Death and the Maiden

by Gene Dark

AU story from the Landsmeet to the End Game, including the events of Return to Ostagar, Soldier's Peak and Awakenings. General Loghain and Warden-Commander Tabris campaign against the Blight.

6. Chapter 6: Love Remains

This was hard to write, mostly because Howe's head is just not a good place to be! I thought about splitting this ridiculously long chapter into two, but it was written as one chapter and I think it works better that way. Apologies if it's indigestible. I'd like to thank Arsinoe for letting me use her ideas on the balance of power between the Crown and the Arl of Denerim. I'd also like to thank Enaid Aderyn and Meiran Chang, whose excellent fics "Perspective" and "One Good Turn" inspired my version of Goldanna.

Rilian's breathing was harsh as a rusted saw. She lurched with a strained, off-centre motion as her wounded shoulder stiffened. When Arl Howe's guards had seen her get away, the archer had fired, despite the order to avoid killing. Better dead than escaped, she supposed. Keeping her footing on the rain-slick stone taxed her to her limit. The narrow alley was littered with rubble and refuse. The energy surge of combat had long since drained away. She was soaked, chilled and exhausted. She thought enviously of Sten, who could step outside pain almost completely. Wounds were an inconvenience for her Qunari friend, except for the blood loss.

Behind were the shouts of her pursuers. Around were smells of surf, rain, garbage, leather and sweat. Ahead - somewhere within the warren of the dockside town - she caught the unmistakable scent of wet dog. It couldn't be one of the mabaris she had seen earlier - they had melted away to the south, and she was heading north. This was the poorest section of the human part of Denerim. Buildings were more regular than the crumbling hovels of her home, but squeezed together as tightly as her people in the crates. Hanging wooden shop signs rattled and banged in erratic gusts of wind. The first curve of the rising sun bloodied the rooftops, but did not reach the streets. Only a few lights broke the blackness: trailing from the windows of the men and women who worked the dawn shift. Filtered through the smoky, fish-smelling air, the meager orange glow provided colour rather than illumination, gilding the urban canyons in a surrealistic glow. This dirty, turbulent light created a lying silhouette that transformed her progress into a graceful, pain-free glide. Her shadow wavered, guttered into darkness, only to pop up again, leading and taunting.

Heart pounding, she found herself at a dead end; strained every nerve to listen for the sounds of pursuit. None came. Keeping to the wall, its stone dripping rainwater, she made her way back out. She dared to stop a moment, turned her head, struggling to get her bearings. The arrowhead seized at the move, twisting. Shock rushed to break her will. Faintly, she heard Sten: Pain is a hunter. Run, and it'll overtake you. Turn and face it, Kadan… Nausea rose in her throat. Her eyes still bore the imprint of the burning ship, its darting, luminous flames leaping upward. Her head whirled - horizontal and vertical alternated to the rhythm of the lights that slashed the darkness.

Men's shouts drifted towards her. A dog barked.

Gathering the last of her strength, Rilian ran. Crossing the street was leap after leap from one loose stone to another. Each jarring landing threatened to buckle her knees. The pursuit was closer - she could make out individual words.

Rilian grinned tightly. Even if I could run away, I won't be conscious for much longer…

Instead she focused on the ground - a decaying map of loose stone, broken roof tiles, puddles of rainwater - and the small, withered plants that clung to life. Some ten yards ahead, the iron bars of a sewer grate gleamed wetly. Rilian reached it, sank to her knees. Peering down, she saw the tunnel was a dead end - reeking sewage lay atop a mass of collapsed stone, the tentative green fingers of moss curling around. With space just large enough for one person, but nowhere to go, it was the worst kind of trap.

The voices echoed around her, closing in.

Rilian gathered herself for the effort she knew must be her last. Blood-smeared fingers curled around the bars. She pulled. For an instant, the sharpness of the pain was actually a relief from the grinding pressure. Then the arrowhead was working back and forth along the bone. Rilian moaned through gritted teeth, consciousness coming in bright, pulsing waves, ebbing and flowing. Little by little, she won. The grate came up, sending her sprawling backwards. Rilian was less concerned for the undignified position than the fact that her blood stained the walls and ground. She rose, and staggered back a few paces. With her palm, she made smears across the stone, working the blood into strange symbols. Rilian the artist, she thought crazily, as the paintings in Arl Eamon's study flashed across her mind. Then she retraced her steps, dangled her feet over the hole, and lowered herself in. One shaking hand reached upward, dragged the grate back into place. She choked back a scream, her body sheened with the cold sweat of agony. The oily slickness of the sewage made her gag. But it and the moss provided cover.

The guards reached the street. A young voice excitedly reported the red marks. An older, gruffer voice stopped him. "That's not blood. That's paint."

The sound of clanking steel, a sword scraping in its scabbard. A third voice: "What're you bastards waiting for?"

The first man spoke. "Look here - scuff marks. Something's been dragged across the street."

"There's scuff marks all over this damned shithole. If you're too tired to keep up, sit down and wait. We'll bring her back for you to play with."

A shadow flickered above. She saw it through a murky haze, like looking up, half-drowned, through water. A sword blade poked between the bars: gleaming, inquisitive.

"You think the knife-ear changed into a rat?"

Someone laughed. "They do run in packs, like rodents."

"It seems not to go anywhere. I don't know. Sim, give me a hand with the grate…"

A white flash ripped the sky. Barely seconds later, the deep heavy base notes of thunder followed. The rush of rain seemed to burst directly out of the dying roar.

"That's perfect! Now the blood trail's washed off. If the knife-ear gets away, it's your fault, Ned!"

Heavy boots splashed off into the distance.

The rain was shockingly cold, almost blinding. It drenched her like a waterfall - splashed downwards through the muck and stone and plant-life…how quickly would it drain away? How high would the water level rise?...

Why did it matter? The sea bobbed beneath her, soothing. She was on a small boat - no, a ship. The same ship that carried her family to safety. Even the pain began to recede - a sensation like the pulling up of an anchor.

She curled her hands around the tiller, wondering distantly why it was so important to move the iron bars. The world she glimpsed through the chinks was distorted by the rain: a vast luminous bruise of glowing purples and blues and grays, rippling and shivering with wetness. It was as if dawn sky and ocean had changed places. She was sure she heard Leliana singing: the hauntingly beautiful Elven lament for the dead. This sky was that music. Then the deep rumble of thunder surrounded it, absorbed it, as though it were crushing the song, the listener.

In the midst of the dirge, her hand was suddenly warm. A wet nose poked through the bars; the unmistakable scent of wet dog intruded on sea and song. Rilian fought to focus on it, to clear the cobwebs from her mind.

A familiar voice - a voice Rilian had not heard for a long time - helped her. "It's me, Ril. Speak to me!"

The was a clank and scrape - the bars pulled away. The hands that moved it patted the dog's head: "Well done for finding her, Helm-Piddle." Then they reached downwards. "I'm gonna need a little help, here…"

Rilian did her best. Memory hovered at the edges of her mind. Water. Cold. When the hands dragged her from the hole and wrenched the arrowhead her own yell of shock brought her to consciousness.

The voice said: "I've got you. I'm here. You're safe."

---

The Arl of Denerim's estate was chill as a sea of ghosts. The storm crept through the slitted windows, making the newly installed grey-and-yellow pennants ripple like pondwater. The dining table in the Great Hall was polished mahogany, as black and cold as space. Pale candlelight reflected in its depths like stars, casting light but no warmth.

Arl Rendon Howe sat over a finely-cooked dinner, alone save for his manservant. He did not really taste the food, but he finished it anyway - for form's sake and because he was a man who liked routine. His mind was on the situation at the docks. Of course the matter was a mere inconvenience - Caladrius was not the only Tevinter who had expressed an interest in such commodities, and as for ships - he would be only too happy to provide his own fleet from Amaranthine. He would assure the Teyrn of that, when the man came blustering. One week to send the message; possibly two before they arrived…he wondered what had become of Caladrius' documents. Surely the Teyrn would not have been so foolish as to sign them…

He rather wished himself in his own Vigil's Keep, surrounded by centuries of tradition, the weight of history, the portraits of a family that stretched back to the time of Calenhad. But he had power here - most of the city was controlled by the Arl of Denerim rather than the Crown. And Teyrn Loghain knew how much gold the commodities of Amaranthine and Highever had already fetched for the war effort. If this latest accident deprived the Teyrn of some support, it would only serve to make him more dependant.

Of course, it was embarrassing that the only culprit caught had been the night guard at the gate. Howe froze, his head cocked, hearing a suggestion of the man's screams in the shrieks of the gulls outside. They blended for him with the echoes of others: Ser Gilmore, Oswyn Sighard…the Orlesian Grey Warden… Hmm. Everyone said Wardens were unbreakable. Another myth debunked. The Teyrn would be more than interested to hear what the man had to say - perhaps that would make up for Caladrius.

