Chapter 13: Infiltration

Eastern edge of the Brecilian Forest

Cailan looked ahead to where the large village of Gwaren was seated, and thinking that this must have been how his father saw it the first time during the rebellion so many years ago. Like those tumultuous days, he too faced an uncertain future with a small band of loyal stragglers who looked to him for guidance. And like his father before him, he wasn't certain of his plan.

As the forest ended the road into Gwaren abruptly began. The sky was less sallow on this side of the forest; it was still cloudy because it was nearly winter this far south, and the air smelled of snow. The tall leafy trees gave way to evergreens that lined the gravel track that was used by the lumberjacks who mined these parts of the woods the way dwarves mined precious metals in the depths of Orzammar. Cailan had been to Gwaren several times in his youth, but had always approached from the sea, landing in the third largest port in Ferelden. It was easier to get to the southernmost Teyrnir from Denerim via ship, and Maric's relationship with the Dalish elves was tenuous at best, making him wary of traversing their lands.

They donned their peasant disguises at the head of the gravel trail, though they kept their weapons close after the incident in the forest. Jowan walked at the head of the column with Cailan and Fergus, using his new mage staff as a walking stick. Merrill of the Dalish, as it turned out, was a strong mage. She'd blessed the staff, made from the living wood of the Brecilian Forest, and given it to Jowan. Combined with the lyrium, he was much stronger and more able. He also walked taller, more confident in his abilities.

As they walked down the road, it began to widen. Small huts began to dot the roadside, some set far back from the track and others closer with rough-hewn wooden fences right on the road. Smoke drifted from clay chimneys and chickens milled about in yards. It looked as if the Blight had hardly even touched this part of Ferelden. The Brecilian Forest provided a good barrier against the worst of the darkspawn incursion.

However, as they neared the edge of the town proper they saw that it wasn't spared entirely. Corpses were piled up, blackened and smoking, and sharp wooden pikes had been placed on either side of the roadway with deformed darkspawn heads on them. The tips of the spikes were driven right through the tops of the skulls. Flies buzzed around, feasting on the rotting flesh. The empty eye sockets stared at them as they passed. It was enough to give them all the chills, and was an effective warning to intruders. However, from what he'd seen Cailan seriously doubted that it would do anything to deter further ranks of darkspawn. The creatures were empty and soulless and didn't seem capable of rational thought.

Cailan stopped, and everyone else came round him. "What now?" Fergus asked.

"We can't take the town," Cailan said. "That's the reality. We don't know what their situation is with refugees coming in or going out. Instead of a full frontal assault we're going to have to play this slow and easy." It went against everything he'd learned or wanted to do because of his training. He'd studied war tactics and strategies and been tutored by Loghain. He knew how to amass an army and inspire loyalty. He knew how to show bright, unshakeable confidence in the face of the odds. And after the disaster that was his first military campaign at Ostagar, he knew that some tactics had to change.

"If we go in as a full caravan like this, we'll arouse suspicion," he added after seeing the skeptical expressions of some of the other men. He couldn't blame them, after what they'd had to see in the Brecilian Forest. But he also would not back down.

A quarter of an hour later Cailan walked into the main entrance to Gwaren with one hand on the nose of one of the donkeys. Viviane drove the cart, the back covered in burlap. Ser Ryder was huddled under the burlap, armed with daggers. Fergus waited back on the outskirts of the town with three men and Jowan; the others had scattered out around the perimeter of the town and would slip in, silent and unseen, once evening fell.

Soldiers bearing the wyvern heraldry of Gwaren stopped Cailan and Viviane as they reached the gates. "Stop and state your business," one man said, warily eyeing Cailan's cart.

"We barely made it out of Lothering alive," Cailan said, recalling the name of the good-sized southern village at the crossroads on the way to Redcliffe. "The darkspawn burned it, and with the king dead and the armies routed there's no hope. We just want some shelter."

The man looked him over, but Cailan had trimmed his hair and his face was none too clean. He was careful to keep his eyes downcast, the mark of a peasant. He stroked the donkey's nose, as if to calm the animal, but he was really trying to keep his own nerves at bay.

"How did you make it through the Brecilian Forest?" the other guard, an older and stockier man asked. He searched Cailan, who kept his eyes averted. Viviane remained seated, clutching the reins and hoping her silence could help her avoid notice. She wore her cloak up and kept her face down so quick glances would have difficulty seeing her distinctive markings. "Forest is full of things as bad as darkspawn. Some worse."

