CHAPTER THREE: Duty Weighed Against Duty

"He always did like you better," Aeron says, gesturing behind and below, toward the chanter's board.

We're climbing the wide stone staircase that rises sharply from the courtyard to a landing outside the keep's third floor. Enormous wooden doors on the landing are the only public access to the keep, and open into the great hall, the seat of my father's court.

"You saw how he was acting," Aeron persists. "He thinks the whole world is about to be swallowed up in darkspawn, and he obviously thinks I'm doomed – but then, he's been predicting I'd meet a bad end as long as I can remember."

"Well, you can't exactly blame him."

"Exactly. I was a regular little shit. Probably still am. Which is why you can't blame him for being glad you're staying here, seeing as he thinks there's a Blight on."

"Are you trying to rub salt in the wound?" I ask, but without animosity.

"Have I ever not?"

"Fair point."

We've reached the landing now. Two of my father's guardsmen are leaning against the hard stone of the tower. Their shields bear the Cousland family crest, setting them apart from soldiers or constables, denoting their service to my family directly rather than Highever as a whole. Each guard rests a halberd against his shoulder and carries a sword at the belt. Crossbows and quivers lean nearby. Both men nod casually to Aeron and I, but do not stir otherwise.

The landing is fortified, with high parapets flanking the staircase and continuing along the walkways that stretch out to the keep's corners and then around the sides, meeting the inner curtain wall's sturdy ramparts at the back of the keep. The ramparts similarly fortified at each of the inner ward's four corners, and on either side of the gate at the southern end of the courtyard. From any point on the ramparts, you can look down on the outer wards, bustling with servants, soldiers, and tradesmen, who move among buildings, some thatch-roofed and others built in stone against the lower, outer curtain wall.

Outside that wall, the city of Highever stretches east and west, bordered by palisades and riverbanks and divided by the Alienage and port district to the north. To the south, the city gives way to patchwork fields that stretch unbroken to the horizon. From here, I can just see the tent city that has sprung up in the midst of the fields, quartering the army while it prepares for the march to Ostagar.

"Besides," Aeron continues, "with my luck, there's no Blight at all, and I'll spend the rest of summer wandering through swamps fighting off bug bites and poisonous snakes."

I snort and shake my head.

"I'm serious!" Aeron does sound earnest now. "Listen, when a southerling complains it's to let you know he's got a thicker cock than you, and more hair on his chest, and that his life is so hard you couldn't possibly survive a day in his shoes. It's not because shit's actually any worse in the south than it is here. I'm about as prideful a northerner as you'll find, and my ego can't hold a candle to a southerling's. A silver says the refugees just had one too many bad planting seasons, and they're looking for greener pastures up north – but the only way they can figure to save face is to say there's a Blight on."

Aeron slips into a caricatured facsimile of the southerling dialect, deep-voiced and over-enunciated: "Maker, you know, we just hate to leave our manly, miserable existence, but, Andraste's tits, darkspawn. Darkspawn everywhere! Even with our enormous cocks and impressively hairy chests, we couldn't fight them off, so we had no choice but to leave our shacks behind and come up north, where it just happens to be so much nicer…"

His impression draws chuckles from the two guards. I can't help smiling either.

"I'll take your bet," I say after a moment. "If there's no Blight, you'll die from wounded pride before you die from boredom. Imagine your shame – joining the Grey Wardens, the highest calling of heroes – only to return with no glory?"

The guards chuckle again.

"It'll kill you, Aeron, so I think my silver is safe either way."

Behind us, the hall's door swings outward, and now the guards do brace, hoisting their shields and halberds, in case the doors open for my father. Instead, another of the guards steps out, hand up to block the sun. He's followed closely by the younger of the two Grey Wardens.

"The Teyrn sent me to find you two," the guardsman tells us on his way to the stairs. "Easy job, I guess. Anyhow, you're both wanted in the hall, milords." Message delivered, the guardsmen begins to descend the steps.

The Warden, however, pauses at Aeron's side. This is the first time I've seen him up close, and I realize he's younger than Aeron or I, no older than eighteen. His blond hair is cropped short, in the style of constabulary or Templars, and his hands and neck bear scars, but his face is smooth and unworn.

"Ser Gilmore? I hear you're to join us," the Warden says. His accent marks him as Ferelden, probably from the western lakes or Redcliffe.

Aeron, half inside the hall's threshold, turns and nods. "So I'm told."

"Well, don't get your hopes up, it's not all it's cracked up to be," the warden says with a crooked smile, and I'm not sure if he's joking or not. "But don't worry, I won't let anything happen to you."

The Warden pauses and seems to notice Aeron's stature and broadsword for the first time. He clears his throat. "Not that you look like you need it. I'm Alistair, by the way. I'll be helping you and the other recruits until–" Alistair stops speaking abruptly, looking mortified.

