The Royal Heir
Part 1 – Friends, Lovers, and Enemies
AN: This is my most risque chapter. Not too bad, not gross, but a little stronger than my usual.
Did I give you the impression that my marriage to Teagan was a storybook, idyllic existence, devoid of strife? Such was not the case by any means. We loved each other with a vibrant passion, and wherever such passion thrives, negative emotions will occasionally make an appearance. My seething annoyance whenever I heard the name 'Adele', for example. And then there was Teagan's jealousy of Alistair. Both baseless concerns but we were two strong-willed people, and every now and again, we disagreed. Vehemently. The discussion about Alistair led to our worst fight.
Teagan pressed me for details of my past involvement with Alistair. I'd never known him to be jealous before, which he strenuously denied, but he sure sounded jealous.
"It was nothing," I insisted. "We were close, yes. Very close, to be honest. In those days, he was my best friend and best fighter. He accompanied me on almost every mission. We lived and fought and traveled together all the time. How could we not have grown close?"
"It would appear you only became close with the handsome young men in your camp, like Aiden and Alistair and that elf fellow. You didn't get along so well with the women, as I understand it."
"That's an unfair assessment. You didn't know them as I did. Of the three women in my group, one was Morrigan—you remember her, don't you? Another was an unskilled old busybody of a mage. Leliana was a half-witted Orlesian ex-bard who couldn't string two rational thoughts together. She was Zev's lover, not I."
"You're avoiding my question. I asked if you and Alistair were romantically involved. Is it so hard to say a simple 'yes' or 'no'? Or is there a reason for your reluctance to speak of it?"
In truth, I didn't want to discuss it. It was long past, there was nothing to tell, and it was best forgotten. Teagan wouldn't let go until he heard what he wanted to hear—a confirmation or a denial that Alistair and I had been involved beyond friendship.
"We were… closer than friends, I suppose you could say."
"I realize I wasn't your first, and I'm not judging you," he said to my surprise. I was starting to tire of his questions, and I took umbrage at this last remark. I certainly wasn't his first. His former lover Adele made that clear enough. Why make a distinction between my past and his?
"How magnanimous of you," I rejoined, reflecting my rising pique.
"Don't try to throw us off topic. It's a simple question, Winter, and I believe I have the right to know. Were you and Alistair lovers?"
I looked him directly in the eye and said, "No, Teagan. Alistair and I were not lovers." In the interest of fairness, honesty, and full disclosure, I added, "At one time, I thought we might have had a future together but I was mistaken."
"So you are saying I was your second choice."
"What? No! Where would you get such an idea?"
Until now, he'd been fairly sedate in his interrogation, if a bit judgmental. Now his tone turned sharp. "I get the idea from the way you look at him, the way you talk to him, the way you talk about him, and the way he is still very much in love with you. He physically attacked me when he learned we were together, in case you've forgotten. Why would he, if he didn't think he had some claim on you?
"As for your part, you're obsessed with his happiness. You worry too much about his marriage, which is none of your concern. All your fretting over 'Alistair this' and 'Alistair that' makes me wonder if you think marrying an older man like me was a mistake. Maybe you would prefer to be with someone your age. Someone like Alistair."
A long silence passed between us. How could he have said such things? What cause had I given him to doubt my love for him or question my commitment to our marriage? Surely he didn't think I was another Isolde… "I don't understand you any more, Teagan, and your unwarranted jealousy is beginning to wear on me. I care about Alistair. Is that so wrong? Have you not cared about someone without being in love with them?"
"Certainly. I cared about Adele without being in love with her."
Could he have said anything more inflammatory? I don't think so.
"Yet she's still in your thoughts, I see," I retorted. "Maybe it's you who want to be with someone else."
"No, my dear girl, you aren't going to turn this around. We're talking about you and your past, not mine."
"If you wanted to hear all about my past, why have you never asked me? I have nothing to hide."
"But you're awfully mum on the subject. I'm beginning to think I don't know you at all."
"I don't speak of it because it was unpleasant! It was painful! It changed me, and I didn't like the cold, unfeeling bitch I became!" We'd had spirited disagreements before, but I had never raised my voice to him. Now I was shouting at him. Jaden, who had been playing nearby, began to cry.
"Look what you've done," Teagan muttered irritably, scooped up the baby, and walked to the stairs. He paused and added, "We are not done here." Then he trotted upstairs to find the nanny.
"Damned right we're not," I shot back.
When he returned, I didn't allow him a chance to quiz me further. I gave him all the information he wanted and then some. "You want to know my past? Fine. Here is my entire story in detail. When I'm done you can question me all you like." I told him of my life in Starkhaven, my parents' murders, and my secret betrothal. He stopped me there.
"You were betrothed? What happened?"
"He betrayed me in ways I couldn't forgive or forget. I didn't leave Starkhaven; I was exiled from my homeland because of false charges, after a stay in jail. But wait, the story gets better. The day I arrived in Ferelden, five bandits tried to ambush me. I killed them all, and if I had it to do over again, I'd do nothing differently. That's when I met Duncan and Aiden. Duncan asked me to join the Grey Wardens, but not until after he watched me fight off the bandits without lifting a finger to help. I was bitter and cold-hearted, resentful of men's treachery and weary of my life. Fighting with the wardens seemed as good a way as any to die. That was my attitude."
"Maker…"
"I met your 'charming' nephew King Cailan at Ostagar. He treated me like a wench and invited me to his tent. It wasn't to get my thoughts on battle strategy, if you get my meaning."
