We Need to Talk…

Part 1 –The King and I

"Tell King Alistair that the Warden-Commander is here," I ordered the court page. I was irritable today. The ride to Denerim was long and the weather cold and rainy. If not for the stupid delay, running all over western Ferelden for nothing, I could have been snug in the Vigil before the pre-winter winds howled across the bannorn, making travel slow and arduous.

His Majesty entered the room bedecked in shiny gold and silver armor—a waste of perfectly good battle attire. (Hadn't I once had similar thoughts about King Cailan?) The three of us took a knee, as was the traditional gesture of respect for the reigning king or queen. When we rose, he greeted each of us in turn. First me, with a kiss on the cheek. Since I liked having my head attached to my neck, I restrained myself from returning his greeting with a knee to the groin. He extended his hand to Aiden. Aiden shook it with a barely perceptible moue of disgust, as if the king's hand were smeared with dung. The monarch then turned his eyes on Anders and thanked him again for saving the Hero of Ferelden. Anders bowed and kept silent. It wouldn't bode well for him to blab to the king that he'd blabbed about the king's prying to me, would it?

"I'm looking forward to hearing your report," Alistair said, as if he expected any real news.

"Not so much as I'm looking forward to giving the report, Majesty," I said with false humility.

"Excellent! Let's speak privately in the study, shall we? The throne room is so… oppressive, don't you think?" I assumed it was a rhetorical question and didn't respond.

Eamon saw us walking toward the study. He greeted me, and asked Alistair, "Will you need me to accompany you, Your Majesty?"

Isn't this the same boy you sent away because of your shrew of a wife, Eamon? Now you fawn over him like a little god. All the pomp and titles are becoming tiresome.

"Actually, Eamon, I'd like to speak with the warden-commander privately," Alistair replied.

And I have some things to say to you that you might not want Eamon to hear, O Great One.

"As you wish," Eamon said with a courtly bow.

Alistair walked ahead, opened the door for me like a perfect gentleman, and closed the door behind us. "Have you any idea how long I've been waiting for a chance to talk to you alone?" he began in his familiar schmoozing tone.

"Perhaps if you hadn't sent me on that ridiculous trip across Ferelden, you could have spoken with me a lot sooner," I retorted. Any pretense of a king-subject relationship was dropped. We would converse as Alistair and Winter, not as our titles dictated.

"I did that with good reason," he said. "If you'll let me explain."

"There are a few things I'd like you to explain, but that is as good a starting place as any."

He peered at me quizzically, unsure of why I was so hostile. He undoubtedly knew I'd figured out early on that the so-called mission was bogus, and that I resented the deception. But my anger and tone seemed disproportionately harsh for such a minor offense.

"To be honest with you, I waited outside your room to speak with the healer, that fellow Anders, after you woke from your coma," he said. "In the previous blights, every Grey Warden that slew the archdemon died immediately. You survived—thank the Maker—but the encounter with the archdemon left you comatose. I wanted his assurance that you were really recovered and that it wasn't a temporary fix."

"Is prying into my personal affairs a royal privilege?"

"Prying? What? No! For Andraste's sake, Winter, I was worried half to death about you. I didn't know when you would recover, or if you would recover, or if Morrigan…" He faltered, caught himself, and went on, "...if Morrigan had injured you on the rooftop."

We'll get to Morrigan later. Let's cover the Vigil first.

"Why did you keep me away from the Vigil? You left my room and changed your mind on the way to the front door, just that quickly?"

"There was nothing for you to do at the Vigil…"

"Don't play me for a fool, Alistair," I hissed at him. "Aiden and I saw a company of soldiers heading to Amaranthine, and they weren't going on a pleasure trip. They were armed, armored, and on a forced march."

He sighed, caught in his first lie of the day. "You're right. I apologize. While I was speaking with Anders, a messenger arrived from the Vigil. It suffered a darkspawn attack that left all fourteen Orlesian wardens dead, along with most of the soldiers in the keep. Without the Orlesians, who were to bolster the wardens' numbers in Ferelden, it left only you and Aiden, and I wasn't taking that chance with your lives. After Anders told us you needed at least two weeks of rest, which I knew you would not stand for, I decided to send you on an errand that would keep you out of harm's way until you were stronger. I wanted to deal with the attack on the Vigil and settle things before your arrival."

"Commendable."

"It should have been," he riposted, his ire rising in reaction to my sarcasm. "I did it to keep you safe. Is that so wrong? Don't I have the right to send my officers wherever I need them?"

"Indeed, Your Majesty."

"Stop that!" he bellowed. "Drop the attitude and talk to me. Say what's on your mind, but don't treat me like a stranger. I only had your best interests at heart."

"Did you have my best interests at heart when you bedded Morrigan?" I sneered.

He blanched visibly. "I… No, you don't understand… It wasn't what you think."