"Until…?" Aeron asks, clearly unimpressed.

"Well, until," Alistair mutters, blushing and looking down at his feet. "Duncan can tell you more, it's really…not my place." Awkward silence stretches for several seconds, and then Alistair offers a weak smile, face still bright red. "Well, this has obviously been my finest moment, but I do want to assure you that we're not all as adept at putting our feet in our mouths as I am."

Neither of us can manage a response.

"I, ah, won't keep you any longer. I do look forward to working with you, though. For what that's worth..." Alistair shuffles past Aeron and beats a hasty retreat down the stairs. We watch almost until he reaches the bottom.

"Well…shit," Aeron mutters at last. Then he elbows me and grins cheerfully. "I'm going to die, aren't I?"

"Of course you are," I say, shaking my head in mock disgust. "I knew you'd find a way to weasel out of paying up."

...

Much is made of Ferelden pragmatism. Our practicality is a source of national pride, and we are endlessly amused by the scorn our Orlesian neighbors lavish upon our perceived lack of sophistication. "Mud Kings" and "Dog Lords," they call us – and it is true that we Fereldens, from peasant to king, are often dirty, and rarely far from our Mabari. It is also true that we tend to spurn most luxuries; even beloved hounds, adored as family pets, must earn their keep, and are used for hunting, defense, and even warfare.

All the same, even the most apt of stereotypes comes with exceptions, and just as I doubt that Orlesians truly spend all their waking hours simpering behind masks at extravagant masquerade balls, we Fereldens do permit ourselves the occasional flourish. Nowhere, I think, is this more evident than in the halls of our castles, where the business of civic government is conducted beneath the symbols of our history and our values.

The great hall in Castle Highever is no exception. It is by far the largest room in the keep, occupying an entire level, and the tallest as well, with ceilings nearly twice as high as those on any other floor. Green banners hang from the rafters, emblazoned with the Cousland heraldry, and blue banners as well, bearing the crest of Highever, a pale green raindrop behind crossed spears. The wood floors are polished regularly, as are the benches and tables arranged on either side of the room.

A thick carpet runs down the room's center, from the wooden doors to a dais; another table, longer than the others, rests on the dais, and behind it, a high-backed oak throne. Exposed wooden beams rise to the ceiling at intervals along the side walls, and on each one a torch is mounted above a shield bearing the family insignia of a lord who has sworn fealty to Highever's Teyrn. Portraits of past Teyrns and the Banns who preceded them hang between the beams, flanking tall windows. The windows themselves are imported glass, cut into shapes that fit perfectly into ornate patterns of wrought-iron that wind between the frames like thorny vines.

Behind the dais, an enormous fireplace occupies much of the back wall, sharing a chimney with the kitchen below and the living quarters above. The fire burns year-round, day and night, tended by Nan's small army of servants, a dramatic backdrop when the Teyrn sits on his throne.

...

As Aeron and I enter the hall, my father is on the dais but not the throne. His back is to us, and he is half-seated at the edge of the long table.

The judicial hearings in the outer ward must have gone long, because he is still wearing court clothes: a short-waisted white doublet, the back embroidered in green with the family crest, over a dark blue tunic and breeches. He wears the family longsword on his hip, with the blade exposed. In spite of the formal attire, my father appears at ease. He is laughing, his attention on a stocky, silver-haired man who stands on the other side of the table, nearer the fire.

"Speak for yourself, Howe," my father says, still laughing.

"Be that as it may, my lord," says Howe, "even you must admit, we had a lot less grey in our hair then. And we marched to fight Orlesians, not monsters."

"At least the smell will be the same!" Father say. This provokes uproarious laughter from both of them, so much that I gather it must be an old joke.

"Did you know Howe would be here?" Aeron mutters with distaste.

"Just keep a civil tongue, if you can," I whisper back. Arl Rendon Howe is not a man to be trifled with, and holds enormous sway in Father's court. Father is unaware of the bad blood between Aeron and the Arl, and it would be better for everyone if he does not learn of it.

"I will if he does," Aeron replies, which isn't exactly promising.

Arl Howe is perhaps my father's oldest friend. They met as young men, during the last years of the long, bloody rebellion against Orlesian occupation. They served together under the King Maric Theirin, the father of our current monarch, and were with him when he finally overthrew the Orlesian's puppet government. Father never speaks of the war, but piecing together history lessons with castle gossip and bards' tales, I gather their bond was forged in blood during Battle of White River, many years before victory was finally won.

Surprised by a massive force of elite Orlesian chevaliers, King Maric's northern army was forced into a tactical retreat. Father and Howe remained behind, leading a few hundred militia in a rearguard action to buy time for the remainder of the army. They chose to make their stand at a ford in the White River, and stand they did. For two days and two nights, the water ran red, until fewer than fifty defenders remained. Even then, the songs say, my father had to be dragged from the river by Howe, who had received word that the bulk of the army was safely away.