A dirty rumour had sprung up concerning Howe and these prisoners: base as the minds that had created it. The aristocratic lip curled. A nobleman should not flinch from necessary actions, no matter how unpleasant - should always be able to look at his deeds. He did, sometimes, suffer nightmares. Other dreams…

His mind slid away, towards the actions of this other Warden: the Elf. It bothered him that he had not seen it coming. Howe prided himself on his ability to anticipate events, which was all based on an ability to judge people. Diplomacy, after all, was why Loghain needed him. He frowned. Could it be that his arena was only his own kind? The biggest divergence from the norm had been the Teyrn: a first generation noble. It had simply never occurred to him to bother with anything lesser. But that had been a mistake: even non-humans could possess a certain low cunning. He had learned it with the Elven Warden - and with her counterpart: the little Orlesian who served the Queen. She had plotted against him!

He could not take action. Not yet. He could not reveal to the Teyrn exactly how he had come to overhear a conversation that had taken place in the Queen's bedchamber. The Elf thought herself clever: had thought that she and the other Elf could slip into the estate like rats in a larder. Too bad the dirty little beasts hadn't discovered the traps.

At that moment the double doors to the outside flew open, driven full wide by the force of the wind. They crashed suddenly against the stone wall, admitting a blast of air that bent the candle flames horizontal.

Only raw shock kept Howe frozen in his seat and prevented him embarrassing himself.

Teyrn Loghain stood in the doorway, like a force growing from the ground. His presence filled the room. His mouth was set; his thick black brows, which had always had an outward tilt, flared up from his frown like a hawk's spread wings. Force came from him like heat. Howe waited, face frozen into its well-bred mask, feeling the hidden dagger with the nerves under his skin.

"You have contributed more men and gold to this country's defense than any other. Ambitious - but also a patriot. Cunning - but vital to understanding this country's so-called nobility. But one thing I never counted on: that you could be so incompetent."

Howe rose to his feet with cat-like grace; his paled features seemed to grow flatter somehow. His frown came slowly, unusually delicate: the expression of a man noting but choosing to ignore a regrettable descent into bad taste.

"Corlio," he commanded, "Leave us." An elegant hand-gesture accompanied the order: the signal to alert the guards to watch the Teyrn's every move. Efficiency was the sum and essence of Corlio's moral code: he obeyed with a neutral expression and a quick, perfect bow.

Howe never took his eyes from the Teyrn - now striding towards him, the Orlesian armour that he wore like the pelt of a skinned leopard clanking with each step. Howe of course was unarmoured: unlike the farmer in knight's clothing, he observed the courtesies.

"You have lost us this war - can't you see it! We needed that Tevinter gold. By the time we re-establish communications it will be too late. Do you want to have to choose between supporting a puppet Grey Warden King and accepting Orlesian aid! By the Maker, you should have secured the Alienage adequately: you've let the Warden slip in and out under your very nose!"

He loomed larger in Howe's vision: the fury bulging the line of his jaw, the pale intensity on either side of his nose, the darkness like mania in his eyes.

"Your grace - allow me to offer the use of my own fleet…"

Loghain's strained ferocity rejected the possibility before Howe had even finished. "There's no time. The darkspawn could be upon us within two weeks. Our only chance is to retreat here and make the city work for us: prepare the ground as that fool Cailan should have done at Ostagar. Even so, the Blight will sweep most of the nation's infrastructure away. The Ferelden way of life will be destroyed." There was something so unbearably intense in that expression that Howe was forced to look away. He had not thought like that: of the bare numbers, their own against the darkspawn. He was a politician, an adventurer; he enjoyed risk, challenge. To advance his family, he took chances that could lead to torture, disgrace, execution. He rode the currents of politics and staked his reputation on his ability to embrace them and triumph. But though he had fought in the rebellion, he was not a soldier at heart. Memories of that time crowded his thinking: Commander Loghain's clipped decisions, like scissors snipping away alternatives, reducing the world to a series of absolutes. He remembered other faces: leaders he couldn't even name. They all behaved exactly alike. They were at a level of commitment men never achieved under normal circumstances, and they saw the world in a way no civilian could. He consciously tried to see it as Loghain did - to remove all other considerations and leave only the bare numbers: the darkspawn against the forces they had, minus Tevinter aid.

Numbers like that weren't odds. They were arithmetic.

Still, Howe was not a politician for nothing. The option of facing the Blight with those odds was not an option at all: very well, they would need to compromise.

"Very well, your Grace: we need the Wardens. Or at least: we need this Warden, and the allies she brings. That does not mean we need to ally with Eamon or his puppet. If the Elf has slipped the net, then we pull her back, on a string. Find out what leverage to use - what price - and keep her under control for the duration of the Blight. Afterwards, destroy her. Our ultimate plans will be unaffected."

Howe watched the man in front of him carefully. The hard granite certainty of his expression wavered, like rock eroded by the subtle pressures of water. Some of the furious smolder was tamped down. The Teyrn preferred commanding armies through force of will, the iron conviction that he and the Fereldens he led were fighting for the same goals. But he could do this: he had found Uldred's price, and bought him; he had forced the reluctant nobles to accede to his demands. What he couldn't do was unite people the way King Maric had: by giving them a vision of something greater than themselves, by trusting them to be more than they were. He had no instinct for the times when mercy would pay dividends. Just as well - it would have made him impossible to control.

"You said: ultimate plans. Other than see this land through the Blight, I have none. What did you mean by it?"

A trickle of sweat crawled along Howe's spine. He cursed the slip. As always when under pressure, his smile became ever more gracious.

"Why - to secure Ferelden's independence, of course. Now, before we consider what tactics to use with the Elf, there's something I need you to see. I've had men working on the Orlesian Warden for two weeks now: he says he's ready to talk - but to you, personally." Howe smothered a ripple of irritation. Despite his earlier thoughts, it was clear the Warden hadn't broken entirely. He'd dropped hints and suggestions like a false trail: things to give Howe pause; nothing he could really use, or confirm. And he'd had the insolence to set conditions. Oswyn Sighard had broken within one hour: had babbled nonsense, confessed to anything and everything, done every desperate and terrible thing he could think of to make his tormentors stop. It hadn't helped the boy.

Delicately, he rang a small bell. It summoned an elderly maid he'd brought from Amaranthine, one of the few of that city's Elves who'd escaped the slavers. She had the kitchen staff clear away the table, and brought him what he asked for: an embroidered cloth, dipped in a fresh, floral perfume.

Howe nodded to his guest. "Shall we?"

The two men made their way through wide corridors, whose monotonous stone was leavened by the occasional dour wall-hanging. A slightly threadbare red carpet softened the Teyrn's armoured footsteps. The colour made Howe think, idly, of the foolish guard captain's gossip: "And the Arl's son lay dead in a river of blood that ran through the entire estate…" An exaggeration, of course - still, it had taken Howe's servants some time to remove all traces from the stone. If only he'd had time to remove the tasteless wall-hangings as well... As they headed north and then east the corridors became narrower - the stone darker as the distances between torch-brackets grew longer. The dim orange light filtered through dust, the entire area half-drowned in a heavy soup-like haze. Breathing the sluggish, stale air, Howe found himself yearning for the sinuous northeastern coastline of his home. Walking a storm-lashed beach had once been a favourite pastime. He had done his best thinking there. Mysterious sounds began to crowd in on them. By the time they reached the heavy double doors to the stairs that led downwards, the rock itself seemed to sweat an indefinable stink. The stone echoed with sub-audible rustles and whispers as though trying to warn them.

Howe ordered his men to open the doors, and the Teyrn took one of the torches in a gauntleted hand. By the time they reached the bottom of the stairs, there was no longer any doubt that the mysterious sounds came from human throats: broken moans, rising to the occasional agonized scream. The fetid air spoke of human waste and sweat and ineradicable fear. Howe carefully held the embroidered cloth to his nose. Though the Teyrn enjoyed no such protection, that long-boned, stoic face was hard and set; Howe remembered it, lit by lurid tones of blood and fire, as the man and his small group of archers waded through the disastrous mess at White River.

"I'll speak to the Orlesian alone," Loghain ordered in much the same clipped tones he'd used then, "Wait here."

Howe drew in a breath - the man was barking orders at him in his own home! His upper lip curled delicately. It was too tiny a movement to be called a sneer, but the piercing gaze chilled any mistaken notion that it was a smile.