"Wasn't it? Sex is sex, right?" He kept his eyes on the floor, and I went on. "I heard the two of you planning to lie together and to make sure I never knew of it. I heard you, Alistair; it wasn't something I dreamed or made up in a fit of jealousy. I stupidly went to see if you were alright after Riordan told us that a Grey Warden would die in the final battle. I wanted to make sure you didn't lose sleep over it, because we needed our strength for the march and the war. But you had other things to occupy your mind."

"No, that's not how it was. Not at all!"

"I don't want to hear how it was," I snapped. "Spare me the details, if you'd be so kind."

He grasped my arms tightly. "No. You're going to listen to me. You have to hear me out." I stood there, trapped in his grip, while he spun me a tale that would have made a bard jealous. It was so ludicrous, so fanciful, that it could only have been the product of a lot of ale, a dose of lyruim, and some hastily constructed lies. Throw in a nightmare for good measure, and there you have it. The explanation to beat all explanations.

"Do you honestly expect me to buy that load of hog toss?"

"I know. I know it sounds too fantastic to believe, but it's the truth. I was unaware of Morrigan. There was no sex that I can recall. There was certainly no pleasure involved. It was a demonic ritual, and she promised me it would save the warden who made the kill."

If it were true, it would have explained why she eagerly seduced Aiden, and why she was so angry when he left. More than that, it explained why I was still alive. But how could such a thing be real? Even magic has its limits.

"And her price for this service was your baby?"

"Yes."

"Your baby. It couldn't be anyone else's. Not Riordan's, not Zevran's, not Sten's…"

"No. It had to be a Grey Warden, and it had to be one recently tainted. Riordan took the taint thirty years earlier. My taint was about eighteen months old."

It was too far-fetched, even for a witch. She despised Alistair, but she insisted on having him impregnate her? "I'm sorry, but I cannot believe your story. If you didn't care how your betrayal might affect me, did you give a thought to Aiden, who trusted you as a friend?"

"Winter, please," he groaned. "I… No, I didn't think about Aiden. I thought only of you. I hated to deceive you. I didn't want to be in the same house with that woman, much less in the same room. I did what she asked of me to save your life because I love you."

A long silence stretched out. At last I answered him, "Then you should have let me die." Without waiting for a response, I pulled out of his grasp.

"Wait!" He snagged my arm again. "You can't leave it at this. What will happen to us?"

I looked him straight in the eye and measured each word. "There is no 'us'. There never was, and even if there had been a chance of anything developing between us, it's gone. Now if you will take your hands off me, Majesty, I'd like to leave this wretched city and report for duty at the Vigil."

"Winter…" His voice was a mournful whisper. He released me, and I left him there in his misery.

Part 2 – Keeping the Vigil

We arrived to a startling sight. Portions of the walls had been ripped away by projectiles. Piles of wood, possibly furniture or large weapons like ballistae, smoldered outside her gates. Other piles of a more ominous nature put off a sickly stench—the odor of burning human flesh. We stopped our horses and looked about at the destruction. It was reminiscent of Ostagar.

Our party had grown to four members. Along the way to the Vigil we met a female warrior named Mhairi. Before the Vigil came into view, Aiden and Anders competed for her attention. Now we were all silenced. No banter, no flirting.

I dug my heels into my horse's flanks to urge him forward at a slow walk. We surveyed the scene, imagining the horrors that the Orlesian wardens and the soldiers suffered in their last moments of life. Right before the gates we saw a massive amount of blood. Puddles ran into each other to make one big lake of gore. This, I presumed, was where the wardens met their end. They'd been ambushed, and none of them sensed darkspawn. Why? Were these darkspawn so different that their taint escaped detection? Were the wardens distracted by something, making them careless and vulnerable? Conversely, did they in fact sense the monsters, but were overwhelmed by sheer numbers? Without a survivor to tell me, I would not learn the truth of what happened here.

We left our horses at the foot of the steps leading up to the Vigil's courtyard. So far, we hadn't encountered a single living soul. No sounds of conversation or of activity reached us. It was as though we had entered a crypt.

A young woman appeared at the entrance to the keep proper. She was a messenger, coming to her post, waiting for my arrival. "Warden-Commander?" she asked when she saw me.

"Yes. Where is everyone else? Are you alone here?"

"No Ser. The seneschal, the captain, and the soldiers are inside the keep. Most of them are in the throne room, clearing it of debris and preparing for your arrival."

"I'd like to go there now. I need to meet the seneschal."

She led the way to the throne room. Inside the keep, there was evidence of repair and cleaning. Aside from the young private, it was the first sign of life we'd seen. The throne room—minus any thrones that I could see—was a large hall for meetings and official business. It would also serve as the room where the joining ritual would be held. The room had been thoroughly cleaned and organized. At the far end of the room, the seneschal, the captain, and a templar stood waiting.

"A bloody templar," Anders muttered. I hushed him.

