculiar logic."

"More often than not, it is those who most want to be Wardens who are the least suited to being one. The more a candidate tries to impress me, the less likely they are to do so."

"So you only take recruits who are unwilling?"

He glanced at her, and she could swear she saw the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes. "It is not so simple as that either. I have been doing this a long time, and there is a knack to it. Tell me, Lady Cousland-of this group before you, whom would you select to be a Warden?"

"I hardly have any idea," she said, looking over the gathered crowd. "All I know of Wardens is myths and tales, most of which I'm certain aren't even true."

"Yes, precisely. That is all that most of them have heard as well. They seek to draw my attention not because they truly desire to be Wardens, but because they think they want to be the type of Wardens found in those tales and myths. Truth is rarely how we hear it in stories, the dream never lives up to reality. These men desire a dream, and I can only offer them a reality. To recruit them would be a disservice both to them and to the Wardens, when they found out the difference."

"So you want to find the men who know the reality and yet still want it?"

"Sometimes. More, I find the men who can face that reality, and do it justice and honor. Wanting, sadly, rarely is close bedfellows with suitability. What we want in this life is rarely what we get or need, or are even prepared to handle."

"I see," she said. Duncan looked at her.

"So, knowing that, my Lady- tell me. Who among these here would you select to be a Warden?"

She looked back out over the crowd. Holly, as if the question had been put to her, reared up and draped her paws over the top rail of the fence and peered at them with intent thought as well.

"Ser Gilmore," she said at last. Duncan followed her gaze.

"Which is he?"

"Over near the wall. Tall man, red hair, talking with the hostler."

She pointed off past the paddock and the rumbling crowds. Duncan looked and then nodded, though she was not sure he had picked the proper man out of the bustle.

"If you do not mind bringing him here, my Lady," he said. She looked at him in surprise again.

You want me to fetch him for you? What do I look like?

It was on the tip of her tongue, but something in Duncan's gaze halted her remark. He was asking a casual favor, there was no insult or demeaning of her station in his eyes. In truth, there was no station at all in his eyes. He called her 'My Lady' more to keep from offending those near in her own home, but the truth was plain in that gaze

I'm no lady to him. My father is no Teyrn. These men are not soldiers. The servants are not common or baseborn. He uses these terms because he knows they matter to us, but they do not matter to him. He sees me as no more nor less than himself, and he seems himself as no more nor less than any beggar or king he might encounter.

There are no titles among the Wardens, she remembered. They recruit from royalty and poverty alike, human, elf, dwarf, even mage- it doesn't matter to them, and everyone they recruit loses any title or blood claim they might have had before. Maybe he's been a Warden for so long things such as title and even race have lost all meaning to him, even among the rest of the world.

Cocking a brow slightly, she inclined her head, then straightened tall and let out a sharp, ear piercing whistle through her teeth. So loud and sharp did it cut that nearly everyone suddenly halted and stared at her, the rumble in the yard dying down somewhat.

"Ser Gilmore," she called, taking advantage of the lull in noise. Her voice rang over the yard, thrust firmly from her diaphragm.

A noble woman never yells, but never fails to make herself heard, she heard her mother say.

Ser Gilmore had looked over with the rest at the whistle. At the sound of his name, he straightened more, bowing his head slightly. She gestured. "If you would please join us."

He nodded and started their direction, the rest of the yard slowly resuming their business.