How much of this is truth and how much is legend, I don't know. The only thing my father has ever told me about the battle is that he was lucky to survive, and lucky to have fought beside a friend as loyal as Howe.

"Pup!" My father calls out, noticing us. "Come in, boys, come in, I didn't see you there."

As we continue toward the dais, I realize the older Grey Warden, Duncan, is in the hall as well. He's leaning casually against the stone just to one side of the hearth, half-hidden by one of the exposed beams. The light from the fire casts him in shadows, explaining why I didn't see him before.

"Howe," Father says cheerfully, "you remember my son, of course, and Ser Gilmore?"

"Liam," Howe says with a half-smile, which is more than he offers Aeron, to whom he merely nods curtly.

"A pleasure as always," I say, inclining my head respectfully as I deliver the lie with practiced familiarity. Father may hold Howe in high regard, but I share Aeron's animosity; I just hide it better.

"You've grown since I saw you last," Howe says, choosing what's undoubtedly the least original greeting from the old to the young that mankind has yet devised. "Your father tells me you will be stewarding Highever, while the men march south?"

His remark is delivered in innocent tones, but the implication of cowardice seems clear. Two can play the game of words, however.

"So I'm told," I reply neutrally. "Will your family be joining us?"

"No," Howe says, brows furrowing slightly, no doubt suspecting my intent. "They remain in Amaranthine, as far from the fighting as I can manage."

"I hope they're well, my lord," I say. "I recalled that Delilah fell ill just prior to your visit last summer. I had hoped she might join us."

Howe regards me with a sour expression for the briefest of moments before looking down and adjusting a decorative silver pendant, a pin in the shape of a bear that fastens his putrid yellow cloak at the shoulder.

I can practically feel Aeron's glare burning the back of my neck. In fairness to him, it's downright hypocritical to provoke Howe when I advised Aeron against it moments ago, but the man has that effect on me.

My father, blissfully ignorant, is all smiles. "Once this unpleasantness is behind us, I'm sure we'll see her, Pup – and the rest of your family as well, Howe. A dance, perhaps this winter? My wife would love nothing more."

"Of course," Howe says to my father, but his lips have gone a bit white, and he has shifted his posture so that he doesn't risk even glancing at Aeron.

Two years ago, on one of his regular visits to Highever, the Arl brought along his youngest daughter, Delilah. She and I are the same age, and I believe father's hope was that she and I would fall for each other, uniting the families and putting to rest my affair with Iona in one fell stroke.

Delilah was pretty, and very shapely, but that was the extent of her charm, at least as far as I was concerned. She wore her noble birth on her sleeves, simpering and mincing about the castle with a judgmental eye. My disinterest of the tacit matchmaking was polite but complete, and I suspect that alone may have begun the souring of my relationship with Arl Howe.

Delilah's charms may have been lost on me during the visit, but they were definitely not lost on Aeron. With his broad shoulders, flaming red hair, and roguish smile, he's never had to work hard to find his way between a girl's legs, and Delilah was no exception. Aeron deflowered her before she'd been in Highever three nights. Or bedded her, at least, as Aeron insisted then – and still insists – she was no virgin.

Falling victim to uncharacteristically bad luck, Aeron was caught in her chambers, in the act, by one of Howe's family bodyguards. He might have escaped a beating if he'd been appropriately penitent before the Arl, who raged at him for impugning Delilah's virtue. But, predictably, Aeron chose to respond to the accusation by sharing his opinions of Delilah's supposed virtue. Equally predictably, this precipitated a savage beating from Howe's guards.

Whether he deserved it or not, the beating was patently unlawful. Unlike most of noble families who make up the Teyrnir, the Gilmores have sworn fealty to the Cousland family specifically, rather than to Highever as a whole. Thus, legally and traditionally, Aeron quite literally belongs to my father, and the Arl grossly overstepped by punishing him without first bringing his grievance to Father.

Aeron suffered several cracked ribs, as well as deep cuts to his upper back and neck that are still visible as thick scars, and took weeks to recover. Still, he made me swear not to tell my father what had happened. This promise was exacted not out of shame at his indiscretion, but to protect my father, who would have been caught between his duty to Aeron's family and his friendship with Howe. Thanks to Aeron's loyalty, he and I are the only people besides Howe, Delilah, and the guards who know what happened.

Aeron himself didn't seem to be bothered by the beating so much as by the Arl's insistence that Aeron had somehow dishonored Delilah. "Call a trollop a trollop!" Aeron told me at the time.

Those words became a bit of a joke between us, repeated many times since, and repeating inside my head now. I want to smirk but force myself into composure.