The seneschal, a silver-haired man in officer's armor, stepped forward to greet me. "Warden-Commander, welcome to Vigil's Keep. I am Seneschal Varel. I apologize for the disarray, but we lack the manpower to finish repairs before your arrival."

"It's quite alright, Seneschal Varel," I said absently, looking about at the room.

"This is Captain Garavel," Varel continued. "He'll assist you with the military… once we have a military again. And this…" he turned to his right, "…is Ser Bryant, recently arrived from the Circle of Magi, and the man who saved my life."

"Ser Bryant," I greeted him, "what a pleasure to find you here, alive and well."

He peered at me for a heartbeat, then his face lit up with recognition. "I remember you! You were the young lady in Lothering. You were a raw recruit when we met. The Maker has had His hand on you indeed."

"We must talk later, Ser Bryant. I want to know what happened in Lothering after we left."

"As you wish, Warden-Commander."

"Captain Garavel," I gave him a nod of greeting and received a courteous bow in return.

"This templar," Anders pestered me. "He's a friend of yours?"

"He is," I answered. "And he'll be a friend of yours too, since we'll be fighting together." I introduced my party to the officers. "This is Aiden, my senior warden," I said, to Aiden's astonishment. "These two are recruits ready for the joining." I finished the introductions and asked Varel how soon we could proceed with the ritual.

"Give me a few minutes to prepare, Warden-Commander," he answered.

Ser Bryant approached me. "Warden-Commander," he began, "I've been thinking on this for a while. If you'll permit me, I would like to join the Grey Wardens. My fighting skill is at your disposal, of course, but I feel I would be of more use to you as a warden."

"I would be happy to have you join us, Ser Bryant," I answered. "Wardens are needed, and your offer is accepted." I stopped Varel, who was almost out the door. "Prepare for three recruits, Seneschal." He nodded his understanding.

While he went to fetch the items for the ritual, we looked around the throne room. Aiden couldn't hold his questions in any longer. "Senior warden? When did you decide that? When did you plan on telling me? Here? Now? No congratulations, no ceremony, no parade, nothing?"

"Does it help if I tell you that you and I are the only living wardens in Ferelden right now?"

"No, it doesn't," he smirked. "It means you had no other options, so I got the post."

"Not true," I soothed his ruffled feathers. "I could have waited until we had a full complement of wardens and chosen from any of them, but I'd already selected you. I want all of them to know from the start that when I'm not around, you are in command." That appeased him. I added, to further stroke his ego, "Congratulations, Senior Warden of Amaranthine."

Varel returned, and we held the joining ritual. I was apprehensive. Knowing the percentage of recruits who die during the joining, I hoped mine would survive it. All of them did, to my relief.

The trip had been long and I was tired and queasy. I asked Varel to have someone show me to my quarters. He took us around personally, pointing out the dining hall and the armory along the way.

The living quarters had been undamaged in the assault. The wardens' rooms were rather nice, hardly what one would think of as barracks. Instead of several beds to a room, each room was private. Aiden's was a larger suite, nicely furnished, outfitted with cupboards and a bath. Mine was as fine and spacious as the suite I'd occupied at Rainesfere or Redcliffe Castle. After learning where their superiors' suites were located, Anders, Mhairi, and Bryant returned to their rooms to recover from the ritual. Aiden never passed up an opportunity to take a nap, and he retired to his suite as well. I needed a rest before I plunged into the huge task of overseeing the repairs of the keep, meeting with the arling's landowners and nobles, finding more recruits to replenish the wardens' numbers, and visiting the city of Amaranthine.

Before I entered my suite, Varel told me he would be waiting in the throne room to brief me on all matters concerning the Vigil. He didn't know if I'd been informed about the peculiarities of the attack, but there was also the condition of the keep to be discussed, and our most urgent needs.

"Tell me now," I said.

He told me how the attack was organized, unlike the typical darkspawn attack. There was no archdemon to lead them, but clearly they were being led by something. He believed their leader, or their leader's officer, was a talking darkspawn (I thought the good seneschal might have helped himself a little too liberally to the keep's wine cellar, but I held my tongue). Warden Bryant had killed the talking monster, but not before it made references to "the mother".

"A broodmother?" I wondered. "They aren't intelligent beings any more than darkspawn are."

"I'm not familiar with broodmothers," Varel admitted. Of course he wasn't. We'd only found one, and that was more than enough. The thought that there might be another was unsettling; the possibility that a broodmother had retained her sanity and was directing the monsters she spawned was direful. I related the account of the broodmother we'd discovered and killed in the Dead Trenches.

"Maker…" He was at a loss for words beyond that.

I moved the conversation along, eager to get to my room and rest. "I noted the damage to the walls. Catapults, I assume?"

"Yes, and we were lucky that only two areas were hit. They had the means to flatten the keep but lacked the know-how. I think their leader—this 'mother' the monster spoke of—isn't so much a military leader as she is a lunatic, with the annihilation of the Grey Wardens as her goal."