"Very well, your grace." Howe and Loghain had already studied the Grey Warden documents found on the Orlesian's person: nothing but a list of the present order's members, and a note of the four Wardens who had defeated the previous Archdemons. All were supposed to have died in the attempt, and been entombed at Weisshaupt. He couldn't see any significance in the little history lesson. The key the Orlesian had carried had opened a cache in the city: its weapons and armour had already been sold to aid the war effort. Any other secrets the Wardens harboured had not been committed to paper. The cell guard moved aside for the Teyrn, and the door swung shut. Howe was left standing outside, one hand pressing the cloth to his nose, disliking intensely to be made so foolish. The guard met his eyes for a brief moment - then quickly looked away. Howe mentally dared the man to look again. Of course, he didn't. And to top it all off, the thickness of the door muffled the voices inside completely. He could not put his ear to it in front of his own guard, which only served to fuel his growing irritation. Howe had no way to tell the passage of time: it seemed interminably long. The cells had no minutes, no days, no seasons: they had the time of the grave.

When the Teyrn finally emerged Howe studied him carefully. His face was blank, unreadable. Nonetheless, something in his posture suggested the erosion of certainty. Certainty was what kept the Teyrn upright, sane; without it, he looked like a man who had suffered an essential defeat. When he spoke, his voice was almost calm, almost lost:

"Have the Orlesian taken to the upstairs rooms. The door is to be sealed by guards and magic. Alert Jowan."

"Yes, your grace." The failed Blood Mage was, in Howe's opinion, a bad quality tool - but after events at the Tower, mages were a rare commodity. Jowan had crawled back to them after managing to escape the Templars summoned to take him back to the Circle. Apparently, the Elven Warden had begged Arl Eamon to show mercy. Like Loghain, the old Arl did not seem to understand the judicious use of such a weapon. Eamon's loss was Howe's gain: the apostate had run back to the only berth he had, and even a bad tool could be used effectively.

Howe set men to organize it, and turned to leave with the Teyrn. As they passed one of the central chambers, an anguished cry rose from within, then faded. The scream sounded again: less like a man, more like a beast.

"Another political prisoner?"

"Indeed, your grace - what..." A dismayed, abortive movement tried and failed to hold the Teyrn back. Loghain shoved the door open - looked inside for several long moments.

"That - is Bann Sighard's son! What possible threat could a sixteen-year-old pose!"

Your grace - I have arrested all those caught spreading rumours about events at Ostagar, as per the latitude you allow! That boy was consorting with other disaffected youth; he's clearly of an age to go about seeking trouble, to throw off fatherly wisdom - to seek, in a word, conspiracies, rebellion..." His own younger son had been disturbingly hard to read at sixteen - it was why he had sent him to the Free Marches, to freeze his rump off in a saddle and learn wisdom. Howe frowned a moment: he'd had little luck with his sons. Thomas' entire intellectual scope seemed confined to the space between his navel and his knees. When not grunting delights with the servant girls he was with his fellow soldiers in a tavern, talking about similar events between belches. Not a conversationalist. And the worthless bag of flesh had borne no other children since the difficult birth of their daughter...

The train of thought fragmented and scattered; he could only stare, shocked by the face that met his. Loghain's face was dark with the stress of self-restraint; rage swelled the cords of his neck. His voice was a low snarl: "Your actions were unnecessary and you have exceeded your bounds. I will have to face Bann Sighard at the Landsmeet...no. What matters," Loghain clung to what mattered with both fists, "is that one word of this to anyone and the remaining nobles will rebel. We must be united. The boy must die - now - and the evidence must be disposed of." Hand clenched around his sword-hilt, he muttered under his breath: "When the Blight is over, you bastard, I'm going to feed you your balls." He was so furious, so obsessed with his own thoughts, he hardly heard Howe's reply:

"Try it." Beneath the bland smile, Howe looked as eager as a shark.

Loghain ignored him - pushed forward with sword drawn. Howe put a restraining hand about his shoulder. Furious, the Teyrn whirled. "When killing becomes necessary, I'll do it myself. I will not delegate the task!"

"Your grace," Howe's voice was softly astonished, "If you kill the boy in front of the guards they will believe we are afraid - or guilty. You of all people should know we cannot afford to seed such doubts. Best let my orders take care of the problem, later and on the quiet."

The Teyrn's expression was curious - Howe did not quite understand why he looked like a man who had just been asked to sacrifice that much more of himself for the sake of his duty. Murder was sometimes necessary in this game of thrones; that did not mean one had to soil one's own hands with it. He dropped words into the continued silence:

"You of all people should understand necessity, your grace. If I was over-zealous, if I exceeded my brief, it is only because this country needs a firm hand. Else we will find ourselves at the mercy of Orlais. Compared to what we saw in the rebellion - compared to what we had to do - this is unimportant. Remember the words of King Maric: we must become what we hate in order to save what we love."

That seemed to go through the man like poison, weaken some inner resolve. Howe's lips curled in a bloodless secret smile. Loghain sometimes forgot exactly how much he had confided: words that could be brought out, like hidden weapons, for the right moment. A judicious reminder of compromises already made would complete the process: "You understood that when we sent Jowan to deal with Arl Eamon; when we hired that wretched Crow to take care of the Wardens. You understood it when I dealt with the Couslands."

That brought Howe's mind, again, to his daughter. Would he have done differently if the insufferable Bryce had agreed to the match? He doubted it - there was so much more at stake - but still he thought of the Cousland boy - the younger son - with something approaching regret. It was said the boy had left several dozen soldiers wounded and dying during that doomed last stand in the castle kitchens. How could the boy have been willing to die so bravely for a family of traitors? No - he understood it. Only names such as Cousland and Howe could truly understand the importance of family. When you could trace a name back a thousand years you fought to preserve its future. Everything he had done had been for the Howe family, never for himself. He would be giving his sons a magnificent inheritance.

His scarcely knew it when he and Loghain reached the stairs up. To his surprise, Loghain's next words bore no relation to the argument.

"I know the leverage to use on the Elven Warden: she gave it to me." A faint spasm of distaste crossed his face - gone in an instant. When Howe raised an eyebrow Loghain quoted words the Elf had said during that meeting at the gates: "My family is here. My father. You have no-one here with more reason to fight. Or win." He paused, as if the next action were obvious. "Arrest all the Elves suspected of aiding her - they'll serve as hostages."

Howe's eyebrows nearly climbed his hairline. How could the Teyrn believe such a worthless loss would frighten her? Knife-ears squabbled and fought to push each other down; colluded in their own segregation. When one did escape the gutter, they would surely do anything to avoid being pulled back. He had been puzzling over what to offer an Elf who owned a suit of Dragonscale armour, slept in a castle and had the ear of the Bastard Prince. But then, he mused, both farmers and Elves were notoriously group-oriented - perhaps it was no wonder the Teyrn understood her.

"Send someone with this message: the Elves will not be harmed if the Warden gives herself up. The Warden herself will not be harmed - merely held here until the Landsmeet is over, and expected to rally her forces under my command. I am going to see my daughter now."

Howe did not understand why the Teyrn unconsciously rubbed his hands, as if trying to clean them of all traces of where he'd been.

Howe had the maid fetch a bowl of scented water, which he splashed over his own hands and face before retiring to his study. He sat at his desk, sharp chin in his hands, thinking. The Queen's guest-chamber was at the other end of the estate, far from any such brutal realities, and if it was not as luxurious as she was accustomed to, she certainly wanted for nothing. The only thing she did not have was the freedom to leave it. Well, that was her own doing: she had refused the perfectly reasonable proposition he had made to her, and had brought her father nothing but trouble. A faint ripple of unease shook him, banished in an instant. It did not matter what Anora told the Teyrn: the spoiled little vixen was known to have the tongue of a bard; he doubted Loghain would believe a word of it. Wasn't there some peasants' tale about a boy who cried wolf once too often… His mind moved to the Teyrn's plans for the Elf. How to get such a message to her? Howe had a contact among Eamon's guards, but it would be preferable if the messenger were someone she trusted. One of her own kind. Not from the Alienage – that had to stay locked tight. A perfect, simple solution came to him…

A few moments later Howe was heading toward the sturdy oaken door of the Queen's chamber. The carpet along this part of the floor was finer, a pale blue threaded with gold. The door handle was carved in intricate designs. Along one wall was a tapestry: a hunting scene featuring leaping, stylised dogs. He disliked the slobbering reality - but approved the symbol of everything Ferelden. Outside the door was a pale, slender figure, garbed in robes of pale pink with a prim high neckline. He turned the corner and stepped in front of her, blocking her way. One hand flew to her mouth, almost blocking the small cry. Her eyes were huge and dark in her white face. Knife-ears had such eerie eyes, alien and unknowable as those of animals. Green seemed to be a predominant colour, blazing like the devouring jewel eyes of cats in their half-starved faces. This one's were black and glossy and opaque as a beetle's carapace.