"The Maker is benevolent to his devoted children," Viviane said, her voice startling Cailan, who had to struggle not to burst into nervous laughter. "Who are we to question His divine will?"

The two looked at one another, their brows furrowed into deep valleys between their eyes as they appeared to have a telepathic conversation. "You must understand why we are so cautious," the first said at last. "We heard what happened in Lothering: hundreds of refugees swarming the outskirts of the village, and when the darkspawn came they had nowhere else to go. We didn't want the same to happen here. We also got some refugees from Lothering; couldn't say how they passed the forest either." At this he flicked his gaze between Cailan and Viviane. "But they took ship for Kirkwall going on a couple months back."

"Then the port is open?" The question came out more brightly than Cailan had anticipated. The news was welcome to him, and meant that at least one facet of his plan could potentially work the way it was meant to.

"We're sending soldiers to King Loghain on a regular basis," the stocky guard answered.

If Cailan had had a hard time stifling laughter before, it was even harder now. His father had had a way about him: Maric was nigh unreadable when he wanted to be, and it was just one more way Cailan feared he'd never live up to his father. He was nervous and uncertain as it stood; hearing the words "King Loghain" would just about push him over the edge. "And news of the capital?" he asked, hoping to change the subject.

Though Gwaren was moderately better off than most of the rest of Ferelden, the news was still bleak. Fianna and Alistair were still wanted criminals, even though they'd managed to acquire the assistance of the Circle of Magi and the Dalish Elves in the looming war against the darkspawn, and some rumors had them in the Deep Roads right now. Some whispered that Arl Eamon was still miraculously alive and that the Urn of Sacred Ashes had been found and used to cure him, but most scoffed at such things. The one thing everyone was certain of was that the darkspawn were moving forward daily, an unstoppable dark cloud of corruption that violated everything it touched. Even those in this remote southern port town were beginning to have fears that they would not continue to be spared for very long.

The only bright spot in all the news was that Queen Anora still sat on the throne and served as an inspiration to her people in this time of torment. Cailan's heart ached with pride when he heard this. Though he knew it was likely driving her crazy that her father had set himself up as her regent. Anora had always handled the intricacies of administration, and was quite good at it, having been groomed for this position since childhood. Cailan knew some considered him a weak king because Anora did so much of that work; but if anything, he felt it made their reign stronger to play up to their individual strengths. He wasn't so sure Loghain would give his daughter the same courtesy. Maybe Anora would finally see and admit that Cailan had been right about him during the last five years.

"The capital still stands; that is good news indeed," Cailan finally said. It was a struggle to get out what he said next. "Praise the Maker for… King Loghain's wisdom in this difficult time." It was like being forced to eat something foul, something he wanted to throw up instantly. And hearing himself say those words made his skin crawl, made him feel unclean. "May we pass?"

"Our resources are limited here, but we're not in the same position as Lothering," the stocky guard said. Cailan's commendation of Loghain seemed to have softened him up. "Especially if it's just the two of you. If you have coin, there's an inn up ahead. If not, maybe they'll let you board your asses in exchange for work."

"Thank you good ser," Cailan and Viviane said together and began to make their way past.

"What's in your cart?" The question from the first guard caught Cailan by surprise, and he nearly passed out from panic.

"This cart and these two asses were all we could save from the darkspawn," Viviane said, her voice fragile. She sounded like she might be on the verge of tears. "We gathered what we could, and along the way we had to sell items for coin and barter them for shelter. Now all that's left is a sack or two of grain that will likely be bartered to your innkeeper." The tone shifted to accusatory, and though she didn't turn to face the guard, her voice was loud enough to be heard, and Cailan knew those pale eyes were burning.

"I'm sorry then," the man said, and had no further questions, so let them pass.

Cailan expected more of a guard presence once they were in the main village, but things were quiet. He figured most of the able-bodied men must have been shipped up to Denerim to help "King" Loghain in his increasingly lengthy civil war. Even when he entered Gwaren's good-sized, yet only inn he didn't see any of the usual military presence he was used to. Coming to Gwaren as a young man, he'd learned quickly that as a bustling port it was also a hot spot for scum and villainy in addition to honest trade. Only Denerim and Amaranthine rivaled Gwaren, and both ports had a strong guard presence.