"I'm sorry to have missed your arrival," I tell Howe, careful to keep my voice neutral.

"It was unexpected," he says stiffly. "I had hoped to arrive tomorrow with my troops, but my men are delayed by unexpected rains on the coast, so I rode ahead. The mounted troops may arrive tonight, but our infantry are several days behind at least. I was just apologizing to your father for the delay, but he insists on distracting me with old war stories."

"Nonsense!" Father's response is immediate and warm. "No apologies are due! The appearance of darkspawn in the south has us all scrambling. I only received our orders from the King a few days ago myself."

"If he sent riders to Amaranthine, I missed them," Howe says. "I left as soon as possible after your couriers arrived with the Wardens' message." Arl Howe glances sidelong at Duncan, who has not moved. "I presume we march south?"

"Yes," my father says, and beckons me toward the table. "Ser Gilmore, you too," my father says, "this concerns you as much as any of us. I'd hope to include Fergus, but I haven't seen him since breakfast."

"He was in the kitchen maybe a half hour ago?" I offer.

"I know, he was here when Howe arrived," Father says, "but he seems to have misplaced himself. If Oren's still at lessons, he's probably stealing a few minutes with Oriana."

Howe chuckles. "Ah, youth."

"Oren was with him in the kitchen," Aeron says. "They were looking for sweets, I think. It did seem like they were going back upstairs to their apartments when they left, though, so they may be with her now."

"Well, no matter," Father says. "We can leave them be. They deserve what time they can claim before Fergus and I leave. For now…"

Father sweeps his hand across the table's surface, which is covered with maps, charts, and written records of troop strength, so many that the papers overlap one another even though they are spread the length of the table. I see a familiar map of Ferelden, as well as numerous smaller ones depicting the roads that lead south from Highever, along the River Dane, to the bountiful farmlands around Redcliffe. The map nearest to us, however, on which father has placed several iron chess pieces, is unfamiliar; I have to study it carefully before I realize it depicts Ferelden's border with the uncharted Korcari Wilds. One of the rooks, a chess piece shaped like a castle tower, rests on a point between two hills.

"King Cailan is massing the army at the ruins of Ostagar," my father says, pointing to the rook. "Teyrn Loghain is there already with his troops, and we've received word that they've already fought several successful skirmishes against the darkspawn. Duncan brought us the news yesterday, along with news of the first skirmishes." He straightens, looking over Howe at the Warden. "Come and join us. Your input would be welcome, and besides, you wanted to meet my son."

Duncan straightens and walks over to stand beside Howe. We shake hands across the table as my father makes introductions, and I am unsurprised to find his grip firm and assured.

"Duncan, this is my youngest, Liam."

"A pleasure," Duncan says, and seems to mean it.

The Warden on the stairs, Alistair, did not fit the ideal I have nurtured since childhood of Grey Wardens as stoic warriors, mythical heroes standing against demons born from unspeakable sin. Duncan, however, appears as though he has stepped directly from legend. He is about my father's age, although his jet black hair betrays none of the grey that my father and the Arl laughed about earlier His forearms, left bare by his leather armor, are corded with muscle and roped with long scars, and he moves with a confident ease I've only seen embodied by the best of my father's soldiers.

"Pup, this is Duncan," Father continues, "the Warden Commander here in Ferelden. He was among the first to encounter the beasts, I believe. Without his warning, the southern forces would not have had time to mobilize, and half of Ferelden might already be overrun."

"Perhaps not so quickly as that," Duncan says gravely, "but we might be facing raids further north, and may still face them if Ostagar is not reinforced. My scouts spotted a horde assembling in the Korcari Wilds less than three weeks ago, and King Cailan has taken us at our word and marshalled your armies quickly. The first battles have already been fought, and the horde is not yet at full strength."

"How many do you believe there are?" Howe asks, obviously skeptical.

"When I saw it myself, the horde numbered in the thousands, perhaps ten thousand, and they were deep on the Wilds." Duncan points to a handful of black pawns placed on the bottom of the map, well south of the Ferelden border. "That was several weeks ago, before the horde move north. The most recent skirmishes have been fought only a few miles from Ostagar. Our scouts report their numbers grow daily, as more emerge from the Deep Roads, but we cannot achieve an accurate count, and we have no idea how many remain further south. To prepare ourselves, we must look to history, and records from past Blights speak of many hordes, each hundreds of thousands strong."

Aeron hisses through his teeth. No human kingdom, at least none that I have heard of, could field an army of that size. Father also appears troubled, but Arl Howe merely rolls his eyes impatiently.

"The news is not all bad," Duncan says. "I believe this Blight to be very young. Their numbers cannot have grown anywhere near that of past Blights. We may still have many weeks before the full host reaches the surface, and this gives us an opportunity: we may be able to face them down before they are at full strength, and end the Blight before it begins."