He said: "I didn't mean to startle you. Come to my chambers. I have a task for you." His hand closed around her arm.

The Elven face seemed to draw tight, stretched masklike over waxen features: a twisted and brittle shield that might shatter any moment.

"My...the Queen. I can't leave her - my orders..." The well-mannered Orlesian voice had withered to a mouselike squeak.

He continued to force her round. "I've arranged to have the maid from Amaranthine take over your duties. You're free until tomorrow."

The knife-ear seemed to collapse in on herself, allowing herself to be led into Howe's chamber. His hand around her arm seemed to be half-holding her up; she was reeling, drunk with fear. The strange alien smell of Elves had sharpened to a hint of something acrid beneath the floral perfume: the same pre-combat stink of soldiers facing impossible odds. She let herself be led to a chair, glancing at the door as a bird might glance through the bars of its cage. When she sat, she drew in her elbows and feet, shrinking herself to the smallest space possible.

Howe chose a chair and swept into it. His embroidered silk doublet perfectly matched the blue-greys of the storm outside. He asked after the Queen's wellbeing, steeling himself to bear her prattle for as long as he could. She assured him all was well, sounding as if she almost believed it.

"If it wouldn't offend the Teyrn," he said, "I would never insist the chamber be locked. I have complete authority within my estate, of course - but as a loyal subject, the Regent's wishes must influence my every thought. I was talking to the Queen earlier today. I think she'd like to leave me. I'm a little puzzled by her lack of gratitude for the protection I've offered."

The full lips parted slightly, as if the Elf were nerving herself to speak. He saw her as a fish, convincing herself that bait wasn't really bait. He put a finger to her jaw, forestalling her. "Of course, it is a maid's duty to defend her mistress. But I've never suggested I want anything from the Queen - except to protect her from the treachery of Arl Eamon. So I was surprised when her ladyship sent you to him - the very man who seeks to supplant her..."

The Elven face froze - the pupils grew and grew till the eyes were lost holes in the white bone-sharp gauntness of her face. She was held and pinioned: a mouse facing the jewelled stare of a snake, and Howe felt the same rush of excitement he knew on the hunt, when the prey was crippled and cornered.

"You attempted to sneak the Elven Warden into my home," he said, tapping words into her fear like coffin nails.

"No," she whispered. Babbling. Her protest was like the horror in her eyes, like the quivering of her chin. She had glided about his estate in clothes far finer than an Elf ought to have, arrogantly sure of the protection of the Queen, but now these pretensions had been stripped away. "No," she whispered again, but it wasn't the accusation she denied; it was him, his rightful authority.

He rose, grabbed her shoulders, forced her to her feet - pushed her so hard against the wall her body went boneless as water. The movement made the candle gutter wildly, its shadows dancing fright over her pale features. She was so vividly appalled - the horror on her face so stark - that the sight of it cost him his grip on himself. Holding her to him, he covered her mouth with his and bit right through her lower lip. The wet, metallic taste burst on his tongue, heady as wine. She had her arms between them, her hands against his chest. But she didn't struggle. If he had released her, she would have fallen. He stepped back, still gripping her shoulders. Blood oozed from her mouth as though she'd bitten into red fruit.

"Please don't do this...please..."

At that, he laughed. The sound of it wheezed and rasped like the Elf's own breathing. "You knife-ears are all the same. You think you can corrupt us with your cheap tricks: King Maric's Elven spy - that whore of a Warden and the Bastard Prince...as if I would lower myself! No: I have a different task for you. You'll go to Arl Eamon's estate and bring the Elven warden here, alone. If she refuses, a dozen Elves will die tonight - and twice as many for every day she delays. If you fail, my contact will know it. He'll drag you back here kicking and screaming. Then I'll give you to my men."

Images curled and danced through his mind like smoke, stirred indefinable dark thrills. The Cousland women stretched out in the dirt, their limbs spread-eagled and staked. The way the Captain had toyed with them first, done delicate things with hands, knives, a rough piece of wood... Then the men, demonic in the firelight - eyes gleaming, tongues darting wetly - falling on them like starving predators.

The void eyes in front of him betrayed no horror at the request - only a desperate grasping for escape, clutching the chance as a drowning man would clutch a rope. The first words out of her mouth were unintelligible.

He smiled. "How odd. I barely understood you. That Orlesian tongue used to be so glib."

When she tried again, he nodded. He started to give her the Teyrn's message - then stopped. His thin smile held the gleam of a knife. "No - just tell her that the Elves are to be executed, and let her attempt a rescue." His men would be waiting. The end result would be the same - but any slight chance the Elf had of convincing the Teyrn to trust her would be gone. And the knife-ear would not walk up to his estate of her own free will, in gleaming armour, after having embarrassed him. She would be humbled as the Orlesian had been - and Howe would get to ask her questions. His way. His nerves were jittery, his muscles tight. Sweat crawled along his skin. The images wouldn't leave him, writhing like a tangled knot of snakes.

---

A circle of light entered Rilian's world: a small flame, glowering and smoldering like a sulky little demon while things that were not true memories, but vivid as reality, crashed and stumbled through her mind. She was lying face-down upon a bunk as hard as her own at home - it brought a sense of familiarity, security. Being in that bed at Arl Eamon's estate was like drowning in butter. Thin sheets were coiled around her sweat-streaked body as though she had fought a fierce battle with them, and lost. She lay stretched out upon the battlefield, curled fists clenched above her head. A small fire burned in her shoulder: no longer blazing sharp but tamped down by the gentle touch of bandages and some funny-smelling herbs. Her head felt heavy and empty as a clay pot as she raised it slowly and looked blearily around. Next to the bed was a little wooden table with a squat fat candle, whose sulky but friendly orange light had woken her. Bare but immaculately clean floorboards stretched to a small window. Outside, the storm had passed: the clear sky was the purple of twilight. Stars were already out: as pure and clean and precise as some gorgeous alien map, or battlefield divisions.

"How many days?" Rilian wondered aloud. She croaked the words, her tongue as dry and heavy as an old plank of wood. She didn't expect as answer - when a man's voice came from the corridor outside, she jumped.

"Only half a day - must be that Grey Warden stamina everyone talks about!"

That voice was hauntingly familiar - an Elven voice but with the ghost of a foreign accent, a light, dry ripple of bitter experience and self-deprecating humour somehow beneath. It wasn't Zevran's accent but for a moment she thought of him: sailing to rejoin her army with her father, Shianni, Soris, and the twenty-seven they had rescued. That image had been with her throughout - a flickering hope, ebbing and flowing through tides of pain and weakness, but always there. She sat up when the man came to stand by the foot of the bed - realized belatedly that the person who had cared for her had had to remove her armour - and pulled the sheets around herself.

He had wavy russet hair, an angular long-boned face, and very dark, exotic eyes. A young man's face - he was only a few years older than she - but there were fine lines along his forehead, at the corners of his eyes and mouth, that spoke of a hard schooling. In her old life, she had sometimes wondered if his past was what made him so much more driven than the rest of their community - why he had built a shop instead of a shack - why he risked censure to trade with the shems and would stop at nothing to stand on his own two feet. She had talked to him the day of her wedding, gone into his shop and asked about his flight from Tevinter, his rescue by the Dalish, a life that had seemed to her as thrilling as the best stories. And he had confirmed a rumour that had set her and the other girls buzzing for months: that he was seeing a shem woman from the Denerim Market District. His nickname for her was "Golden" and she had thought it must be for her hair or her beauty. He spoke of a strong, capable woman, who raised five children alone, in conditions little better than their own. She could not live with him - even if the Elder permitted it, the Chantry would not - and he could not live with her without their windows being smashed by angry mobs. But he supported her as well as he could. When he had confessed that her youngest child was his it had shocked her. Elven children were rare and precious - for an Elf to bear or sire a human child with a human partner was tantamount to betrayal. The Dalish had said that even Rilian's people looked human to them: their features less delicate, their ears less gracefully pointed; though whether it was the result of shem blood far back or simply their influence, they couldn't say. Yet something in her had been caught by the romance of Alarith and Golden's story. That must be where she was now, she thought - she could hear the shouts and haggling and cries still going on in the Market outside.

"Al?" she asked him, "Alarith? How did I get here - how did you find me?"

He grinned, coming to stand beside her with a drink of water, which she downed in one greedy gulp. He bustled about, brought out an oversized - or human-sized - tunic and trousers. "Your armour's a goner, I'm afraid. I took it to Gorim - he owes me a few favours - but he won't get it fixed till tomorrow. As for how I found you, that's easy. I followed all the noise and fuss, and Helm-Piddle's nose did the rest…"

"You followed Arl Howe's men?" Rilian asked, as Alarith turned to give her privacy and she struggled into the clothing. The effort made her sweat - for an instant, the room reeled; she darted a quick glance and was relieved to see he hadn't noticed.