"You needn't continue—"
"Oh, but I want to continue. You must hear it all, then you'll know me more fully than anyone. Isn't that how it should be between spouses?" He waited for me to go on. I did. "Before you ask, I did not accept Cailan's invitation. I turned him down flat in front of Duncan and the other recruits. If I embarrassed him, he deserved it.
"Alistair pushed me into leading our little band of Ostagar survivors and recruiting new members in our travels. Every decision was left up to me. I led them because no one else wanted to take on the responsibility, but I kept as much distance between them and myself as I could. They saw me as a hard-hearted, uncaring bitch who happened to be skilled with swords and with reading the enemy. I didn't want any ties with them beyond what was required to get our missions accomplished. I was doing a duty, and in time, it would lead to my death at the end of a sword. Truthfully, I looked forward to it, because death was better than the emptiness I carried with me every damned day."
"I can scarcely believe… The person I met in Redcliffe was nothing like what you described. What changed you?"
"You changed me, you arse. I was exactly that person when I walked into the Redcliffe chantry. I was strongly attracted to you at first sight—something I hadn't felt in a long time. I hadn't felt anything in a long time. In the months that followed, I thought about you more often than I admitted to myself. I looked forward to visiting you, and practically made up excuses to take my party out of our way to see you."
"My dear, I never knew…"
The hard edge in my voice was gone. I was reminiscing by this point. "No one knew. I didn't know it myself. I grew closer to Alistair, who coaxed me partway out of my self-destructive mindset simply by being kind and caring. I was inexperienced with love and I mistook my feelings for romantic ones rather than friendship. It wasn't until I saw you again that I realized I wanted to be with you.
"So, my wonderful, silly, jealous husband, you had me all wrong if you thought I was a sweet, delicate little flower before we met. I was anything but that. You also had me wrong if you thought I was the type who would fall into bed with any man who caught my eye. There was just my betrothed, which I do regret, and there was you—my heart's only desire. No one else."
He held his head in his hands for a few moments. "I am an arse," he said without looking up. "I see myself getting old, and you're lovely and beguiling and so much younger than I. I let my foolish fear of losing you muddle my thoughts. I'm so sorry, my love." He raised his head, and his expressive eyes were full of remorse. "Can you forgive me?"
"I'm not sure I can," I said, taking his handsome face in my hands and kissing him lightly, not seeing the streaks of gray that recently appeared in his chestnut hair and beard, but seeing him as he was the day we met. "You'll have to make a better apology than that." He caught me up in his arms and carried me upstairs, like he'd done the first time we made love.
I accepted his apology—weak in the knees (he had a way of turning me to jelly with a touch), completely sated, and more deeply in love with him. We lay together and talked, holding hands with our fingers laced together, caressing with our free hands, reaffirming our love. Teagan had a better understanding of me, and he wasn't put off by the knowledge that I'd been a total bitch in my early days in Ferelden. If anything, it amused him.
"Aiden was right about you. You're a force to be reckoned with in a fight, in more ways than one." I knew what he meant. I was well aware I'd been nicknamed "Ice Bitch" by my fellows at camp. This 'ice bitch' kept them alive, and that was my purpose as their leader.
"Mmm. Enough about Aiden, Alistair, and everyone else. This is our night." He agreed. Except for spending a few hours with Jaden, we were as inseparable as honeymooners again.
"Are you absolutely certain it will work?" Empress Celine asked her court mage.
"Upon my life, it is infallible," the mage answered. "I've blended the potion in cocktails, one for you and one for your husband. You only need persuade him to drink it before bed. It will begin to work in minutes, and will double his seed output. A possible side effect of the potion is it may make him more aggressive." She let her hand hover over the empress' lower belly. "You are fertile, and with the aid of my spell, you will remain in that state until you conceive."
Celine said with a snort of disgust, "He could stand to be aggressive, or pretend to be interested in what he's doing. Anything is preferable to the inert breathing corpse I've had to sleep with. What a disappointment he turned out to be!"
The mage had kept Celine infertile for the past several years at her monarch's request. The young empress was highly promiscuous and didn't want children in the way. Until now. Until one was needed to seal a pact between her country and Ferelden. Alistair insisted on it as part of their agreement, but it would work heavily in Orlais' favor when the heir was grown.
"You will arrange for a wet nurse," Celine ordered. "Once the child is born, turn him over to a nanny for his daily care and the wet nurse for feeding. Just keep it out of my sight."
"At your orders," the mage answered. "I regret that my Lady has to go through the inconvenience of giving birth, all because your agent failed in her assignment, and because Cailan was killed. It would have worked perfectly if Fereldans weren't so stupid."
"Isolde was Orlesian, and she was stupid," Celine snarled. "If she had followed my command and killed her meddlesome husband, the regent would have torn the country apart from within and my troops could have invaded, taking over with no trouble. I would be ruling Ferelden today. It serves her right that she was beheaded." Her tone softened. "But Cailan—my sweet Cailan—he was pliable in my hands. I could have charmed his country from him without his realizing it, because he thought with his male parts rather than his head. He was a deliciously adventurous lover. And best of all, his seed was dead. No children to spoil my body and make demands on my time." She cackled maliciously. "He thought his wife was to blame for not having an heir. The poor dear man, he was too dumb to notice none of the women he bedded became pregnant."
The mage cocked her head and appeared to be listening. "Alistair is here in the city. I sense his presence."
"More likely, you smell his presence. No one stinks like a Fereldan. Do they never wash? Or perhaps, they bathe with their dogs?" She and her mage tittered at the image of Alistair and a big, ugly, thick-bodied mabari hound together in a bath.