"Not to look a gift horse in the mouth," Howe sighs, "but if what you say is true, how do we know this is a real Blight? You say there has been no sighting of a dragon or an Archdemon or whatever it's called, and you said yourself, just now, their numbers do not match past Blights."

"It is true," Duncan says, nodding. "No Archdemon has been sighted yet, my lord. But with my entire soul, I believe this is a Blight."

"Your soul?" Howe scoffs.

Duncan ignores the remark. "I have never felt so strong a purpose in the darkspawn, and I have never seen so many on the surface – not even a fraction. Darkspawn raids typically consist of a few dozen beasts, a hundred at most. We believe most such raids are accidental, when they blunder into a forgotten exit from the deep roads. That is not the case now. Their numbers alone tell me this is no mere raid, and they move with a purpose that can only be the will of an Archdemon." Duncan looks intently at Howe. "I understand your skepticism, Ser, but we have a chance now that we have never had before."

"You are the expert, of course, Master Warden," Howe concedes, skeptical nearly to the point of sarcasm, before turning his head to address my father. "However, there is more to be said. My Lord, I told you I did not receive word from the king, but I did receive word from Teyrn Loghain before we left Amaranthine. A warning – or a caution, rather, intended for you."

"From Loghain?" my father asks, a note of displeasure creeping into his voice.

"Yes, My Lord. I apologize for not telling you sooner, but I had hoped to speak of this more privately."

"There's no need for that."

"Loghain sends word from Ostagar," Howe says reluctantly. "He also is not convinced the darkspawn threat constitutes a Blight. The early victories have come easy, he says, and he fears committing all our forces so far south may be unwise for…other reasons." Howe glances at Duncan uncomfortably. "He also has concerns. About the Wardens."

Howe looks expectantly at Father, apparently hoping he will dismiss the Warden.

When Father does not, Howe sighs, turns, and addresses Duncan directly. "My apologies, Commander, but it is my understanding that you have asked for support from the Grey Wardens in Orlais?"

"Of course," Duncan replies. "The Blight is contained in the south for now, but I have only a handful of Wardens under my command. I've asked our garrisons in Orlais to prepare to come to our aid, but they will not march without King Cailan's permission."

Howe nods as though Duncan has confirmed something, and turns back to Father. "I mean no disrespect to Commander Duncan, and I doubt even Teyrn Loghain questions the honor of our Ferelden Wardens – but you know as well as I, old friend, the Orlesians would be only too happy to snatch us back into their Empire. They are not to be trusted, and Teyrn Loghain suggests that even their Wardens must be treated with suspicion."

Howe pauses, glancing at Duncan to see if he will offer any rebuttal, but the warden is stoic.

"Even if we have nothing to fear from the Orlesian Wardens," Howe continues, "when word of a Blight reaches Orlais, it may be the justification the Empress seeks to invade Ferelden again, under the auspices of defeating a Blight and supporting the Wardens. With all our armies in the south, the chevaliers could be in Denerim before word even reached us in Ostagar. With your permission, My Lord, Teyrn Loghain requests that we hold the bulk of our force here in Highever and await further word so that he and the King can determine if a true Blight exists. He also requests that we reinforce the garrisons in the northern passes, to buy us time if chevaliers march."

When Howe finishes, my father remains silent, staring down at the map. Almost a minute passes, and Howe begins to fidget with his belt until he can stand the silence no longer.

"Please, my lord. All we fought for in the rebellion-"

My father holds up a hand, stopping Howe mid-sentence. "There is no higher honor than serving as a Warden, and I have no doubt that Duncan's Orlesian brothers take their oaths as seriously as he does. But as for the Empress…I understand your fears, and Loghain's as well. I would not see chevaliers' boots on Ferelden soil again." Father pauses, and I can tell he is weighing his next words. "Now, answer me this, my friend: do these requests come only from Teyrn Loghain, or from King Cailan as well?"

Howe purses his lips and answers reluctantly. "Only Loghain. I fear…I fear Cailan sees only peace with Orlais in our future, and only glory in the face of a Blight."

Father nods, silent, still staring at the map, and it's clear he is troubled.

Long before he was a Teyrn, Loghain Mac Tair was a common soldier in the rebellion against Orlais, and an early friend of King Maric. After proposing asymmetrical tactics that ultimately saved the struggling rebellion from utter destruction at the Battle of Southron Hill, Loghain rose through the ranks; by the time Arl Howe and my father made their stand at White River, Loghain commanded all of Maric's troops. Many credit him even more than Maric with our eventual victory over the Orlesians, which was cemented in the same battle that earned Loghain his unofficial title: The Hero of the River Dane.