Alarith shook his head, the cocky charm suddenly melting to an almost sheepish manner. "Before then - I followed Shianni and Soris. I guessed what you were trying to do - I meant to help - but by the time I reached the warehouse the place was swarming with guards. I was scared to go back - get caught in any reprisals - and I couldn't go through the shems. So I headed north, meaning to hide out with Golden for a little while, till things got quiet. Helm-Piddle led me to you - that dog could sniff a rat in a garbage dump…"

"Thanks," said Rilian dryly, and grinned, even as the word "reprisals" sent a cold little chill down her spine.

As if on cue, a shrill, querulous - oddly familiar - woman's voice rose to an angry screech: "And get that filthy mutt out of my larder!"

A loud bark - scampering feet - and Helm-Piddle made a timely getaway straight round the corner and into the room. Rilian dropped down - scooped the little dog into her arms, tickling him and praising him and giving him the attention he deserved.

"Never you mind," she whispered, "I'll take you back and sneak you into Arl Eamon's larder - it's so full he'll never notice the difference!"

Helm-Piddle gave a happy bark.

A shadow fell across them - Rilian looked up - and blinked in astonishment.

"Goldanna?"

The hair that might have been golden as a child was now light brown – thinned and darkened by work and hunger and stress – the fine-boned face pinched, its faint lines a map of long hard days and sleepless nights. The arm - all bone and sinew - that held the toddler on her hip was stained to the elbow with the dyes and bleaches of her profession; its gentle touch a strange contrast to that iron-eyed glare. But Rilian's gaze slid past her, drawn with the inexorability of undertow to the child. Soft russet curls framed a chubby little face with an impish snub nose; Alarith's dark eyes gazed up at her, round and unblinking, solemn and intent as a young owl. Enchanted, Rilian bent closer, absorbed in making baby noises and funny faces at him. The little boy squealed delight; reached out and yanked a handful of that tempting red hair. Rilian's eyes watered – her smile all but wrapped itself around her face. She praised the quick reflexes. She thought of herself and Alistair, of the censure she had feared – those disparaging whispers about blood-traitors and flat-ears – and the realization of her own stupidity hit her square in the gut. She would die for her family – stand with them in any trouble – put them first, always. But family was community – the people she had grown up with – the memories and stories and laughter. Would she love them less, if their ears were suddenly flatter – or more, if they looked more like the Dalish? This was Alarith's child: his blood, his character, his teachings and his history, as much as any Elven child would have been. In the same instant, she remembered that she and Alistair were both Grey Wardens, and knew a stab of envy and loss that nearly brought her to tears.

"Isn't he beautiful?" came the familiar sharp voice, challenging…ooh, a Grey Warden, is it: well who am I to speak poorly of someone so high-and-mighty?...

"He's the most beautiful baby I've ever seen." And something in Rilian's voice seemed to reach the woman; that pinched, quarrelsome face softened slightly.

"And he causes his mother nothing but trouble," she grumbled – but her heart wasn't in it.

"Thank you for this, Goldanna."

"Humph. Well – you can't stay. The Regent's put up Wanted posters with your face all over the city – left one on the outside of Arl Eamon's wall!"

"Did he now?" Rilian asked, in fierce amusement, "Then I'd best put something up over them: like copies of the slaver documents with his name on them. No – I appreciate what you've both risked for me. I'll not risk you any more. I'll head back to Arl Eamon's estate right now."

She remembered her own glib words to the Arl with a pang – pictured Alistair waking this morning to find her not returned, learning the truth from his foster father, and spending the day trapped in helpless worry. Then a deeper, darker pain intruded: what had the Teyrn been doing while she slept through the day? What had happened to her people still trapped behind those walls? Had she made a terrible mistake – brought worse punishment down on them?

"Look: I know it's easy for me to say, hiding out here – but for what it's worth, I think you did the right thing."

Rilian searched his face, her eyes haunted. "Because of me, everyone who remains in the Alienage is in danger. I should have taken care of Arl Howe first."

"If you had, that first ship would be on its way. Those fifty people. You'd never get them all back." Alarith stepped forward, the muscles of his bone-white face drawn tight; eyes suddenly full of shadows. "All the older ones – like Valendrian; your father – would have gone to the galleys, or mines. Eighteen-hour shifts, six hours rest, seven days a week. No-one lasts beyond two years. And the younger ones – the pretty boys and girls – to men like Vaughan. Beaten daily, and worse than beaten. I remember more than I want to of those years."

Rilian's throat was suddenly dry, achingly tight. She reached forward, clasped his shoulders, and smiled with a bright confidence she didn't really feel. "Maybe you're right. I'll head back to Arl Eamon's – and then I'll take care of Howe. There's still time."

"And when you see that Warden of yours, you can tell him that you owe me." Goldanna's not-so-subtle hint sent a ripple of irritation through Rilian – gone the moment she looked at the mother and child.

"I will – but I won't need to. Alistair came here looking to find his family. He'll do right by you." Seeing the woman's skepticism, Rilian wondered if any promises from a noble would have convinced her. Maybe not – but Alistair's actions would. That was a start. Maybe one day he'd have a sister and nephews – and Goldanna would have a brother.

Rilian hugged Alarith, and shook Goldanna's hand. The woman's palms were dry and rough, as hard as her own. She dropped a featherlight kiss on the baby's forehead. You'll not be here when the darkspawn reach us, she promised them silently. You'll be in Arl Eamon's estate - or, depending on what happens, the Palace. The Landsmeet loomed before her like some alien mountain, the view from the other side unknown. The route was one she neither liked nor understood, but had to cross. She took Helm-Piddle's well-worn lead in her left hand, leaving her right free to grasp the sword she belted about her waist.

Outside the air was fresh and brilliant after the storm. Everything seemed impossibly sharp and clear, vibrantly alive. The stalls of those hardy businessmen still trading after hours made splashes of colour - she gave Gorim a wave. Candlelight spilled from windows, making orange smears across stone worn by the passage of thousands of feet. Voices and laughter drifted over - the barking of a dog had Helm-Piddle yapping an answer - a baby cried... They didn't seem to know the darkspawn were coming. All at once she seemed to see it from on high: those buildings shattered to rubble, the people trapped beneath, shrieking and writhing - or running like rats to escape vast shadowy wings. The sky was burnt orange - roiling with greasy smoke and the breath of corruption - the lurid glow like the rivers of lava in the Deep Roads. How many of her people - how many families like Goldanna's - could they squeeze into such dubious shelter? Not nearly enough. She had talked to Sten, Ser Perth and other soldiers - they all agreed the King's mistake at Ostagar had been to fail to use defensive ground. Instead of using Ostagar itself he had taken the field, dreaming of that big bardic battle. She had sworn not to repeat that mistake. And Denerim itself was perfect ground - its walls and forts and towers a defender's paradise. But the cost was unthinkable. Was it possible to meet the horde somewhere outside the city and lure them to ground of her own choosing? Was it possible to deploy her forces - the Dalish, the Mages, the Dwarves and the soldiers of Ferelden - in such a way as to make the ground work for them? A rush of dizziness shook her - the ground tilted oddly - she was almost sick as she realised she didn't know. As a Warden, these lives were her responsibility, and she didn't know! Rilian brushed damp palms on her trousers.

When she came to the wall around Eamon's estate the sight of her own Wanted poster saved her. Someone had drawn a rough artist's impression of an elf with spiky orange hair and ridiculously overlarge ears. Her name, beneath, was misspelled. A little snort of laughter bubbled up - she wondered if Alistair had seen it. Alistair... His face swam beneath the swarm of worries and fears: square, sweet and openhearted, his eyes as warm as honey. She felt his arms around her - the heat of his skin - that exuberant, boyish laughter. Then suddenly the images changed, and she was remembering more, imagining more: things she had only talked about with Shianni and the others, in giggling gaggles of girls, before what would have been her wedding night. The image of Nelaros' shy smile and green eyes pierced her, bringing the old grief and longing - but the guilt was absent. Something had changed in her - softened - with that meeting with Alarith and Goldanna, and all at once she wanted Alistair to know it; wanted to show him. She hurried past the gleaming gate, scarcely noticing the strange, speculative expression of the guard on duty, her heart pounding. She caught sight of her own reflection in a puddle, rippling as she passed. Alistair's first sight of her, she thought, and smiled wryly. The oversized tunic and trousers hung ridiculously around her gawky figure - her skin was streaked with an oily film of grime and sweat - her short hair fluffed out all around her head, as spiky as the Wanted poster. Its colour was daringly offset by a strand of green moss from the sewer. Enchantment.