Celine asked, "Before you go, tell me: how soon after conception will you be able to confirm it?"
"It will be evident to me immediately after his seed joins with yours."
"Well then, let's make the Fereldan feel welcome, shall we? You go greet him and stall him for a few minutes. I need time to make myself irresistible," Celine said with a wicked smile.
Alistair was in a foul mood when he reached Val Royeaux. He didn't want to be here—certainly not so soon after his last visit. The ride from Denerim was a grueling two weeks on horseback. He was lucky to have been as close as Rainesfere when he got Celine's message, cutting his travel time by half, but it was still a long ride to an unpleasant destination.
The members of Celine's court scarcely gave him a glance when he walked through the palace. They were conversing in their language, rudely excluding him as if he were a servant instead of the empress' husband.
"King Alistair, welcome," a female voice greeted him. It was Celine's creepy court mage. He couldn't pinpoint why he was put off by her, but she seemed to ooze creepiness from every pore of her pallid, tattooed skin. The hood she wore didn't help either. It added to her overall sinister appearance. What was Celine doing letting an apostate run about in her court, anyway?
"Where is the empress? We have business." He couldn't get away from this woman quickly enough, even if it meant spending a few extra minutes with Celine. To his vexation, the mage wanted to engage him in conversation. She asked him about his trip, his opinion of Orlais and Val Royeaux, if he'd been to such-and-such a city or village—he didn't know his way around the damn country and didn't care to see it. It was all he could do to keep from being rude to her and walking past her. Finally he could take no more of this woman's aimless queries.
"You'll excuse me if I must be on my way. The empress is expecting me and I've already kept her waiting overlong."
"Indeed. She is in her chambers, your Majesty," she said in her creepy-silky voice. Her knowing look told him she was aware of exactly why he was here, and it made him more uneasy.
Is there anything about these people that doesn't exude sexual innuendo? They make the simplest statements into something sordid.
He found Celine's chambers with minimal difficulty. She was in the far room, her bedroom, and she called to him from there. She waited for him, seated at her vanity with her long legs crossed, wearing a diaphanous gown or robe. Her face was painted to show off her wide blue eyes and long lashes, and her full lips were rouged. Not overdone, but tasteful. She looked ravishing. For all her effort, he didn't feel a hint of desire for her.
Alistair was tired and dirty from his ride. He smelled of horses and sweat, and his armor was chafing him in several places—some of them more delicate than others. He wanted a bath, a good meal, and a long night's sleep. Celine had other plans. She wanted to get down to business. Now.
"I'm quite a mess," Alistair protested. "I've been on the road for a long time…"
"Hush," Celine said. "You smell like Ferelden. A bath cannot remove it."
Bitch. If that's how you feel about it, fine. You can drown in horse sweat for all I care.
"It's not terribly attractive, is it? Can't we spare a few minutes for me to clean up?"
"I have something to help with your weariness," she cooed, ignoring his questions. She handed him a small glass, as small as a potion flask, but jewel-encrusted. Her hand brushed his, and her fingers trailed back and forth along his skin. He let her play her seduction game, hoping his body would again work independently of his mind. He didn't like to be around her, and surely didn't want to have sex with her. A shudder threatened to break her mood; his couldn't be worse under the circumstances.
She continued the curious hand massage as if she expected it to trip a hidden trigger point of desire. It didn't. He took the glass with his free hand and raised it to his lips. Maybe her stingy amount of wine would help him get through the unavoidable reproductive act. However, the liquid smelled strange. Not like any wine, mead, ale, or strong drink he'd had. It was a potion.
"What are you giving me, Celine? Lyrium? I've had one experience too many with that stuff." He set the glass down without drinking.
She tossed her hair back and laughed at his remark. Every move was calculated to be alluring. Her light robe was so sheer he could almost make out the details of her body. Almost. It was designed to tease the eye. Still he felt nothing.
"Do you need lyrium to make you want me?" she asked.
"I need something…" he muttered under his breath. Not low enough; she heard him.
"If I may ask… Are you not fond of women?"
He uttered a harsh laugh. "Yes, I'm fond of women. Only women, since that's what you're really asking."
"But not so fond of me? Shall I have another woman brought in to join us? Perhaps the idea of two women is more appealing to you?"
"What?" The mere suggestion of it disgusted him. What did she think he was—a male whore? A man like Zevran who engaged in sex with anyone and everyone who would have him, be it one-on-one or in a group?
Alistair's upbringing, from the arl's house to the chantry to his time as a templar, taught him to be a gentleman, not a walking mass of hormones in overdrive. He felt rage growing inside him, from his belly to every part of his body. He didn't just dislike Celine any more. His aversion was progressing to deep rancor.
"I just thought… if you aren't attracted to me…" She let her robe fall to the floor and stood bare before him, brazen as a harlot.
Alistair abhorred her. Abhorred her. He hated his body more, because it was betraying him. A surge of need flooded every cell and nerve. At the same time, his head began to pound—a headache like he'd not had since he'd left off his drunken binges. He raised a hand to his brow and tried to squeeze the pain away, to no avail.
"Are you not man enough to take a woman who willingly throws herself at you? Are you not a man at all? Did I wed a worthless Fereldan eunuch?" she taunted him.
He lowered his hand and glared at her through dry, burning eyes. His throat was parched. He felt feverish. The pounding in his head increased as his anger flared. Pain or no, the clamoring need drove him. He reached her in two steps, grasped her by the shoulders and shoved her onto the bed. "Bitch-born whore," he snarled through clenched teeth. "I'll show you what I am."