Since then, his power has only grown. When Maric took back the throne, his first act was to bestow Loghain with titles and land; during Maric's rule, Loghain was his closest adviser, and years later, when the king was lost at sea, Loghain served as regent until Maric's son, Cailan, came of age; and when King Cailan was crowned, he wasted no time marrying Loghain's daughter, Anora, our current queen.

By law and tradition, Loghain's title is the same as Father's. As the only two Teyrns in Ferelden, they hold more authority than anyone save the King. The people, however, look to Loghain even more than Cailan as Ferelden's true leader, and my father shows deference to Loghain that rank does not demand. He has told me more than once that there is no one, in all Thedas, he respects more than Teyrn Loghain.

But none of that matters if Loghain has circumvented the King to make such this request. Even if my father shares the fear of Orlesian aggression, the question is one of duty, and my father owes his duty to King Cailan. And a Cousland always puts his duty before any other consideration.

I am not surprised when my father says, with finality, "Then we march south."

"Yes, my lord," Howe says, and inclines his head. It is a gesture of respect, but it also serves to hide a scowl.

"We can't keep the King waiting," Father says, nodding as he speaks. "I'll send Fergus immediately, with the troops. You and I will ride tomorrow, with the supply caravans, and hopefully with your cavalry, if they arrive in time. We can leave orders for your men to follow us south when they arrive, but you may have several regiments break off to reinforce the border outposts. I'll send riders in the meantime to the western constabulary and the banns who don't march with us, instructing them to hire scouts to send west. If the Orlesians do march, we'll at least have some notice."

"Thank you," Howe says, but he does not seem relieved in the least.

Father turns to me now. "Pup, I summoned you here for a reason, not just to hear us argue politics. You have heard, I believe, that Duncan is here looking for recruits before he rides south to join us and his fellow Wardens?"

I nod.

"Then you also know Ser Gilmore has agreed to join our Order," Duncan says. "I came to Highever specifically to recruit Ser Gilmore. However, I am looking for other recruits as well."

A knot begins to form in my stomach. "Others?"

"Yes. Our numbers are few, especially in Ferelden. I am always looking for men and women who possess the skills we need, but the Blight has added urgency to my search. Even so, besides Ser Gilmore, I've been able to find only two other candidates on my journey who are worthy and willing to serve. You may know one of them – Ser Jory, of Caer Oswin?"

It takes me a moment, but I eventually put a face to the name. Darrien Jory is related to Lady Landra – one of the Bann's nephews, I believe. He has competed with Aeron in a number of tournaments.

"I know him," I say. "He's a fine swordsman."

"As is your friend," Duncan says, nodding to Aeron. "The other recruit is a thief, a pickpocket who tried to cut my purse in Denerim on my way to meet the king. This thief, Daveth, is no warrior, and has not lived a particularly honorable life. In fact, had I not conscripted him into our Order, he would've been hanged for repeat offenses." Duncan pauses, openly studying me for any reaction. "Perhaps, young Ser, you are wondering why I chose to offer him a place among the Wardens?"

Not sure how to respond, I simply nod.

"The Wardens seek those who possess unique skills, most often those of a warrior. But it takes more than blades to win wars, and Daveth was skilled at his art. I am not an easy man to stalk, but I did not hear him behind me, and barely felt his cut on my belt. It was only luck that I caught him. Perhaps you can see why such talents would be useful to me?"

I nod again.

"Now, if I can find no other suitable candidates, I will ride south with those three – Daveth, Ser Jory, and your Ser Gilmore – after they complete their trials. I hope to complete the trials within the next few days, here in Highever, and your father has graciously assured me that in his absence, I can count on your assistance in this matter."

Duncan pauses, and from the corner of my eye I see my father's shoulders tense.

"Or," Duncan continues, "If I might be so bold, I would suggest you are an excellent candidate for recruitment as well."

The knot in my stomach tightens so quickly that I am suddenly light-headed. The room seems to shift sideways and begin to spin, and my breathe catches in my throat. My thoughts are frozen along with my tongue, my silence surely condemning me as a coward or a fool. With great effort I force my mouth to open, but no words follow.

"I know you would do the Order proud," Father says, "and if we do face a true Blight, there is no greater service than as a Grey Warden."

Dimly, I realize that the space between Duncan's offer and Father's interjection was less than a second. I haven't yet made a fool of myself, but my mind is no clearer for the realization.

Father whets his lips before continuing. "My first duty is to the people of Highever, and then to ensuring the Cousland line. Fergus has already refused Duncan's offer, so I have no right to prevent you from accepting, should you wish to do so. Even if I tried, Commander Duncan could invoke the Right of Conscription and take you from me anyhow, and I could do nothing to prevent him."

Duncan shakes his head adamantly. "Have no fear of that, my lord. I do not believe in forced service. Even if I did, you have proven yourself a friend to my Order, and we have not so many of those that I would cast your support aside."