Never mind. Rilian reached the courtyard, lit by torches along the approach. The light made the smooth stone gleam like a giant coin. Savoury smoke wafted from the kitchens, and Rilian was suddenly starving. She could have polished off one of Arl Eamon's banquets all by herself. Helm-Piddle yipped and ran in delighted circles, trying to chase the smell and whining when she pulled him back.

"You'll get your turn at that larder," she laughed, and ran the last few steps up to the inner doors.

A flurry of guards and servants seemed to materialise from nowhere - or maybe it was just that Rilian's cotton-wool head was having trouble keeping up. Someone called for the Arl - and Alistair.

She heard heavy feet pounding over the thick carpet. Through sudden tears, she glimpsed his shape - a large clunky man blurred by weeping. She turned towards him - towards the sun - and as its light and warmth flooded through her she found herself in Alistair's arms.

"Rilian. Thank the Maker! I thought I was never going to see you again..." She breathed the smell of him: sage soap and leather and - yes - cheese. Beneath were warmer, elusive scents that conjured unformed images of heaviness and muscularity. He pulled back: "Let me look at you."

She blinked her sight clear and saw him gazing hungrily at her through his own tears.

"I've been waiting for you since Arl Eamon told me the truth this morning. That Wanted poster was the only hope I had - I knew the bastards hadn't got you. When you didn't return I went into town - I couldn't bear having him watch me wait. Why didn't you tell me, Ril? I would have helped you."

The plaintive note squeezed her heart - she should have told him. He was a fellow Warden, had stood beside her and fought with her and backed her up without question, trusting her decisions. He'd had a right to know. Arl Eamon's plans made no difference - he was the same Alistair he'd always been: openhearted, vulnerable, dear. His tears made him look hardly older than a boy. His short fair hair made her think of wheat, his bright gaze and his strong-boned face were sweet as birdsong.

But then Arl Eamon stepped forward. His pale blue eyes were seeking, questioning, sharp as a pair of knives in that deceptively placid face. He put a soothing hand on Alistair's shoulder.

"She's here - that's what matters now. And she must have good news - more evidence to destroy Loghain in the Landsmeet."

Rilian swivelled slowly, light, hard eyes unblinking. "I have better news than that," she said blandly - leading - and swallowed a sneer when Arl Eamon leaned eagerly forward, taking the bait. "Oh?"

"Why, yes," said Rilian innocently, "I've managed to save fifty of my people."

"What! Oh - yes - the Elves. Well done," said the Arl, with all the enthusiasm of a dog-breeder eyeing a scrawny little mutt like Helm-Piddle.

"I certainly thought so," said Rilian with satisfaction. "Rest assured - I do have the slaver documents - with the Teyrn's name all over them. And we could use them in the Landsmeet. Or," she hesitated now, a fractional break in her composure as she looked at Alistair, "we could use the ruins of Loghain's plan to force him to alliance."

Alistair's face underwent a subtle change. The bones underlying his features seemed to harden to iron; his light brown eyes seemed to catch and reflect the candlelight like polished steel. The boy was gone - and in his place stood a man she hardly knew. Oddly, Rilian thought of Nelaros - of his stories of forging steel for the Couslands of Highever - the temper of different weapons. The metal of Alistair's character had been heated fast and carelessly by the likes of Arl Eamon - polished to a shine of idealism by Duncan's teachings. Now it threatened to crack in the bitterness of his loss. Distinctly, like the sound of a breaking branch, he said: "Loghain. You want to make an alliance with Loghain? It looks like he nearly killed you."

"No, that was Howe's men," said Rilian absently. She wanted to hug him, bring back the man she had first learned to love. But he only gripped her hands and held them still, looking searchingly into her eyes as if she puzzled him. So she had to try to meet him where he was. She shook her head - not denying him but her desire for comfort - and said,

"Alistair - love - I'm trying to do what's best for my people - for this city - for Ferelden. To defeat Loghain at the Landsmeet might be necessary - but to force him to work with us is better. The soldiers of Denerim would probably follow him to the Fade. And none of us is a strategist."

Arl Eamon cleared his throat at the last - a polite little cough. Rilian saw with a stab of laughter and grief that not even Alistair acknowledged it: for all his love and loyalty to the man, he knew his limitations. But then he set his jaw, his mouth down-curved sternly, somehow managing to look both petulant and iron-willed.

"His strategies didn't help at Ostagar."

That old argument - how many times had they debated it! She had plotted their defeat, stage by stage, in obsessive detail, terrified of repeating those mistakes. It had seemed quite obvious to her that by the time they lit the beacon Duncan was already doomed. But Alistair was facing her like a wall; anything she said would simply hit and hurt him and then fall to the ground. If Loghain had not caused Duncan's death - had they? Like a swordsman who overreaches and lets go in sudden fear, Alistair changed tactic:

"He tried to kill the Arl - and us. He can't be trusted. You said it yourself."

Rilian's brain spun dizzily, drunk with hunger and accumulated fatigue, her shoulder an insistent throbbing ache. Having no strength for confrontation, she wanted nothing more than to agree soothingly and move on. But it never occurred to her not to argue; any more than she would have surrendered in the midst of a fight.

"Of course he can't be trusted. I'm not saying we trust him. I'm saying we use the loss of the Tevinter gold and the slaver documents as leverage. If need be, we can destroy him after we defeat the Blight."

There was a moment's stillness. Alistair was looking at her as though she too had changed before his eyes into someone he didn't know.

"Do you really think I could do that?" he said wonderingly, "Work with Duncan's murderer - and then kill him when I don't need him anymore?"

Rilian's mind flashed back to the Tevinter warehouse, to her words to Zevran. She and Alistair were the same, all fire and passion: they killed in anger, when their loyalties were outraged; they didn't know how to use people. Her initial shame faded quickly.

"We'll need to learn how," she said softly, "The people we defend deserve more than just two hot-blooded people fighting for what they love. If we need to be strategists to save them - work with people we hate - then that is what we must do. If you can't kill Loghain in cold blood - could you show him mercy?"

Alistair let go of her hands and spun away: a quick, almost uncontrolled movement. "Ask me for a pound of my flesh - or for all the gold in Orlais. But don't ask me that - I can't do it."

A shock of defeat ran through Rilian; her hands were suddenly cold. But where would Alistair have learned mercy? Arl Eamon had had none for Jowan. Duncan had had none for Ser Jory. She had had none for Vaughan; for Caladrius. Memories of their time together flashed before her eyes in quick succession: the decisions about Connor, the Dalish, the mages and the Anvil. They had agreed on all of them, had done the kind thing - easy decisions for people with empathy. Neither of them had ever chosen mercy when every instinct screamed for revenge. For an Alienage Elf it was almost impossible to contemplate - mercy a luxury that only the powerful could afford; a generosity based on abundance. She still remembered the hot slickness of Vaughan's blood - salty-sweet where it splashed her lips - the terrible red delight, hysterical with rage and the relief that she was not helpless anymore, that she could do this to the one who had hurt them.

"We will need to learn that too," she said, her muted voice floating between them, softer than candlelight. "Mercy is a kind of weapon - an art for leaders. You're going to be King."

"I never wanted it." Alistair turned back to her, his head bowed. She searched his face but couldn't read it. "Now I'm the one asking for understanding."

"And you have it," she said, trying to lighten the mood, "Women are better at this sort of thing." Something in his face changed, lightened. He was the Alistair she knew again: golden, bright, endearing. His lips quirked upward in a faint, self-deprecating smile. Joy rippled through her; lambent and tremulous as light on water. The tight muscles of her face began to relax, a smile breaking through.

"And anything else. You think." He, too, was joking - making peace between them the only way he knew how. Her whole body trembled with love for him: the kindness, the warmth. She reached her arms around his neck and pulled up to kiss him. His arms came around her and she melted into the support of them, blending her body to the hammering beat of his heart. He returned the kiss, tenderness building to passion. The ridiculous trousers that Arl Eamon made him wear were so thin she couldn't mistake his response.

A loud barking made her jump - the scraggly softness of Helm-Piddle's fur tickled as he pushed between them. Alistair stared at the odd-looking creature and burst out laughing.

"That's the funniest little mutt I've ever seen - he looks like the parts of several different dogs, all stitched together!"

"Aww - don't listen to the mean Warden, Helm-Piddle." Rilian scratched behind the floppy ears. "This little mutt saved my life."

"Well…" Alistair extended a dubious hand. He did not have the best history with dogs - the Chantry boys had not been allowed to keep animals, and on his first meeting with Ravenous the mabari had bitten him. But that piece of information turned his opinion of Helm-Piddle round a whole 180 degrees; he patted the dog with awkward determination, as though half-expecting to lose his fingers. Helm-Piddle was more generous than Ravenous had been. Somewhere between Rilian and Alistair's impassioned argument and their kiss, Arl Eamon had withdrawn. Grinning, Rilian said,

"Well - I think we could both use some food. Shall we go to the kitchens?" Her empty stomach rumbled loudly; Helm-Piddle gave a happy bark.