This inn was standard in Ferelden, with a sprawling lower room strewn with tables and chairs. A stone fireplace dominated one log wall, and a long counter partitioned off part of the room. It ended just before a set of stairs that led up to the rooms. Whenever Cailan had been here in the past there would be a couple of guards that were off duty nursing mugs at the bar, at least one usually stationed by the stairwell. Today it was empty.

Cailan inquired about taking a room for two. While he knew there would be more than just himself and Viviane coming and going, he figured he could ask Jowan about casting a glamour to make Ser Ryder look somewhat like Cailan. Or at least muddle the innkeeper's mind. If Fergus could get into the city with him, that was. He hoped the mage would not have to resort to blood magic to get past the guards; Cailan had yet to confess that small detail to Fergus.

He handed the gold coins to the innkeeper, who didn't ask where they came from or why a peasant would have that kind of coin in his possession; money was money, after all. But he did examine one gold coin closely, then looked up at Cailan. "Pity what happened to the king," he said, and Cailan's heart snagged in his chest, like loose fabric on a bent nail. "His reign was just getting started." Cailan nodded, happy to have found some sympathy in this town, which was still alarmingly loyal to Loghain. "Shame those Grey Wardens led him to his death. May the Maker spit on them and turn his back on their pleas," he added, and Cailan's heart sank. Perhaps the sympathy wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

He met Viviane out in the stables and helped her unhitch the donkeys. The animals were relieved to be free of the cart, and despite the way they'd been dragging their hooves, they pranced out into the fenced paddock and began to graze. "I've let a room," he told her. "You can go up if you'd like to rest, but I'd like to go have a look around the town."

"You're not afraid of being discovered?" she asked.

"At this point I don't think anyone would believe me if I did tell them who I was," he said grimly. "They'd think I'd gone soft in the head. Which might not be far off, actually," he added with a self-deprecating smirk.

Gwaren had changed tremendously in the years since Maric and Loghain had first set foot in the town. Homes and businesses had been built up, and even though there was a Blight going on the central market was busy. There was a small Alienage, but it was barred and gated, with signs written in red warning that there was no entry or exit. The man at the gate, only the third guard Cailan had seen since entering Gwaren, explained there was a plague that affected the elves, and there was no telling how it might affect humans. But he couldn't quite meet Cailan's eyes, and he didn't have any direct or satisfying answer to any of Cailan's questions.

On a hill to the north, overlooking the city, was the manor house his father had used as a command center during the early days of the rebellion, and that his own wife had called home throughout her childhood. He wondered who occupied the manor now, if anyone. Loghain lived in Denerim now (and was apparently quite comfortable on the throne). In fact, most of Cailan's memories of being a child in the palace involved Loghain's presence.

But he could consider how to claim that base later. Right now he continued east, following the winding gravel path away from the center of the village. Here the noise faded away and the air smelled of salt. Cailan inhaled and let the scent fill him. It had been so long since he'd smelled that and felt the invigoration of the sea.

The docks jutted out into the green harbor; the wind stirred up whitecaps that broke against the pilings with a hiss and a splash. The mournful cries of gulls soaring white against the iron-gray sky reminded him that though there was death all around him, there was also the hope of life. He squinted at the horizon to the north, and imagined he could see toward the port of Denerim. It was silly, he knew, but it gave him even more hope to know that the potential to get there was so much stronger now. And if he squinted even harder, he imagined he could see sails there against the line where the clouds met the ocean.

No ships were moored at the docks or out in the bay. A few dockworkers milled about, though most sat on mouldering barrels or worked to repair fishing nets. Cailan wondered how well the fishing would hold out; the darkspawn had yet to taint the ocean, but if the towns kept falling and the refugees kept moving and needing to be fed, overfishing was going to be a real concern.

Had Loghain thought of any of this when he took over? Cailan doubted it. Loghain had always been practical, even when Cailan was younger. He'd overheard many arguments between the Teyrn and his father, and most of them involved Loghain accusing Maric of being soft simply for caring for his people. Maric was able to brush Loghain's accusations aside; but Cailan never could. To Loghain, he was just Maric's son. Loghain had been tested, hardened by battle and ordeals that Cailan could never dream of; to Loghain, Cailan was little more than a child playing at war.