"Quite possible," I agreed. "She made a good start of it. The wardens are the darkspawns' primary threat. We just killed their former leader, the archdemon. After a blight, they usually retreat for a few centuries. This attack coming so soon after a blight is disturbing."

"I couldn't agree more," he said grimly. "That's part of why they were able to catch us off guard. Nobody thought they would be seen for at least another hundred years or more."

"What is the most pressing need, then? Other than reconstruction."

"The basement hasn't been cleared. There may yet be survivors trapped down there. Even with the soldiers the king sent from Denerim to aid us, we still lack the manpower to go through it as thoroughly as we ought."

"Send a message to the king in my name," I instructed him, and started a flurry of orders. "Tell him I require another regiment here immediately, of at least thirty able-bodied men. We need a shipment of supplies—food, arms, and armor—to feed and equip the troops until the Vigil is back in operation. Bunks for the troops, if there aren't enough to accommodate that many men. A full kitchen staff to prepare meals. Household servants to see to the daily cleaning. We'll have to hold court for the nobles and other visitors soon, and probably the king himself at some point.

Any craftsmen Denerim can spare, particularly armor and weapons smiths who can make and maintain our equipment. Additionally, I'll need stoneworkers to repair the breeches in the walls, even if they have to bring experts in from Orzammar."

"Very good, Warden-Commander," he said. "I'll dispatch the message right away." He hesitated.

"Yes? Have I left anything out, Varel?"

"No, Warden-Commander. However, we have a dwarf here who is a master stoneworker. He says what we're lacking is proper stone for the repair work. That, and workers to assist him."

"Then it's up to me and my wardens to go out and find him some stone," I answered. "That will be all." It had been a productive day. The wardens now numbered five, and I planned to keep an eye out for promising recruits until there were ten or twelve. In my thinking, there could never be too many wardens, and I'd already experienced the dangers of there being too few. I entered my quarters, satisfied with the progress we'd made in the few hours we'd been here, and looking forward to a nap before dinner.

Within a week, the king sent all the personnel and supplies I'd requested. Master Wade, the smith who had designed my dragonskin armor, was among them. There was no finer smith in Denerim, and I was happy to have his expertise at my disposal. Wade, on the other hand, wasn't at all happy with the Vigil's location. Its northern location and the cold, rainy climate didn't agree with him. I assured him the post was a temporary one, and that quieted him for now.

Anders woke from a nightmare, wild-eyed and perspiring, his heart pounding out a frantic beat. He'd been prone to occasional bad dreams before, but this one was terrifying. He heard strange sounds, not exactly whisperings but unintelligible grunts and murmuring. Images of monstrous beasts like the ones he'd fought in Denerim filled his mind, but they were more numerous and had the ability to communicate. That was the worst of it. The darkspawn could talk, and they talked to him, trying to entice him to betray his fellow wardens, particularly the warden-commander, to their leader, the "mother".

He held his head in his hands until his pulse and breathing slowed to normal. What could have brought on such a dream? It had been weeks since he fought those monsters. Why would the thought come to him now? He had no answers, but he intended to ask the warden-commander about that joining business. Nobody mentioned he'd have to drink darkspawn blood until the seneschal handed him the chalice. He couldn't take a small sip of it, either. He was required to swallow the contents of the cup, which, thankfully, was a relatively small amount for such a massive drinking vessel. But the blood stank and tasted worse than anything he could imagine.

Like dead man's blood.

Yes, that was probably a close comparison, though he hadn't sampled any of that either. No wonder the recruits who passed their joining fainted. No wonder so many didn't survive it. With that thought in mind, he had secretly wished that blasted templar would die from the blood, but no. Anders' luck didn't run in his favor. The skirted bastard was as strong as he looked, and he was the first to awaken after the ritual.

"He just bounced right back like the proverbial rubber ball," he muttered aloud.

He turned his thoughts back to the dream, which was rapidly fading from memory. One thing that stayed with him was the title, "the mother". Who or what was this mother? If such a being existed, he expected they would meet soon enough. As for betraying his fellows, the bitch had a surprise coming. He might be a pain in the templars' arse, but he wasn't a turncoat. That foul blood created a bond between him and the other wardens—and yes, even Bryant. He'd never been a real part of anything in the Circle, but the wardens were a brotherhood. Bound by blood. Nasty, disgusting, vile-tasting darkspawn blood.

Nothing creepy about that.

Part 3 – Things That Go Bump in the Night

The basement was opened for us and we entered it, alert for danger and for the cries of trapped survivors. As much time as had passed since the initial attack, finding anyone alive down there would have been a miracle. Damage to the structure itself was minimal. Darkspawn customarily set fire to anything combustible, but there was no fire damage here. Nor were there survivors. We found corpses, most of them half-eaten, all of them ripped apart.