He didn't disrobe. He didn't care if his armor bruised her or if it crushed her bones. She'd pushed him into this. Her taunts and insults echoed in his mind and fed his rage, and the rage in turn fed his lust. He unleashed it with fury on the writhing woman beneath him. Let her protest and try to escape him. She was unable to twist her body under the weight of his, ineffectually pushing at his chest and begging him to stop. Or was she clinging to his armor and begging him not to stop? Was she crying, or was it laughter? No matter; he wasn't listening to her anyway. Her whimpering gave him as much satisfaction as his release—an aching savage pleasure, fierce in its intensity.
When he was done he pushed off her like he'd been lying on a darkspawn corpse, and it hit him—the most ludicrous notion, but one he found so amusing he followed through with it. He raised a fist to the ceiling and shouted out triumphantly, "For Ferelden!"—his old battle cry from his Grey Warden days. Was that not the point of this farcical marriage—to secure peace for Ferelden? And he had just conquered the she-dragon, hadn't he? That thought, and Celine's startled-puzzled face, made him laugh heartily. He didn't give a damn for appearances or if she thought him insane. He abandoned himself to his mirth until his laughter was spent.
Alistair stood, dismissing Celine altogether, and went to the suite's stupidly ornate washroom. Like the rest of her palace, it was bedecked in gold, silver, and jewels. On each wall was a floor-to-ceiling looking glass. The whore really loves the sight of herself, he thought. While he shucked his armor and undergarments, he sang loudly. It was a coarse little ditty he'd learned from his fellow Grey Wardens during his training, before the blight and the war. Its lyrics were unmistakably anti-Orlesian.
He used every drop of water in the ewers to wash himself of the stench of her perfume, which was more odious to him than the horse sweat and weeks of dirt that clung to his skin and hair. He chose not to wear his armor yet, but exited the washroom in his undertunic and breeches—clothing sorely in need of a wash but he didn't care if he stunk. He took a whiff of his sleeve. As he expected, he smelled like Aiden's mabari.
I'm Fereldan, after all. We stink. Isn't that what you said, dear wife?
She'd left the room, which was fine by him. He would leave, too, before she returned and he had to listen to her vexatious babble and look upon her painted face. He'd find another suite where he could sleep off his fatigue and the sensation of drunkenness, then he'd return home. He didn't make it past the bed before weariness and dizziness assailed him. His armor slipped from his hands and he collapsed to the floor, unconscious.
In her chambers, the blood mage Grace performed her secret ritual. The true nature of her magic was one of the many secrets she kept from Celine. For a ruler reputed to be wise, the empress was nothing more than an oversexed, immature, easily deluded fool. Grace's spells worked, and that was all Celine needed to know. She would never know that Grace murdered the empress' former lover and bodyguard—the troublesome elf—and disposed of her body in a place it would not be found—in the Fade; an offering of flesh to the abominations she served. With Celine heartbroken and vulnerable, Grace sidled in to comfort and befriend her. Gaining the monarch's trust was child's play.
She uttered an incantation in a language unknown to men, then reached for a dagger on the altar where she invoked the spirits. The sharp blade bit into her palm and her blood trickled into the bowl of herbs and corpse dust. When she felt the cool clamminess of the demon's touch, the ritual was complete. Celine would conceive this night. Satisfied with her work, she placed a finger on the wound in her palm and healed it.
"Tell me, quickly!"
"It worked. You are pregnant."
"Thank the gods! I don't know if I could have lain with that disgusting, stinking Fereldan again. Although…" she assumed an impish look, "he was a great deal more… animated… than before."
The mage's eyes glittered with anger. "So I see. You shouldn't have taunted him so. He was too rough with you, Celine. He could have killed you."
"Little Grace, my pretty one, don't be worried for me. It is over now," Celine purred.
Grace shuddered, covering her revulsion by rubbing her arms as if she were chilled. Small wonder she has to drug the man to make him sleep with her, she was aware of the empress' penchant for women but she had no intention of becoming one of her many lovers. Grace had her own love. He was an older man, her mentor, a mage named Decimus who taught her all about the power of blood magic.
"He consumed the potion, I presume."
"He refused to drink," Celine answered, "but you were brilliant! His skin absorbed it just like you said it would, and it worked as well as if he'd drunk it."
"Now all that's left to be done is to keep you healthy for the next nine months. None of your 'special' parties until after the baby is born."
Celine sighed. "It will be a very long nine months. And of course, we will have to go through with the buffoon's coronation. All for show, you realize." Her countenance brightened when she said, "But the end result will be worth all the trouble when we reclaim Ferelden and assimilate the dog lords' land into Orlais. They will not break away again. This child is the guarantee."
They walked across the hall to the empress' chambers. Celine continued, "Do keep a ready stock of your potion on hand, but you're to make one change in your formula. Let it kill the seed of the men who drink it."
"Only on the condition that you stop taunting them," Grace answered. "And I'll not make it until after you've recovered from the birth." Celine agreed. "Now, Empress, do you want the men to be permanently sterile, or only for the duration of the potion's effectiveness?"
"Oh, what a marvelously devious mind you have! Make it permanent. Orlais is full of little noble brats who will grow up and vie for my throne. We could do with less of them."
Hidden in a nearby alcove, Duke Marc Zacharie eavesdropped on their conversation. What he heard enraged him. He had served as advisor to the late Emperor Florian until his assassination, and when Celine rose to the throne he was elevated to chief advisor. Unlike her more plain-looking, urbane parents and uncle, Celine had grown into a visually stunning woman with a voracious carnal appetite—one she readily shared with every member of her court, as well as visiting dignitaries and foreign royals. He'd had many a turn in her chambers himself. There was a time he thought he was in love with her, but since realized it was nothing more than base physical attraction and a man's natural inclination to protect a woman who appeared to have no sense of self-preservation.