It was nearly nightfall before Fergus and Jowan met up with him, and Fergus didn't look happy in the least. "We had to make a distraction," Jowan explained. "Apparently refugees getting through the forest is rare, and you and Viviane met their quota for the month."

"The others?" Cailan asked.

"Got in, but scattered; we thought a large group might cause some curiosity. Luckily there's very little guard presence, and the ones who are here seem overwhelmed with what they have to do to begin with," Fergus said. The realization calmed him, and he finally removed his hand from his hidden sword hilt.

Cailan nodded. "Should make it easy to stage a coup."

Though he'd kept his voice low, Fergus still glanced around nervously. "You may wish to avoid saying that within earshot of… well, anybody," he said. "Though the guard presence is minimal, the villagers themselves are vigilant. They may not be formally trained with weapons, but they do outnumber us."

Fergus had a point. Cailan sighed and headed toward the inn, but rather than go to the lower floor of the tavern, he headed into the stable. The decrease of ship travel and trade due to the Blight meant that only their donkeys were boarded there. Cailan slipped into an empty stall and sat in the hay, back against the weathered wood.

Fergus joined him and surprised him by pulling out a flask. "The people are suspicious, but won't say no to coin if you have it," he explained before taking a long pull. He swallowed and winced, then handed the flask to Cailan. He drank wordlessly, also wincing at the sharp taste and worse burn, but the warm fuzziness after relaxed him slightly. "Remember the last time we did this?" Fergus asked.

Cailan felt a pang in his chest, as if someone were squeezing his heart. "When my father left for Kirkwall." When my world turned upside down.

"That was a good night," Fergus said with a smile. "I remember I called you the Practice King of Ferelden." Cailan couldn't help his smile at the memory. He took another swig as Fergus continued. "Maybe you've always felt like you were practicing. Because of Loghain and Anora," he said quickly, gesturing for Cailan to keep drinking. "Now is your chance to show them not even death can interrupt your reign."

"So should I reveal that I'm alive?" Cailan asked.

"Not yet. Let Loghain think he's got the upper hand. Let Alistair and Fi do their job and get their army. If the rumors about Arl Eamon are true, I'm sure he'd want to call a Landsmeet to address everything that's happened."

"Only nobles are allowed in the Landsmeet," Cailan reminded him. "If I'm masquerading as a peasant, how will I get in?"

"I'm Teyrn of Highever now," Fergus said, tone grim. "I'm equal in rank to Loghain, and Loghain didn't try to kill me; so I can go in no problem. And I'll bring you with me as my key witness to Loghain's war crimes."

Cailan handed him the flask. "I don't like the idea of hiding myself even longer, but until we have numbers on our side, I think your course of action is the best. It's a good plan."

"I was raised for this sort of thing, you know," Fergus said with pretend modesty. He rose to his feet and remained steady. The last time they'd done something like this, both men had been too drunk to stand properly. And Cailan had left feeling nothing but trepidation that, it turned out, was well-founded. Now they headed into the inn and felt hopeful.

Viviane agreed with their plan, as did Jowan, who sidled in through a side door. Through the journey the mage had been telling Cailan stories of life in the Tower, painting a portrait of himself as a timid young man whose immense caution meant nothing once he'd been slated for Tranquility. The irony was that their suspicions of blood magic were the direct cause of him actually using it. "Now that I have nothing, I have nothing to lose," he'd told Cailan once, and the timidity was gone. Now Jowan snuck through side doors and cast spells of distraction and manipulation, which were useful.

"I'd like to try to avoid using… that if I can," he murmured to Cailan later that night as they sat at a small corner table on one end of the tavern, while Fergus and Viviane sat at another. Ryder and the other men were nowhere to be seen, though night had long since fallen and the streets of Gwaren were filled with shadows. "Every time a mage uses it, he becomes more susceptible to demons. I don't think an abomination would be useful to you, ser." He smiled and took a swig of the watered down concoction that passed for ale here. "For one thing, they're horrible listeners."

Cailan smiled. "Thank you for making me aware of that. I've only asked you to use it when I thought it unavoidable, but from now on I'll evaluate those situations even more."

Jowan nodded his thanks. "Do you think of your wife often?" he asked, after looking about to see if there were any patrons nearby. Of course, there weren't. Though the innkeeper seemed like he was dying to ask questions, and was terribly suspicious of them all, he was certainly enjoying the surge in business that the day had brought and remained behind his counter.