"Breaking them down into bite-size pieces," Aiden observed.

"Have you no respect for the dead, Senior Warden?" Mhairi scolded him.

"I save my sentiments for the living, Warden," he answered. Mhairi's use of Aiden's title rather than his name indicated her disapproval; Aiden's use of her title was his way of initiating a flirtation with her. She wasn't taking the bait, but they'd only known each other since yesterday.

It would be interesting to see if something developed between them. Something other than their current enmity, that is.

"Let's move on," I prodded them. "Bryant and Anders, check that hallway to the left. The rest of us will go right." I purposely paired up the mage and the templar. One way or another, they were going to have to learn to work together. Bryant was indifferent to apostates in his new role as a warden, obeying my orders without question. Anders was my problem child. It would take all my patience to rein in his blatant hatred of all templars. Today, though, he was subdued.

We split up and scoured the basement for enemies, and for any sign of an entry point where they could have invaded the keep. We found the wine cellar intact, with dozens of bottles of wine and spirits lining its shelves. Our search took us through a library of books on religion and folklore, an empty armory, and at last, to a training room. Bryant and Anders finished their search and joined us. Their timing was perfect, because the training room contained darkspawn.

There was nothing unusual about these creatures, unlike the story the seneschal had told. They were the typical genlocks, hurlocks, two alpha hurlocks, and a genlock emissary. A burst of lightning at my back alerted me to its presence. My practice was to remove the enemy mages first, then deal with the melee fighters and archers. Anders took on the emissary, finishing it off with a fireball that engulfed its short body in flames and killed it instantly.

"Good work," I commended him between foes. "I'm glad healing isn't your only talent." A poor choice of words if ever there was one.

"My dear lady, I have talents that would surprise and delight you. I'll be happy to come to your quarters and demonstrate," he said with an exaggerated leer.

"Shut it, Anders," Aiden snarled at him. He liked Anders well enough, but he'd become protective of me. "She's your superior. It won't hurt you to learn respect for a change. Seems you learned none in the tower."

"I was joking!" Anders protested. "She knows that." He looked at me for affirmation, "You do know that, don't you?"

"Sounded pretty serious to me," I said dryly.

The enemies lay dead around us, and we pushed deeper into the basement toward the furthest reaches. Before we came to the end of the basement, we encountered a second group of darkspawn locked in battle. Oghren had snuck into the basement, unbeknownst to the guard at the door (who would receive a proper reprimand for his carelessness), and conducted his own search of the basement. We found him holding a number of hurlocks at bay with a mean-looking battleaxe. Several more lay dead on the floor, hewn in half or beheaded.

"Son of a bitch," Aiden said. "If it were anyone else, I'd be happy to see them."

We joined in the battle and finished the remaining creatures, then Oghreh informed me, without preamble, that he wanted to join the wardens.

"Just like that?" I replied. "There's no turning back, you know. It's a lifetime commitment."

"You think I got something better to do?" he answered. "I've been kicked out of my caste and barred from Orzammar. Wife's dead, girlfriend won't speak to me, got no family. Fighting is all I know. Might as well use my skills against these ugly bastards." He kicked a darkspawn corpse to illustrate his point.

"Fine. We'll get to your joining as soon as we're done down here." If he wanted to be a warden, so be it. We could use the help. "Let's finish up. One more room to go, it appears."

What we found was worse than darkspawn. A handful of survivors had taken refuge in the back room of the basement. When no one came to their aid, they assumed the keep had been completely overrun and everyone was dead. They were without food and water for days. To survive, they turned to cannibalism. Some in their number were dying of the taint; they were the first to be eaten. Consuming the tainted flesh turned the others into ghouls. They were a horrific sight, with blackening skin and bloodstained hands and teeth. They attacked us on sight. Killing them was a merciful act.

Beyond the ghouls' hideout was a tunnel, but the entrance had been blocked by a cave-in. Maybe it had been that way all along, but there was a chance the cave-in was purposely done to cover the darkspawn's initial entry into the keep. We returned upstairs and ordered that the way be cleared. It would take several days, we were told.

I told Varel, "If that was their way into the keep, it's been sealed by a cave-in and we needn't worry about another attack from that route. But once it's cleared, I intend to follow it to the source. If it leads to the Deep Roads, as I suspect it does, we'll have to seal it off permanently." I instructed him to prepare the joining ritual for Oghren. He survived it. Not only survived, but he found the darkspawn blood tastier than his dwarven ale.

"Disgusting," Anders remarked. Aiden agreed. Bryant and Mhairi were too appalled by the vulgar dwarf to speak.

Unlike the other recruits, the tainted blood had little effect on Oghren. His eyes rolled back in his head but he didn't pass out. Whether he was incredibly hearty, or if dwarves reacted differently than humans and elves, I didn't know. Chances were that Oghren was just an odd character in every way.