Everything was fine until this new court mage showed up, he thought. Since she'd arrived and Celine's former elven lover disappeared, the empress had become vindictive in her dealings with other countries. Marc was the one who had brokered the marriage treaty with Ferelden's chancellor, and he personally liked young King Alistair. It would have been a good match, but the empress' wantonness was driving him off, as it would do any virtuous man. If she were truly with child by him, King Alistair had one ally left in Celine's court—himself. The others despised the Fereldan king without cause. I'll make sure he comes to no harm, Marc vowed to himself.
He was one of the empress' most loyal, ardent supporters. But despite his weakness for beautiful young women, Duke Marc was an honorable man. The marriage agreement with Ferelden was unequivocally a peace treaty. If Celine violated the terms, it would reflect badly on Orlais.
He cared for her, but he would see her dead before he allowed her to cut off his lineage, and he'd do everything in his power to foil her plot to disgrace, dethrone, or assassinate Ferelden's least experienced but most noble rulers in recent history. He just wished he'd been able to prevent that damnable mage from drugging the man.
King Alistair was sound asleep and didn't stir at their approach.
"Look at him, sleeping on the floor like a dog," Celine sneered contemptuously. "How long will he be out?"
"Twelve hours, I should think, since he only received the lesser, topical dose."
"It was plenty enough. The man has considerable strength, I must say," Celine said, recalling his frenzy with a flutter in her stomach. He could have killed her, but it was the most exhilarating sexual romp she'd had in a while. "Send some housemen to remove him from my chambers. He can have a bed in the servants' quarters." The thought of housing a king among her household help amused her. "It's a pity we have no kennel to make him feel at home."
Part 2 – Alistair's Dark Passenger?
Alistair awoke with a bitter taste in his mouth and his whole body aching. He dimly recalled arriving in Val Royeaux, the palace… nothing else, because he had a hangover like the ones he used to have when he drank heavily. He had a sense of having been extremely drunk but he didn't remember drinking anything since he arrived in Orlais.
He raised his throbbing head, blinked his eyes to clear his vision, and looked around the room. He wasn't in Celine's chambers, and he wasn't sorry for it. Better to sleep in the barn with the livestock than to sleep in her bed.
Memory rushed back with startling detail.
Maker… what possessed me to behave like that? Aggressive, inconsiderate, barbaric.
As he'd done before, he compared Celine to Morrigan. He detested both women equally, yet had sex with them. The thing with Morrigan was necessary, but he wasn't aware of his actions at the time. Later, when she restored his memories, he learned he wasn't a terribly active participant. In this case, he was well aware of last night. Though Celine reviled him, then stripped naked and threw herself at him like a tramp from the Pearl, the words "active participant" were a gross understatement. What he'd done to her was no better than rape.
I raped her? Impossible! I wouldn't… I'd never…
"Maker's blood…" The realization stunned him. He had raped her. She begged him to stop. (Still, he was unsure of what she'd been saying… "Please stop," or "Please don't stop".) Had she really suggested a threesome, or was he delving deeper into his personal perversion? He felt sick inside, heartsick and queasy. What was happening to him? He couldn't claim she'd drugged him because he refused the potion. It was still on the table after…
after I raped her
…he'd emerged from the washroom. He recalled seeing the jeweled glass with its contents untouched, and thinking of how he'd outsmarted her. He hadn't been drugged. He didn't perform a selfless act to save someone he loved. He didn't do what he'd done under duress. There was no excuse for his actions, and only one explanation: Deep down, he wasn't the gentleman he'd thought himself to be. He was a callous, sadistic swine.
Winter once joked that I was a "royal bastard," not in the sense of being the illegitimate spawn of a womanizing king, but a real son of a bitch. If she knew how truthful those words were…
What's more, he didn't feel genuine regret for abusing Celine, and that wasn't like him. He was at a loss to comprehend this dark side, unaware it existed in him. His sense of chivalry had been blotted out with one heinous deed, along with his self-respect.
This is too confusing. I feel badly because I don't feel as badly as I ought.
There was one solution to this latest disaster in his life: He would offer Celine a divorce. She would jump at the chance to be free of him. The peace treaty would likely be voided as well, and Eamon's grand scheme for a permanent alliance between Ferelden and Orlais would be quashed for good.
When his head cleared, he rose to dress. Smelling the stench of his clothing, he looked about the room and saw a clean tunic and breeches. He left some silvers in their place, more than enough to purchase several new sets of clothing, then he peeled off his old clothes and pulled on the clean ones. His old tunic reeked so badly he tossed it and the breeches into the fireplace.
He donned and secured his armor and weapons, eager to escape the palace and Orlais and the troubling memories of his inexplicable actions. Before he left the room he noted several narrow bunks and cheap, sparse furnishings. He'd been put in the servants' quarters.
Fitting, Celine. Not imaginative, but fitting.
He passed the throne room on his way out of the palace. Celine called to him. She sounded excited and happy instead of outraged. She was one truly disturbed woman.
"Yes?" he answered her with all the civility he could muster. The sight of her rekindled his anger. No shame. No regret. No self-loathing. Just wrath. Andraste's blood, what's happened to me since I've been here? It's like I've been possessed. "I was just leaving for Denerim."
She acted as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred between them. "Wonderful news! I'm pregnant! We're going to have a baby."