Alistair's face crumpled in remorse. "I shouldn't have made you stand here talking - you must be exhausted. Let's go."

"Mmm - food, a bath, and then…"

"I, uh, guess you'll want an early night." Alistair's face was a study in mingled hope and uncertainty.

Rilian laughed aloud at the utter failure of what he thought was subtlety. For a few moments she put him off, insisting that sleep would be better than what he obviously had in mind. She couldn't help but think that if his face got any redder she could warm her hands on it. Meeting his eyes, her amusement slowly melted into a secret, soft smile. Alistair stammered something unintelligible, and she linked an arm through his.

Later, Rilian stood, her bare feet kissing the warm slate tiles, looking down at the glistening foamy water of the most eagerly-awaited bath in history. Helm-Piddle, like Rilian, had eaten his way through most of Arl Eamon's food store, and was now curled in sleep by the kitchen fire - Nigella had promised to keep an eye out for him. Alistair lay on his bed, waiting for her, eyes half-shut as he dozed, stretched out with one sock on and one off. The picture made Rilian smile. She stretched in utter abandonment, uncaring of the twinge it set off in her shoulder, and savoured the anticipation of that bath - the delightful shock of hot, cleansing water. She stared into the small, gold-edged mirror along one wall and made a face at her haggard reflection. Alistair would look after her. The hollow-cheeked scamp in the mirror would have to fend for herself.

She dipped a foot into the water, wiggled it about and shivered with delight. Finally she stepped into it and sank down. She gave a soft sigh, almost a groan, as water and foam enveloped her like a soft scented cloud. She dunked her head right under, blew bubbles, squirmed about in luxurious self-indulgence. The soothing heat drained the last of her strength - her bruises ached deeper - her eyes burned hotter. For a while she half-dozed, while the heat warmed her bones and chased away the ache in her shoulder. Images of last night - of rain and fire and pursuit - and the sharp nipping bites of worry for her people flickered and whirled, turning like the vast, shadowy mill-wheel that loomed above Redcliffe.

Finally she stood again, and studied the row of small bottles along the wooden shelf. She recognized the oils that Liselle sold in the market. She tried each one in turn, in little dabs along her arm. She thought of Alistair, and picked the one that smelled of roses. She poured an amount into her callused hands - then slowly, a little hesitantly, worked it over her body. This was not the brisk, matter-of-fact way she washed down at home; this was a playful, uncertain exploration. She traced circles around scars, ridges of muscle and soft skin. There had been a gap in time, between the day of her wedding and now; she had been outside herself, out of touch. She had grown old without womanhood; gone from the gawky, coltish girl who worked at the warehouse to the tainted Warden. She went back in time and recreated herself with her hands, her touch; they became Alistair's, followed the path of memory and imagination - took on a life of their own in the semi-darkness, stoking her skin to heat and a sliding, fiery sheen. Alistair's hands - his touch - her wedding night… She rose, heat and lassitude flowing within, ready to go to him. His inexperience, and her own, didn't worry her. They would learn what they needed to know together.

The sharp knocking on the door - Nigella's voice, taut with stress - went through her like a cold knife.

"That Orlesian girl is here - from Arl Howe's estate - she says it's urgent."

The knife splintered into icicles, fracturing her, the warm languor shot through with tiny white shards of terror. When she reached Arl Eamon's study and heard the news she was shaken by a storm of fear and rage, as cold as if she'd been dipped in the ice-crusted sea.

---

"So - Arl Howe is going to execute twenty of my people for the murder of these so-called "healers".

"I believe Erlina's information is good. I'm sorry." Arl Eamon modulated his voice to convey the right sympathy. Eamon, Rilian and Erlina were in the Arl's office, with the plan of Howe's estate that Rilian had asked for spread out over the desk. He waited a moment for Rilian's response - then realized she was completely ignoring him. Offended by the rudeness, he stopped. Then he realized she simply hadn't heard him - her flat crystalline stare was fixed on a point in the distance, abstracted.

"Howe is a fool," she said, her voice tight in a kind of furious grief, "And what can Loghain be doing? I'd expect him to use them as hostages, to get better terms from us; make me go to him. This - is petty revenge. It makes no sense."

For a moment, Eamon saw the gloss of panic tighten on Rilian's features. He felt he was seeing her, truly seeing her, for the first time. How old was she? Barely launched on adulthood; victimized by powerful people who held all the cards. The thought sent a slimy sensation of guilt crawling through him: for going along with Erlina's story - for sending her into Howe's trap. It's necessary. I really can't have her allying with Loghain - and if the Orlesian succeeds she'll be trusted by both the Queen and Howe. That influence will get her into Rilian's cell - once she's freed, she'll do the rest: she's a Warden, after all. He cringed inside, knowing that Howe would probably have time to work on her first. But she's an Elf - they're, well, more used to harsh treatment than we are. I really have no choice: twelve Banns I saw today, and only Arl Wulf will support us. Howe has too much influence - he has to be dealt with. I can't expect the Warden to understand the greater considerations… It was why he was not involving Alistair; curiously, the Warden also seemed content not to do so. In a moment, however, Rilian had rallied. The deep-set, exhausted eyes were hard as stone. She turned to Erlina.

"Alright - I'm going in. I told you I needed numbers and shift patterns of guards - ways in and out - I also need to know exactly who Howe has working for him."

Erlina was a mass of useful information. In addition to guards and entry routes, she knew a lot about the other "guests" in the estate.

"There's a man he had brought up from the cells - an Orlesian. I heard the guards talking: there's a rumour he's a Warden." Both Eamon and the Warden sat up and leaned forward. "They keep him in a locked room but they don't torment him anymore."

"That's - interesting: why would Howe turn him from prisoner to guest? What could the man have told him? We've got to get him out."

"It won't be easy. The door is sealed by magic. Arl Howe has a Blood Mage working for him - a man named Jowan."

Outrage swelled Eamon's breast. "The Blood Mage has escaped justice? Run back to serve my enemy once more!"

The Warden had the insolence to raise a feathery red eyebrow. "Where else could he go? It seems Howe has shown him more mercy than you or the Circle."

Arl Eamon clung to his manners - his guilt over the Warden's fate helped him keep a civil tone. "Have you forgotten the maleficar used dark magic to poison me?"

"And for that the Arlessa had him locked up and tortured: I'd say he already paid. When I reached his cell, I let him out - told him to flee. I knew he wasn't going to get justice from a noble. But he wouldn't go - said he wanted to redeem what he'd done. He was scared to death but he did it anyway: entered the Fade and fought demons to save your son. You insult Connor to think so little of it."

Really, any guilt Eamon felt was rapidly drying up. It was a fortunate coincidence that when he had to make the hard decision, the Warden managed to irritate him so much.

---

They went over layout and troop movements in great detail. Rilian was going in through the midden - from the small stream that ran past the Alienage she could reach the sewage duct. But when it came to the most important information of all - exactly where her people were being held - Erlina was maddeningly vague.

"How can you not know this?" Rilian struggled for calm. She won - but her nails drew blood from her palms. "Erlina - details like that mean the difference between saving my people and getting them killed!"

Erlina was a mass of nervous tics and gestures. Her slender hands shivered slightly like pale flying creatures; distorted by erratic tremors. "I...I don't know. I'm sorry." Something in her tone rang false - Rilian couldn't put a finger on it. She stared down at the desk as though she meant to bore a hole with her gaze. "It might be safer to get a message to Howe - negotiate."

The Arl sat bolt upright. "Impossible! If you offer to negotiate he'll think he can buy you..."

...He can...

No. It wasn't that simple. There were things she couldn't - wouldn't do. And Howe had no reason to keep his word. As long as he remained where he was he could use her people as hostages, again and again.

"What about Loghain - I told you he'll need to make terms with us now. The Landsmeet..."

"I'm afraid it's not that simple," the Arl said, in a tone of grave sympathy, "The Regent doesn't have the legal right to interfere in what goes on in the Alienage. Why do you suppose all the reforms King Maric wanted - and even Loghain's daughter, I'll give her that - came to nothing? The charter gives control of the city to the Arl of Denerim, not the Crown. The Crown only controls the Palace district, the gates, and the city's defence. Arl Howe is too powerful to take down at the Landsmeet, else I would do so."

That, at least, had the ring of truth. This may have been what Arl Eamon had wanted all along, but Rilian had the strangest feeling that he wasn't happy about it.

...No choice, then...