In truth, Oghren wasn't anyone's favorite warden. He was gruff, coarse, and as I've told you previously, crude and offensive. But he could fight. What this came down to was our need for able fighters. Personality issues would have to be set aside.

Part 4 – Double-Whammy

Word reached me of an intruder that was being held in the dungeon. He'd been caught trying to enter the keep, and it took several soldiers to pin him down and shackle him so that the guards could lock him up. He was awaiting a trial or sentencing, as the seneschal saw fit. Varel turned the matter over to me.

"What was he doing here?" I asked Varel. "The Vigil has little of value to anyone other than book collectors or fighters."

"I can't say," he answered. "The fellow hasn't spoken since we apprehended him. Not even to declare his innocence or ask for a trial. Nothing."

"Let me try talking to him," I suggested. Not that I had a special way with people or anything, but I was curious about a man who could wrestle several soldiers down. He must have been a brute.

The man was an average fellow, not especially tall or large or heavily muscled as I'd thought. He was sitting on the floor, glaring at me as I approached the cell. His icy reception wasn't unexpected, since he was the prisoner and I was the one who would decide his fate. A guard stood watch over him. It seemed pointless, since the prisoner wasn't going anywhere. His belongings were well out of his reach, and he was dressed in plain worker's garments. He couldn't very well pick the lock with wishful thinking, could he?

"Let me speak with the prisoner alone," I told the guard. When he'd left, I took the key and opened the cell door. "Alright, whoever you are, why don't you tell me why you're here and what you hoped to accomplish by breaking into the keep."

He stood slowly, making sure to drag this out and waste as much of my time as he could. If he hoped to anger me, he was wasting his own time as well.

"So you're the great Hero of Ferelden," he said scornfully. "Aren't you supposed to have godlike powers?"

"In a sense, I do," I responded. "The power of life and death over you, to be precise. But again I ask you, what were you doing here at my keep?"

"It's not your keep," he rejoined. "This is my home. It was my home, until you murdered my father and your king stripped my family of everything we had left to us."

"I take it your name is Howe."

"Nathaniel Howe. Not that it matters who I am, since I'm on my way to the gallows. I imagine you have the noose ready for me, or must I be forced to endure your 'hospitality' much longer?"

"So you weren't breaking in. You just came home to pick up a few things?" I could match his sarcasm with my own, if that's how he wanted to play it. "Before we go further, let me tell you a little story. This traitor by the name of Howe—same name as yours, incidentally—murdered a teyrn and his family without cause. Murder is a crime in Ferelden no matter who commits the act. Murdering a high-ranking noble is treason. I met your father, and you're right, I killed him. He deserved it."

"You're not Fereldan," he said. "You're a Marcher. Why should you care what happens here?"

Bright boy, this one. Is it my accent that gave me away?

"My nationality is irrelevant. I'm a Grey Warden."

"I know all about you. And if you really want to know why I came back, I was planning to kill you. But once I saw my home and the damage that had been done to it, all I wanted was to recover a few personal items and leave Ferelden for good."

"Where were you when your father killed the Couslands?"

"I was in the Free Marches, serving in the army. Stationed out of Kirkwall."

Seneschal Varel walked in on our conversation. "I see you've met our prisoner. Has he told you anything?"

"He has, and I've decided what we'll do with him," I answered. "Prepare for another joining, please."

"What? No! Absolutely not!" Nathaniel protested. "I'd rather hang."

"That's not your choice to make," I reminded him.

"So now you expect me to serve you? Work for you? Follow your orders as if nothing happened, as if you didn't murder my father?"

"Your father was the murderer, not I," I said, losing my patience with his insolence. "All I did was bring justice down on his head. If you live through the joining, you'll get to meet one of Bryce Cousland's sons—one that your father and his men didn't get to kill—and you can hear his version of how his home was invaded and his family killed. He was there, and he saw what really happened, not some stories handed down by sympathetic friends."

That shut him up for the time being. He survived the joining, as I'd hoped he would. He was going to be a handful, and I expected some friction between him and Aiden, but I trusted that they would be able to put the past behind them and work together. Maybe I was naïve, but I hoped for the best under the worst of circumstances. I now had a mage and a templar, and the sons of Howe and Cousland. Things were going to be interesting…

"Howe? You recruited a Howe? You know what that bastard did to my family! What were you thinking, Winter?" Aiden wasn't taking the news as well as Winter had hoped.

"This isn't Rendon Howe, and Nathaniel wasn't even in Ferelden when his father turned traitor," she explained. "He had nothing to do with it. Give him a chance, Aiden."

"If I could just leave… If I could quit the wardens today…" he stammered in his rage.

"Aiden, please," she entreated. "Trust me in this, as you've always trusted my judgment. It was the right thing to do. Give Nathaniel a wide berth if you must. I'll take one of you on missions and leave the other at the keep for a while, until the two of you can come to terms with things. But don't declare him your mortal enemy based on what his father did."