"A baby… What… How can you possibly tell so soon?" He was doubtful. Didn't women have to wait a month or two before they knew they were with child?
"My mage is a healer. She can tell, and she says I'm definitely pregnant."
"Oh yes, the apostate. Well, that's great news."
"Aren't you pleased? This is what we wanted. An heir of Orlesian and Fereldan blood, to bring our countries together as one."
Right. Being ravished like a two-copper whore was perfectly acceptable as long as it achieved the goal. Divorce is no longer an option. Was this your plan after all, Empress? Was I drugged somehow without my knowledge? Or is your creepy court mage actually a blood mage?
"Whoa, wait a minute. I never agreed to our countries becoming one, Celine." He brought a hand to his temples, massaging them as he'd done the night before. His headache returned, like a blacksmith had taken a hammer to his skull. But this time, there was no lust. He felt nothing but revulsion for the woman carrying his child.
She brushed off his protest. "It was a figure of speech, an unfortunate miswording on my part. I mean that Orlais and Ferelden will be allies throughout the next generation."
He listened for the sound of lies. Being inexperienced and too honest himself, he couldn't detect anything beyond her bubbly exuberance. "As I said, it's great news. Do summon me when you're near your due date if my duties keep me away longer than expected."
He expected his duties to keep him occupied for the full duration of her pregnancy. He would make sure they did.
She had no intention of notifying him of anything. If the handsome but vapid oaf was too dense to count off nine months, he would miss the birth and appear as a fool to her people. Not that he was popular with them or her court anyway…
Part 3 – The Birth, the Coronation, and a New Ally
Celine gave birth to a son. Alistair arrived a few days after the birth, not having taken into account that nine months was an estimate, not a law of nature. The boy had fair hair and fine features. In truth, all babies looked alike to him. But his was special, like Jaden (his little shadow when he was in Rainesfere). More special, because this child was his.
Alistair's his heart filled with love and pride when he held his infant son. He named the boy Duncan MacEwan Theirin. When Celine asked him if those were family names, he answered, "They're the names of the two people I admire most. I'll not be changing it."
"I wouldn't think of it," she answered. She wanted nothing to do with the noisy, smelly thing. What was all the fuss over babies? They were nuisances.
"When he's weaned, I intend to take him to Denerim to see my country."
"What an excellent idea! You know, Alistair, you can take him with you any time. Even now, if you wish. His wet nurse and nanny can travel with him. He'll be fine."
A wet nurse. She won't even nurse her own baby. What a wonderful maternal figure she is!
"Isn't he a bit young to be traveling such a long distance?"
"Nonsense. Gypsies and merchants travel the country all the time with their infants. Women give birth on the roadside, pack up their babies, and continue on their way. No harm comes to them. I hear it makes the babies hardier."
When he was in her company for more than a few minutes, she found a way to provoke his ire. The stupidest of men could see she wanted to rid herself of the baby as soon as she could. Alistair was all for taking his son out of this house of filth, but he worried for Duncan's health and comfort. It was a difficult journey for a grown man. How much harder would it be on a newborn?
"I think not. Not yet. He's too young."
"He'll be fine," she repeated.
Maker curse this bitch. I'll get him out of here today and think of some way to get him safely to Denerim.
"Summon the wet nurse and nanny. Pack all his belongings, everything they'll need for his care. I'm taking him today."
"Wonderful, darling!" she gushed. "You'll find he's a complete joy to have around."
"How in blazes would you know?" Alistair challenged her. "Have you spent five minutes with him since he was born? I don't think so."
She pouted. "What a mean thing to say. You know I adore the little thing."
Thing. He was a "thing" to her, not a baby. Not her flesh and blood.
"Notify me when he's ready to go. I'll be waiting at the tavern." He needed a drink badly.
"Wait! We have your coronation to plan, and a huge celebration afterwards. You can't leave Val Royeaux until I grant you your title, can you?"
I can, and I would if it were possible. He'd already decided to take a couple of rooms in a hotel for a few weeks, until the baby was older and he felt more comfortable traveling with him. It was the one thing he liked about this city—they had fine temporary living quarters for rent. Not like the small rooms in the average tavern in Ferelden. These were luxurious by comparison, clean and well maintained. If he must go through the coronation, it would give him at least a couple of weeks, and he'd feel more comfortable taking his son on the road.
"Arrange it, and notify me at the hotel across the square. I'll be here for the coronation but not the celebration, so you can plan your 'special parties' if you wish. I'm done with you."
She didn't know how he'd heard about her special parties, but he was hardly the type of guest that would fit in with the others. The celebration she had in mind was a public one, not a private gathering of her close friends and lovers. Still, if he wanted no part of it, she would enjoy herself and it would give her some face time with the populace.
"I was done with you the moment I conceived," she hissed. Celine wasn't used to being rejected, and worse, he had slighted her in front of her court. "But if you would do one last thing for me, perhaps you can bring the baby by for a few minutes during the celebration? The people will want to get a look at the new little emperor."
"That's a cheap, transparent political move, Celine, and my son won't take part in it. See to your people yourself."
She'd wasted no time hustling the baby, the wet nurse, and the nanny out of her palace. Alistair was glad he didn't have to come back for them, and he could stay away from this cursed place until the coronation. Then he'd be done with her once and for all. They could remain married in name only, living apart and not having to lay eyes on each other again.
The hotel was tastefully decorated and spotlessly clean. The décor was meaningless, but he wanted a good atmosphere for Duncan. He saw the two servants and his son to their room, inquired if there were any baby things they needed, and sent a runner to fetch them. With all things in order, he settled in to await his coronation, then his departure from the country.