In the midst of a storm of thoughts raging in my mind, Duncan's last few words stand out. I recall Brother Aldous remarking in the courtyard that the Wardens have few friends in Ferelden besides my family. I really will have to ask the brother about this, I tell myself, and then immediately wonder why this detail preoccupies me instead of the choice suddenly laid at my feet.

Father is staring at me, I realize. His hands go to my shoulders and he pulls my head close to his, until our foreheads touch. From the corner of my eyes, I see both Aeron and Howe turn aside; Duncan, however, does not look away.

"You are my son," my father says, his words soft and forceful at the same time, "and I have not so many children that I would send any of you to battle willingly. But you, especially – you..." Whatever he was about to say, Father thinks better of it. He squeezes my shoulders briefly and releases me. "If it were up to me, I would see you remain here and steward our people through this storm. But the choice is yours, pup."

I nod, and turn to Duncan, slowly finding words. "You would – you would really recruit me as a Grey Warden?"

If anything, Duncan looks surprised by my question. "Of course. You are young and unmarried, and I understand you have some skill with a bow. Above all, you are obviously responsible if your father is willing to leave you in charge of his castle and his lands. We do not simply recruit anyone, and I intended no flattery when I said you show promise. I would have asked you last night, when I approached Ser Gilmore, but the Teyrn requested I speak to your brother first."

I look at Father in surprise, and he nods tersely.

All of us are silent for several seconds, the wood crackling and popping in the fire. Their eyes are on me again, and still I have no answer as my cheeks flush and burn, and as the seconds stretch, I realize the heat from the fire is overwhelming, stifling my breathe and forming beads of sweat at my temples.

Why would Father offer Fergus first? Fergus is married, with one child and another on the way, and Duncan specifically referred to my lack of a family when explaining his interest in recruiting me. Further, although titles are not always passed on to the eldest child, that is the presumption, and I've heard nothing to indicate Fergus will not be the next Teyrn.

And although I am not surprised he refused Duncan's offer, I don't understand why Fergus didn't mention the invitation earlier, in the kitchens. If Duncan made an offer to him, and he refused, surely Fergus must have guessed an offer would be made to me?

Did Duncan even intend to make the offer to Fergus? He said Father insisted…

All these questions press on me as I try to consider an answer I never imagined needing.

This morning, when Aeron told me would become a Warden, it was clear there would be no dissuading him, and even if there were a chance to change his mind, I would not try. He is my friend, and I would not stand between him and his dreams, even though his absence will be felt dearly.

It did not cross my mind that the Wardens might make me the same offer, nor was such an offer something I desired. Adventure is not something I seek, yet I feel shame at being left behind while those I love risk life and limb. No matter what Aeron wagers, no matter what Brother Aldous says, I am convinced that remaining in Highever while my friends and family ride to war is cowardice. Yet to remain is the duty I have been given.

Would joining the Wardens be the greater service? Or would it merely be escape from a duty of which I'm ashamed?

If I do not stay here, who will? Would Fergus remain behind? If so, should I not accept Duncan's offer, if only to spare Oren the risk of growing up an orphan?

And what of Iona? If I joined the Wardens, could I marry her after all? Or would I have to give her up forever? I don't know if the Wardens permit such things…but they must, if Ser Jory is being recruited. Or will he leave his wife completely to face the Blight?

I shake my head, trying to clear it, trying to think past the questions.

"You need not decide now," Duncan says, his voice calm as he interrupts a silence that has felt like eternity. "Unless the answer is clear to you?"

Relieved, I shake my head, wanting to laugh at the lunacy of his question. "I...I wish it were," I manage.

"It's a difficult choice you face," Howe says softly, surprising me. My eyes dart to him, anticipating a trap in his words; instead, I find his expression earnest, even sympathetic. "Who can weigh one duty against another?" he asks.

I'm so surprised by his sincerity that I have to force myself to refocus on Duncan and my father. "You both mentioned other help I might provide the Wardens," I say, slowly.

Duncan nods immediately. "There are certain trials that all initiates must endure, before a final ritual commits them to a life with the Order. Much of this, we choose to keep private, but the trials take several days, and the ritual requires privacy and certain resources. If necessary, the entire process can wait until we reach Ostagar, but the front lines are not ideal, and I would rather arrive at the King's camp with new Wardens than with initiates."

"If you choose to remain here," Father interjects, "you will see that any of Duncan's requests are granted, without question or hindrance. There are other duties to tend to as well, of course – I can spare only a token force to remain at the castle, and you know what they say about mice when the cat is away, yes? You would have much to do, including reinforcing the garrisons at the western passes."

"Think on it tonight," Duncan advises. "Talk with your family. Talk with your friend, Ser Gilmore. If I were you, I might pray as well. This is not a choice to make lightly."