He flopped heavily into a chair. How could she have done it, knowing what she knew about Rendon Howe? For Andraste's sake, she had spoken to Howe before they killed him. She knew the kind of vindictive, vile, manipulative arse he was, even to the moment of his death. Did she really believe his son was oblivious to everything his father was and did?

Maybe the younger Howe didn't know the kind of beast his father had become, and maybe he did. As the saying went, only time would tell. But if he saw an opportunity to put an arrow through the little bastard's heart, he would be a fool not to take it.

He huffed out a frustrated sigh. "Fine, Winter. Make every criminal in Ferelden a warden if you must. Just don't expect me to like it or to agree with you."

"I'm sorry…"

"Not sorry enough," he cut her off, and stormed out of her suite.

The tension between Aiden and Nathaniel was worse than I'd anticipated. Aiden was openly hostile to him, and Nathaniel was defensive and arrogant. It was a disaster. Maybe I should have hung him and been done with it.

No. It was the right decision to conscript him. Give them time.

I did as I promised, leaving one behind and taking the other on missions. We found black granite for the stonemason Voldrik, lyrium sand for his brother Dworkin's explosives, and ore deposits for Wade. Aiden accompanied me on this trip to the Wending Wood. We met up with an elven mage who tried several times to kill us. I'd hoped to recruit her because of her strong offensive magic spells, but she was a homicidal maniac on her best days. Aiden said he regretted putting down such an attractive woman (what was it with him and crazy apostates?), but while I kept her distracted with insults and threats, he sailed an arrow her way and into her head.

Nathaniel went with me to Blackmarsh, an eerie place that lived up to its name. He was an archer with skills almost as good as Aiden's, and he probably saved my life several times while we battled demons, corrupted animals, and another talking darkspawn. We were joined by Justice, a spirit trapped outside the Fade and cast into the body of a slain Grey Warden we'd been seeking. The warden already had the taint, having been through his joining some time ago. Justice wasn't sure about the Grey Warden business, but he was a warrior who handled a greatsword with impressive strength and expertise. And so our number increased to seven wardens. Not bad for my first five weeks.

The constant bickering within the party drove my anxiety level up, which in turn kept me sick to my stomach day and night. Oftentimes I'd lose a full night's sleep from retching and dry heaves that made my ribs feel as if they would snap if my insides lurched just once more.

Something was wrong with me, and it wasn't getting better. Whatever happened when I slew the archdemon was likely killing me very slowly. If that were so, I needed to know it right away. In whatever time I had left, I would have to spend it preparing Aiden to take command until a new warden-commander was brought in from elsewhere or appointed by the king.

I couldn't pretend I was fine any more. I needed to see Anders.

"What are your symptoms?" Anders asked. She didn't appear sick. He detected no fever or plague or illness of any kind. She was healthy.

"Nausea, mostly. I can't bear the smell of food, or sometimes even the scent of soap gags me. And horses… Maker, I've thrown up around horses. I never noticed before how badly they stink. I can't sleep. And look at me—" she pulled the front of her flexible dragonskin armor away from her body, "I've lost so much weight that my armor hangs off me like a shroud." She gave a bitter laugh. "That's an ironic comparison, isn't it?"

Anders was a healer by nature and by talent. He felt compassion for her. She wasn't aware of what was happening to her body, and though she didn't express it, he sensed she was afraid. "How long has this been going on?"

"Since I awoke from the coma."

"And you didn't rest as I recommended, did you? Not that it would have changed anything."

"Is that so? I would have been sick no matter what?"

"Exactly," he answered. "But Winter, you're not sick. You're perfectly healthy."

"I certainly feel sick," she snapped. She was irritable, which was also normal. "Or are you saying this is my imagination?"

"Not at all," he answered.

"Why in oblivion are you smiling? Do you take pleasure in others' suffering?"

"No, and I never have," he replied sincerely. He was a man of exceptional compassion when it came to sickness and suffering, and he was proud of his healing gift. "But you're not sick, Winter. You're pregnant, and what you're experiencing is the normal, natural phenomenon known as morning sickness. You should be past it in another couple of weeks or so."

"That's not funny, Anders."

"It wasn't a joke. You are pregnant. About ten weeks pregnant, I would say. Do you want to know if it's a boy or a girl?"

She turned from him, flung the door open and rushed out, almost slamming into Aiden in her rush to escape.

Aiden poked his head in Anders' room. "Andraste's smoking ashes, man, what did you do to her?"

"Nothing!" Anders protested. "She's angry with me but it's not my fault she's pregnant."

"Pregnant?" Aiden repeated. "I should have known…"

"Is it yours? Damn, I didn't know. I should have let her tell you herself. Aiden, wait!"

Pregnant. I was pregnant. On that night before we left Redcliffe Castle for the battle of Denerim, I conceived a child. Teagan's child.