"Every day," Cailan confessed. "Mostly what I regret about those last days before I left." He swirled the bit of ale in his mug. He hadn't confessed any of this to anyone, not even Fergus, who was his closest friend. "When I insisted I was going, she was angry and wouldn't talk to me, nor would she listen to me. The night before I was to leave I… spent with another woman." The whole situation confused him; he didn't regret that he'd spent that night with Aubrey, by any means; the elf girl had always been there, and ironically faithful to him in the times he was faithless to his wife. But he did regret that he hadn't been with Anora, hadn't had a last chance to hold her and tell her that, in spite of his infidelity he did love her. And now, even though he wasn't dead, he still wasn't sure if their desperate ploy would work. If it did he vowed he'd be faithful to Anora for the rest of his life. He looked over at Jowan. "You?"

"Mages never marry, and it's an unwritten rule that we never love," he said ruefully. "I broke that rule, which is what got me into trouble in the first place. Her name was Lily," he said before Cailan could ask if he felt comfortable sharing. "She was a Chantry sister; so not only did I fall in love, I fell in love with the one woman who was most off-limits to me."

"A disaster waiting to happen," Cailan said with a smile. "I understand that."

"Lily discovered that the Knight Commander was going to have me made Tranquil, and then helped me destroy my phylactery. My best friend helped." A shadow that Cailan had not seen since Redcliffe passed over Jowan's face. "She's probably dead now, after what I hear happened in the Circle." He shook his head. "I thought I was free, but they were waiting for us when we came up. I used blood magic to escape, my best friend was sent to the dungeons to await her fate, and Lily… she was… sentenced to Aeonar."

Cailan had read a great deal throughout his life and studied many aspects of life in Thedas, but he'd never heard of Aeonar. "The mage's prison," Jowan said in a quiet voice. "Most mages would rather die than be made Tranquil; well, they'd rather be made Tranquil than go to Aeonar."

Cailan shuddered at the idea that a fate worse than death would be preferable to going to the place Jowan had described. But Jowan had a slight smile on his face and he shrugged. "The only upside is that with nothing left to lose, I'm truly free."

"What about your own life?"

Another shrug and the smile spread. "I don't even have that anymore; it was forfeit when I did the work of…" he glanced around. "Well, you know." Jowan regarded Cailan curiously. "You know, you don't really have anything left to lose, either, so you have more freedom than you think."

Thoughts of Anora, of the palace in Denerim, of the land his father had freed and he had tried to save floated through Cailan's troubled mind. "I have everything to lose."

Jowan shook his head. "Theoretically, you've already lost everything. You're supposed to be dead, and less than two dozen people in the whole country know you're not. That's power."

Cailan's prepared retort died on his tongue, and instead he chugged the rest of his ale. But it was too weak to have the desired result, and he found himself still quite sober with Jowan grinning across from him. "Andraste's teats, you're right," he grumbled.

The next day Cailan met with Jowan and Fergus in the stables and they began to discuss a viable plan of action. It was hard for Cailan not to rush in and take over; he kept reminding himself that he'd done that at Ostagar and that had ended in disaster. He had to swallow his pride while Fergus and Jowan debated strategy. Jowan preferred distraction and subterfuge to Cailan's ideas for a bold frontal assault. Fergus sat back, deep lines carved between his brows as he thought.

"We can do both," he said suddenly, earning curious looks from Cailan and Jowan. "Gwaren has strength in numbers, but a vacuum in actual power. If we start out as part of those numbers, we can integrate ourselves into the people and get them to trust us. We prove useful and they'll give us what we need."

"Spoken like a true Teyrn's son," Cailan said, feeling suddenly lighter with the formation of a plan. And then he remembered everything that had happened, and why it was Fergus's sister scouring Ferelden for assistance against the Blight. He bowed his head in deference to Fergus. "Spoken like a true Teyrn," he corrected.

Fergus blushed a little at that and punched Cailan's shoulder. "Thanks for that, but don't get too used to deferring to me. You'll need to start being king again sooner or later."

Days turned into a week; an unusually glum week in the seaside village, with an uncanny fog rolled in from the ocean that obscured everything. Only Cailan and his band noted that Jowan was spending an awful lot of time down by the shore, but if they were to flash a questioning look at him, he only shrugged innocently.