"Good advice," Howe intones.

"We'll speak again in the morning," Duncan says. "I will look for your answer then. For now, it sounds as though you have much to do, so I will take my leave."

"Will you require Ser Gilmore?" Father asks.

"There will be time enough for him to join us tomorrow," Duncan says, and then looks at Aeron. "The next few days will bring many changes, Ser Gilmore. Enjoy tonight, say your goodbyes, and ready yourself for the testing."

Duncan turns back to my father and strikes his right fist against his chest, the traditional Ferelden gesture of respect. "Thank you for your hospitality, my lord, and your support."

"The honor is mine," Father tells him.

Duncan bows to Howe as well, although does not strike his chest. Howe returns the bow perfunctorily, barely dipping forward, and righting himself almost immediately. If Duncan notices the sleight, he gives no indication, turning instead and walking around the table and toward the courtyard door.

"The Warden Commander is correct," Father says once Duncan has gone. "We all have much to do. Fergus knows our marching plans, but when we last spoke, we had not yet decided he will leave today. Pup, please go and tell him. He needs to begin preparations now, and I expect he'll need time to say his goodbyes – he had not planned to march until tomorrow morning, I believe."

Now it's my turn to bow. "Yes, Father."

"You may take Aeron with you, if he is agreeable. I'd like you both to stay nearby, in case anything comes up, but I took the liberty of clearing both your schedules. I'm sure you'll find ways to fill the time." Father glances at me. "Do try not to get into any trouble, though. Your mother is already beside herself."

I assume he means Iona: he must, otherwise the prohibition against trouble would be directed to Aeron as well.

Instead, Father has other words for him. "Ser Gilmore," he says, and extends a hand. They grasp one another's forearms, and then Father surprises Aeron by pulling him into half a bear hug. "I'm sure we'll speak again before you leave," Father tells him, "but in case we do not, I want you to know - I could ask The Maker for no better friend or steward for my son than you have been. You have served me and my family well, and have done your family proud. I wish you only the best with the Wardens."

Aeron steps back from the embrace and bows deeply. "Thank you, My Lord."

Father nods, then turns to me. "And you, Pup. I hope you will make no decisions until we have a chance to speak, just the two of us?"

I nod.

"Good," he says. "Find me at dinner tonight. There will be toasting and dancing, I'm afraid, but I'm sure they'll allow us a few moments together. Even apart from your choice, there's much we should discuss."

"Yes, Father," I repeat.

"Well then," he says, and looks at me, then Aeron, then back to me. He seems on the verge of speaking further, but instead he exhales, long and slow. Then he looks away. "My friend," he says to Howe, "would you join me in addressing the troops? I need to prepare them to move out with Fergus, but I'd like to say a few words to them before they march."

The Arl inclines his head respectfully. "Of course, My Lord."

They, too, walk away from the table, Howe nodding to me as he passes, leaving Aeron and I alone by the table. We watch them leave, silent as they walk toward the doors.

Father puts an arm around Howe's shoulder as they walk. "We can discuss how best to shore up the defenses at the pass while we go," he says, "and if we tire of that, we can discuss the fates of our children behind their backs."

Howe chuckles. "For whatever good it will do."

They reach the doors and open them, and outside I can hear the guards brace, this time with cause. Then the hall is empty.

"Well," Aeron says, and claps me on the shoulder, "you look like you've swallowed a whole potato."

"Did you know?" I ask.

"Know what? That he'd make you an offer?"

"What else?" I snap.

Shaking his head, Aeron chuckles. "I was as surprised as you. Well, until he started asking you to guess why he took on a cutpurse."

"That was odd," I say.

"Yeah," Aeron agrees. "I guess he was just letting you know you don't have to be a big, brawny warrior like me to be welcome. If they take on thieves, I guess they'll welcome a boring old bookworm like you, too. You want to talk about it?"

I shrug, palms up. I don't even know where to start.

"Fair enough," Aeron says. "I'll try not to pry. For the record, though, I think it'd be brilliant: you and me, Grey Wardens?" He laughs delightedly. "We used to pretend we were, remember? We made all the younger kids be darkspawn…"

I do remember, although I don't say so. I begin to walk toward the staircase to the upper floors, where my family's apartments are located. The thought of the two of us, riding into glorious battle as Grey Wardens, armor flashing in the sun as we raise our swords, it really must be like something from Aeron's childhood dreams. But those dreams were always his more than mine. I'm not even sure I had dreams as a child – but if I did, they were not dreams of war and glory.

Even now, my fondest dream would be to find that all of this has been a dream – to wake up, and to find Iona beside me, and to find that nothing else in my life is changing. No Wardens, no Blight. Just Highever, as it's always been, and always should be.