"Maker, how am I going to tell him this? Should I tell him? Or should I leave Ferelden and go to another country where no one knows me?"

I felt lost, alone, and frightened. I'd faced down demons, darkspawn, dragons, and every manner of evil creature without fear. It was easy because I didn't care one way or another if I lived or died. But this was different. The thought of becoming a mother and passing my tainted blood to an innocent child terrified me.

"I can't have a child," I whispered. What was the alternative? Was there an alternative to be had?

No, there isn't. Unless I'm injured or killed, I'm going to give birth in less than seven months. Should I leave, and tell no one why or where I'm going? Word would get out. Anders knows. He isn't the best at keeping secrets.

And if I left, would that be fair to Teagan? It's not just my baby. Doesn't he have the right to know I'm carrying his child? Whether or not he wants to be a father, the fact remains that the child is his.

My thoughts were running a crazy cycle of what-if's. I had all questions and not a single answer. The last thing I expected to hear from Anders was that I was pregnant, but now that I thought on it, I should have guessed as much. The symptoms were obvious.

Only once since I arrived in Ferelden had I allowed myself the luxury of crying. If ever there was a time to indulge myself, this was it. I crouched in a corner of my room, rested my head on my folded arms, and wept until I had no more tears to cry.

That night, when I had literally cried myself to sleep, I dreamt of Morrigan. She looked different, as dream-people often do, but I knew it was she. Her voice and its withering tone hadn't changed or mellowed with death. In the dream, she knew I was pregnant. She'd known all along.

"I have been waiting for you to find out you were with child. It took you long enough to acknowledge the truth. But you always were one to deny the obvious."

"What do you want from me?" I asked her. My manner was defiant and cold. Why not? What could she do to me? It was only a dream. The real Morrigan died in Denerim ten weeks ago.

"Now that you know of it," she said, "we need to talk…"

Before she could elaborate, her image flickered out and her voice was silenced. I slept through the rest of the night untroubled by voices, images, or the ghosts of old rivals.

Bryant awoke from a deep slumber, instantly on his guard. He'd been propelled from a supine position to sitting upright, as if by the Maker's invisible hand. His keen senses recognized the presence of aberrant magic or demonic spirits nearby.

The warden-commander's suite was on the other side of the wall facing him. She was no mage and she was rightly reputed to oppose all forms of evil; she was not the cause of the disturbance. But he was sure the dark force was in her room.

He swung his legs over the edge of his bed, reached for his greatsword, and stepped out into the hallway. No one was about at this hour. As he neared her door he heard a voice. It was a female, but it wasn't the warden-commander speaking. Whoever or whatever it was, it emanated evil and ill intent. He'd encountered the five known types of demon: pride, lust, hunger, rage, and sloth. The being in the warden-commander's room was none of those, but it had characteristics of each.

He employed his templar ability to dispel magic and said, quietly but authoritatively, "Begone, spirit," with a wave of his hand that would disrupt any spellcasting or enchantment. The voice stopped; the atmosphere cleared. Bryant hesitantly opened Winter's door and peeked inside to make sure she was unharmed. She lay in her bed, curled up and covered in a heavy quilt. He listened for the sound of her breathing. It was deep and even. Once he was satisfied she was safe and had suffered no harm, he lingered in the hallway a while until he was confident the spirit wouldn't return. When he went back to his room, he was fully awake. He passed the remainder of the night restlessly.

So Winter was pregnant. How hadn't he figured it out? How hadn't she? Her lover, the venerable Arl Teagan of Redcliffe, had to be the father. Since Aiden had known her, Winter hadn't given any other man a second glance, much less shown romantic interest. Alistair was a possible exception, but even then, as hard as he tried to get those two together, she held back.

Smart girl. She's a better judge of character than I was.

Aiden smiled to himself. The old fellow Teagan evidently still had some spark. Enough spark to attract a beautiful and much younger woman like Winter, enough to entice her into his bed, and enough to turn his pragmatic friend and leader into a lovesick girl who occasionally hummed, smiled for no apparent reason, and daydreamed. Before the war, she hadn't evinced any kind of behavior like that.

He rather liked the idea of Winter having a baby. He could be like an uncle, since they were such close friends and she had no relatives. Maybe she would have a son. Since the loss of his own nephew Oren, he missed being the favorite uncle.

He had to double back and straighten out Anders' incorrect assumption that he was the baby's father. It was an understandable mistake. He and Winter were close, and Anders wasn't the first to assume they were involved. If things had been different… Well, no matter. Things were fine as they were.

He hoped she would take him along to Redcliffe when she gave the old boy the news that he was going to be a father. It might be amusing to see his reaction to becoming a father when he was old enough to be a grandfather. What was it about those Guerrin men? Eamon was an old guy when he had his son, and now Teagan was following in his footsteps. Maybe all the Guerrin offspring were made with old seed.

He fell asleep with that somewhat rude but entertaining thought on his mind.