The baby slept near the wet nurse for his thrice-a-night feedings. During the day, Alistair was a model father. With no experience other than what he'd picked up from watching Winter and Teagan with Jaden, he made it through three and a half weeks without dropping the boy or sticking him with diaper pins. Not bad for a beginner, he grinned to himself.
The day of his coronation arrived and he left Duncan with the women while he suffered through a boring, drawn-out ceremony. His coronation as king took minutes. This took ages. It may have seemed so because of his desire to get away from the palace, Celine, and Val Royeaux. Or maybe it was the dirty looks he received from her court. Only one of them, a man he recalled seeing on several occasions, offered him a smile and congratulated him, bowing to him as if he were really the emperor of Orlais and not a hollow figurehead of a monarch.
"Who are you, sir?" he asked the man.
"Excellency, my name is Duke Marc Zacherie. I am the empress' chief advisor. If there is anything you need of me, I am at your service."
Polite, not cold like all the others, and he sounds sincere. "Thank you, Duke. I'll keep that in mind."
"Sire, I understand you'll be leaving for Ferelden soon. Shall I order a company of guards to ride with you?"
"I have my own guards, but thank you all the same."
"If I may be so bold, Excellency, they can ride with your men to the border and return to Val Royeaux at your command. The safety of our emperor and empress is something I take with utmost seriousness."
He was persistent. Maybe it wasn't a bad idea after all. "Very well. I'll be leaving tomorrow around mid-morning. They can find me at the hotel."
"Very good, Sire. I'll feel better knowing you and your son are well protected."
Protected from what, exactly? Or from whom? Celine? Yes, that would be likely, all things considered. They hated each other. It wouldn't be unreasonable to think she or her cohorts would try to do him in. Not that he feared for himself, but now that he had a son, he would give his dying breath to protect him.
He arranged for a coach for the women and his son. It was fairly roomy and more comfortable than riding horseback. The going would be necessarily slow, but he was in no hurry. What mattered was Duncan, and how he took to travel. If Alistair saw he wasn't doing well, he would go to the nearest town and stay there until the boy was strong enough for the journey.
Part 4 – The New Emperor's Groove
Alistair rode into Rainesfere ten days after leaving Val Royeaux. He allowed the Orlesian guards to accompany him as far as the Ferelden border before he sent them away with his thanks. They were nonplussed. Royalty didn't thank their guards for doing their duty.
The journey thus far had been slow, as he'd anticipated. The baby was so young and he seemed so small and fragile that Alistair was loath to bring him further into Ferelden than Rainesfere. It was the best place he could think of for a break from the difficult life on the road.
Jaden, now twenty-two months old, was the first to spot the coach, and he recognized his beloved "Uncle" Alistair—which he pronounced "Unca Aster"—leading the way. He called to his mum. She looked out the window and saw her visitors, picked up Jaden, who hadn't yet grasped that running toward a horse was dangerous, and she went out to greet them.
Alistair dismounted his horse and took Jaden from Winter's arms, as the boy was leaning toward him with his arms outstretched, throwing his petite mother off balance with his squirming. "Hello there, little man," he said. "I've missed you."
"I miss you too Unca Aster," Jaden answered, wrapping his arms around Alistair's neck and squeezing with all his strength.
"Aster," Alistair repeated, amused. "Great, now I'm a flower." He greeted his hostess. "If it's not too much of an imposition, my party and I need a place to stay for a few days."
"Imposition my eye," she scoffed. "Of course you're welcome here. How many room shall I have prepared?"
"Two, if you please. One for me, and another for…" He stopped and smiled broadly. "You haven't heard the news, have you? Come along." He led her to the coach. "This is my son."
"Ohhh," Winter said, peering through the window. "May I hold him? He's beautiful, Alistair."
He opened the door with his free hand—Jaden still occupied his other arm and refused to be put down—and the two maidservants stepped out. The nanny handed the infant to Winter.
"Papa made me a bow, and I have arrows too," Jaden chattered to Alistair. He didn't see what was so special about the squishy thing in the blanket that so interested his mum. There were more exciting things than that. "He's going to teach me to fight like a soldier."
"Good for you," Alistair said to him. "I'll make you an honorary member of my army. And, I know a secret. You can learn a thing or two about swords from your mum."
Winter looked up from nuzzling Alistair's baby. "Did you have to say that? We haven't told him about my… skills."
"Oops," Alistair grinned sheepishly. "So, now that I've gotten myself into trouble with the lady of the house, where's Uncle Teagan? I need someone to rescue me before I spill any more secrets."
"Papa went to work," Jaden answered, hogging the conversation. "Back tomorrow."
"Oh. He's in Redcliffe then. Maybe this isn't a good time for visiting," he said, looking downcast. Redcliffe had a dirty tavern with dirtier rooms. Not a place he wanted to take Duncan.
"Rubbish," Winter scoffed. "Do come inside and I'll have the maid bring refreshments for you and your maidservants while we wait for lunch." Still holding Duncan, Winter excused herself and went to issue orders to the staff. The baby's wet nurse and nanny took their places among the household staff while Alistair relaxed in the sitting room. Winter returned to see her son pestering the king with endless questions.
"Jaden sweetie, leave Uncle Alistair alone for a while. He's just come from work and he needs to rest." The boy understood "work" to mean anything involving travel.
Jaden obediently released Alistair from the death grip on his neck, but not before he planted a big wet kiss on the king's cheek. When Alistair set him down he toddled off to play with his bow.
"What's his name?" she asked Alistair. "Nothing Orlesian, I hope."