When the fog lifted at the end of the week there was a palpable sense of relief from farmers, shopkeepers, and sailors alike. And the fact that there were eleven other refugees milling about in their midst slipped their mind.

Fergus began his subtle infiltration by speaking with the two men guarding the entrance to the village closest to the Brecilian Forest. "My friend and I lack coin," he said, jerking his thumb over at Ser Ryder. "But we do have skills we'd like to share with the town in gratitude." And that was how the two began serving with the town guard of Gwaren. Sers Alaric, Gareth, and Eben found work assisting the guards at the docks, whose numbers had been depleted by Loghain's constant demands for men. Eventually the others divided among Fergus's guard duty and the docks, and the original guards were just so grateful for the extra help that they didn't question any of it.

As one week became two and then three, Cailan found it difficult to bide his time. He was sleeping better now, even without the aid of Viviane's herbs and leaves. But some nights he dreamed of faces: countless faces locked in soundless screams with terror-filled eyes turned on him as fires blazed around them and smoke billowed into the sky. He woke with his heart pounding, fear for his people making him impatient.

His hair began to grow out, but he kept it pulled back, the way his father used to. A dark blond beard began to grow, spotty at first, and then filled in, helping to disguise him. And sometimes when he smoothed his whiskers in the looking glass, he would grin and wonder what his father would think if he could see him now.

The seemingly endless waiting grated on his nerves, so eventually he wandered down to the docks. While Eben and Gareth were always good for news of the few incoming and outgoing ships, he felt the need to see it for himself. Ever since his father had disappeared over six years ago, the ocean, docks, and ships held a strange interest for him. He didn't have any skills, but some of the older, wizened dock workers taught him to mend nets, and the monotonous work kept Cailan busy and at the heart of information.

"Ship coming from Denerim," one said one day, after they'd been in Gwaren nearly a month, and Cailan was wondering where Fianna and Alistair were at. Very few outside rumors made it to the remote Teyrnir. "Likely supplies."

"In exchange for soldiers," another old man said, spitting over the side of the dock into the murky waters that lapped against the barnacle-encrusted pilings. "If I know the Teyrn he's probably sent orders that nothing gets off the ship until men get on."

"You know the Teyrn's ways well," Cailan spoke up, earning a grin from them both. "He's ruthless that way." They laughed and set aside their work. Cailan piled the nets and stood, brushing rope fibers off his clothes and removing the tie from his hair. When he looked up the men were staring at him curiously. "What?" he asked, suddenly nervous.

"But for the beard, you'd be a spittin' image of King Cailan, Maker bless his soul," one of the men said. "Shame what happened all those months ago."

"Yes, shame," Cailan agreed, retying his hair and smoothing it down. He was alert for any other commentary he might have to fend off, but the moment had passed. He stood with the elderly fishermen, squinting out at the horizon where white sails seemed to glow against the eternal cloud cover.

The ship grew larger by the moment and soon it was pulling into a slip and Cailan found himself jumping and tying it off to the dock as naturally as any other dock worker. The labor felt good, and he knew it helped him stay in shape after the long weeks of no combat training.

The crew disembarked, and Cailan watched them carefully to see if he recognized any of them, and listened for any news of Denerim and Loghain. The ship had come to conscript any soldiers Gwaren could offer, as well as request supplies to feed and outfit Loghain's army. The news made Cailan bristle, but he clenched his jaw and maintained the forbearance and patience he'd spent the month in Gwaren cultivating.

He was about to turn away when more movement caught his eye. One last person was climbing out of the dark hold of the ship, a slight figure that wobbled as it reached the gangplank. The person stood a moment and tried to make his or her way to the dock, but was still off balance from sea sickness and swayed.

Cailan bounded up the gangplank and grabbed the person around the waist before he or she could fall overboard into the brackish water below. "Are you alright?" he asked.

"Yes, thank you," said a female voice. "I'd never traveled by sea before and it disagreed with me." She looked up at Cailan with stunning green eyes that left him speechless, heart pounding in his throat, choking him. She regarded him, something troubling in her eyes as she met his gaze. "No… it can't be you…"

He pulled the cap off her head and long locks of red hair tumbled down over her shoulder. "It is," he said. And forgetting everyone around him watching, Cailan swept Aubrey into his arms and kissed her.