"Do you realize your nose wrinkles every time the word 'Orlesian' is spoken?" he teased. "My son is Fereldan, I'll have you know. His name is Duncan MacEwan."
The boy's mother was Orlesian. What did he mean? Winter wondered at his statement but would question him about it later. "Duncan," she repeated. "How perfect. And… did you say MacEwan?"
"I borrowed it from a friend. I hope you don't mind."
"Mind? I'm honored beyond words." She looked at the child's sleeping face. He truly was perfect, and he bore her name. Her eyes wanted to fill with tears but she fought them back. It wouldn't do to go all emotional in front of strangers. Orlesian strangers at that.
She let Alistair have a rest from conversation and she spoke to baby Duncan. "Let's have a look at you, Duncan." She pushed the blanket from his head and saw his fine, straw-colored hair. "You're a handsome little prince. Or is it little emperor? How about, for now, you just be a little boy? Titles are such a bother."
"You can say that again," Alistair agreed.
A servant arrived with food and drink, and was immediately followed by another who announced lunch was served. "I'll take lunch if it's all the same to you," Alistair said. "I'm famished."
"You're always famished," Winter joked. It wasn't much of a joke when it was the truth.
Duncan's wet nurse and nanny took their meal in the servant's hall, with Jaden and his nanny. Winter and Alistair dined together in the main dining hall. Winter remarked, "I'm surprised the empress let you take Duncan on such a long trip. He looks to be about a month old."
Alistair said, "Six weeks. As for Celine, she couldn't get rid of him fast enough." Winter's eyes widened in surprise, a look that told him he'd revealed too much. "Forget what I said. I'm delirious from hunger and lack of sleep."
"You've always been a terrible liar."
"There are worse things… like being a good liar. If you don't mind, I'll catch you up on all the gossip tomorrow. I really am drained."
"I've already had water sent up to your suites. You could probably do with a hot bath and a good night's rest," she said.
His mouth curved into a wry smile. "I'm a Fereldan. We stink."
The Orlesian guards that escorted their new emperor to the border saw the monarch safely to his own land before they retreated about a mile back into Orlais to set up camp. The escort was but the start of their mission. Duke Marc had given orders to which Emperor Alistair was not privy.
Their assignment was to patrol the main road between Orlais from Ferelden—the route the emperor followed when he visited Val Royeaux. They were to watch for bandits, assassins, or any other hostile agents that might try ambush the new emperor, and kill them on sight. If one surrendered, he should be forced, by false promises of freedom or by torture, to divulge the name of the person or parties who had hired them. Once the information was obtained, the hostile was to be killed. The Duke would suffer no loose ends.
"What do you suppose is going on?" the head guard asked his subordinates. "Do you think there's really a plot against the emperor, or is the good duke being over cautious? He has a fondness for Fereldans, though I can't fathom why he finds a country of peasants and fools so special."
"I think Orlesian politics is what he fears," another answered. "How many assassinations of royals and nobles have we seen in our careers alone, much less those in past generations?"
"Settle in, gents," the senior guard said. "It looks like we're in for a long stay in a cold mountain pass. Let's see if we can find a suitable cave overlooking the road. We'll be protected from the worst of the weather and we'll have a good view of any travelers."
They trudged up toward the cave, leading their horses over the rocky terrain rather than riding them and risking a fall. One guard asked another, in a low voice so the senior wouldn't overhear him, "Who do you think would want to do the emperor in? He seems a polite sort, and he hasn't had time to make enemies."
"If I had to venture a guess, I'd say it would be the empress herself. The palace guards say she and the new spouse aren't exactly crazy about each other."
"Hmph. If that were all there was to it, my wife would have had me killed years ago."
The first rumblings of conspiracy began immediately following Celine's wedding. They increased after the emperor's coronation. Within the court, it was the main topic of discussion. The nobles and advisors spoke in terms of 'what if something happened to him' and 'it would be unfortunate if he died', but Marc had been around long enough to read through the veiled remarks. A genuine threat was afoot, and being a seasoned politician himself, he played along with them so he could keep tabs on the progress of the plot against the Fereldan. It wasn't right, whatever they were planning. He wasn't going to sit by and let it happen if he could prevent it. He had made powerful allies over the years. He would prevent it, whatever the cost.
Teagan was delighted to see Alistair's son. He was a handsome child by any standards (though none could compare to his own Jaden). The king and his maids stayed with them for a full two weeks. During that time, Jaden warmed up to the infant.
"He's noisy and messy and he won't talk, but I guess he can be my little brother." Teagan and Winter exchanged glances.
"What? What's with the looks? Are you two expecting again?" Alistair asked.
Winter answered him, "No. I wish… but maybe the taint has… taken a toll…" She could hardly speak of it. Barrenness was a sore topic for her. She and Teagan wanted another child, but it wasn't meant to be. Accepting the fact was the hard part.
"Oh. I'm sorry for asking. I'm an idiot," Alistair said.
"Not at all," Teagan said. "What of Duncan's mother? Does the empress not miss her boy?"
Alistair had been avoiding the subject, but there was no sense being evasive. "Celine and I are… I don't know what to call it… separated, I suppose? We aren't compatible. We have nothing in common. She doesn't like children. I don't like Orlais or Celine. So Duncan will be living with me permanently."
"I'm sorry," Teagan said. "I had hoped… Well, political marriages and all… Damn it, this is awkward."
"Forget it, and forget about her," Alistair said. "We have a peace treaty and I have an heir, so I've no need to go back to Orlais."
Famous last words… But for the next few years, he'd have no dealings with Orlais.