She fired questions at Erlina as rapidly as Leliana fired arrows, scissoring away alternatives with cold-blooded precision. Erlina floundered. Like a predator, Rilian pursued. Then she actually looked at the woman for the first time. There was something in Erlina's pinched, pale features that dashed her frustration. Birdlike, she appeared poised for flight. Her eyes were dark smudges - her heavy make-up failed to disguise the bruises round her mouth.

Stricken with remorse, Rilian said: "I'm sorry. You've risked a lot to help us - and I haven't even thanked you."

Erlina raised a startled hand - touched her face nervously. "You have a lot to worry about."

"That's no excuse for bad manners. Would you like something to drink - tea? Or would that hurt? Maybe water would be better. I'll get it."

Erlina jumped up - followed after her so eagerly it seemed as though she didn't want to be left alone with Arl Eamon. When the two women headed down the corridor Rilian asked softly, "Was it the guards who hurt you?"

"I...no, it was Howe. He grabbed me - said things..."

"I can imagine." She could hear the iron in her own voice. When she closed her eyes it was as if she could see all of them together: Shianni and Valora and the others, beaten and raped and tormented and killed. "It'll be alright." It was more promise than reassurance; it would be alright some day, she would make it that way.

Erlina sobbed, just once, but refused to break completely. She turned away. The movement exposed her profile, and Rilian realised she'd unwittingly discovered the most telling facet of Erlina's appearance. She found herself thinking of a bird, fluttering a false broken wing. Beneath the graceful manners was sadness. Under that was toughness. Rilian wished she had a more elegant word, because it was a beautiful thing to see. The nervous behaviour hid a steel core.

"It must have been harder for you. The things you told me: your cousin, your husband. But you survived." There was a tiny hitch in the words, an inflection. Rilian found herself thinking of the swift-winged seabirds that swirled about the coast. Their quick appearance and disappearance gave them an almost sinister grace, a capacity to make the mind distrust the eye.

Thoughtfully, she said, "What makes suffering important isn't survival - it's the use we make of it. My husband worked the forge. He said fire and hammer alone can't make good steel: it's up to the smith. We Elves must make better steel of ourselves than the shems. Or break." Rilian fumbled, took Erlina's cold hand in her own, feeling almost as if some current were passing between them. She smiled at her, a little self-consciously. "Or maybe I'm just a dreamer. Come on, let's go back."

She had gone only a few steps when Erlina called, "Rilian - " Rilian turned. Erlina had gone white, and was shaking.

"What's wrong?"

"I...I can't..."

"Can't what?"

"I can't lie to you!"

Rilian patted the smaller woman's shoulder. Erlina only came up to her chin. "What's this, now?" she said, trying for the tone that Shianni had always used to get the truth out of her.

"He sent me," Erlina said, so softly Rilian hardly heard her. "Howe sent me."

"Why - to get me to come? To walk into a trap?" Rilian bit her lip, fighting the rage that spurted up. She looked away, afraid Erlina would think it was directed at her.

"Yes." She heard fright as well as misery in Erlina's voice. "And that's not all. Teyrn Loghain is there. Myrtle - an Elf from Amaranthine - told me he was very angry with Arl Howe for what happened in the Alienage. Loghain is using the Elves as hostages - to make you go to him, ally with him on his terms - to get you away from Arl Eamon and Alistair at the Landsmeet. Arl Howe twisted the truth - to make you think you had a chance to rescue them. He wants you to try, you understand. The guards will be waiting - and Howe will give you to them. If he learns I spoke to you of this, you finish me."

"I couldn't!" Rilian put an arm around her. The smaller woman's expression didn't alter. Still, there was an almost imperceptible lean into the contact. "Never. But why go along with Howe ? Why not just go to Arl Eamon - we would have protected you."

"I tried. I told Arl Eamon the truth. He said - "

They were almost back at the study now. Rilian said, "Wait here" and poked her head through the door. "I'm going to get armed and armoured," she told the Arl. She turned back to Erlina and winked. "You'll come with me. Ladies always have to have company to go to the powder room." Rilian had no idea why she felt so oddly cheerful. After all, the situation had become worse instead of better - a lot more complicated. All tiredness had fled - her brain spun dizzily, beyond rest.

Quietly, Rilian and Erlina headed outside, stepping into Arl Eamon's private garden on the estate's north side. Surrounded by high stone walls and shaded by trees, the ornate seclusion was curiously grim. The stars overhead were pure and cold.

"So," Rilian said quietly, "The Teyrn wants to ally with me - but on his terms. He doesn't know how to make real allies - he can only keep them on a leash. That doesn't surprise me. But he must intend to honour the agreement, else why would Arl Howe go to the trouble of lying. Howe is angry I embarrassed him. Does he also fear an alliance? And what about Arl Eamon? I know he's against it too - but I can't believe he'd let me walk into a trap! Aside from anything else, there would be easier ways to get rid of me."

Softly, Erlina said, "I have known Arl Eamon a long time. Five years ago, Empress Celene gave me to King Cailan as a wedding present." Self-mockery steamed in the words. "Elves aren't property here - not so in Orlais. I was to serve Queen Anora and report back to the Empress' court. King Cailan had other requirements. They say the tastes of all the Theirin men run to Elves."

In between the shock of Erlina's revelation and the sting of her last words, Rilian remained silent.

"Arl Eamon was always writing to his nephew, saying the King should put away his barren wife and ally with Orlais. The Empress wanted that too. But Cailan loved Anora, even though he could never keep his hands to himself."

Rilian remembered the golden young King; that gleam in his eye. He'd certainly been full of himself - perhaps he thought it ungenerous to deprive other women of his charms. And Queen Anora - the ruler she was prepared to depose. She didn't want to know this - didn't want that blade of empathy in her heart. Barren - surrounded by the sneers and scheming of men like Eamon.

"I heard - just before Ostagar - that the King was going to consider it. I hoped for a high position at court. But then the Regent murdered the chevaliers at Gherlen's Pass. We lost all contact with Orlais. Since then, my life is lies. And threats. I use them all: the Queen, Arl Howe, Arl Eamon. One protects against another. I never wanted to go back. I thought Arl Eamon might shelter me - I hoped he'd just be pleased you found the slaver documents and ruined the Teyrn's plan. But he said most of the nobles are still voting for the Teyrn - and Arl Howe is too powerful. He doesn't want you dead - he thinks you'll be able to escape, with my help, and kill him."

Through the storm of rage, Rilian was conscious of one overriding thought: that Arl Eamon had a rather optimistic view of her chances. Escape, fight my way through Howe and Loghain and dozens of guards? No doubt it looked easier from where the armchair strategist was sitting. Perhaps he commanded armies from the same perspective. It didn't bode well.

As for the political machinations, they hardly seemed important. She felt anger shrivel to a small, hard nugget of disgust. What mattered was that Alistair deserved better than to be used by a manipulative old man. What did she care for political boundaries, for whether Arl Eamon was a traitor or Loghain a patriot? Orlais made slaves of Elves and Loghain sold them: where, exactly, was the difference? She found herself thinking of what Nelaros had said about his flight from Highever with cousin Iona - the fall of Castle Cousland. The Couslands were supposed to have been traitors, Orlesian sympathisers. Whether or not that was true, what mattered to her was that Channon Cousland had ordered the servants and retainers to flee to safety, while he stayed behind. That was the kind of Lord she would have followed. Or Alistair - who may not have understood mercy but whose fierce compassion shone like sun in a desert.

"I have to support whichever side will let me feed my family, you know," Erlina said wistfully, "I send money back to my parents, my little brother and sister, in the Alienage in Val Royeaux - more than I could ever make here."

"I understand. I'd do exactly the same. We might end up on opposite sides - but right now we're sisters, and we'll face this trouble together. What are their names?"

"Lian and Perlia. They're thirteen and ten. It's a shame, though - I mean, Queen Anora's been kinder to me than any other noble." A sudden thought struck her and a tremulous smile quirked her bruised lips - the first smile Rilian had seen her make. "She always talking about a "university" she's going to build one day - a place where everyone, noble or commoner, can get an education."

Some bright image stung Rilian's mind - memories of lessons with Mother Boann, the wonderful smell of new parchment, thoughts and insights flying to meet her like birds. Because it was Loghain's daughter - Alistair's rival - she snorted dubiously. "She probably means every human."

"Oh, I don't think so. Anyway - I've seen her plans for the building. She'd like to use Arl Howe's estate."

In the midst of a desperate situation, an impossible choice, Rilian burst into delighted laughter. The image was just too good.

Humour collapsed to aching sadness. Alistair would never have thought of a university - but he would notice things no-one else would. Given the choice between providing education for the whole city and helping a man like old Timon get through another day, he'd choose to help Timon. Maybe that was emotional and short-sighted. But it was also wonderful.

It was a pity, she thought whimsically, that you couldn't combine the two in one ruler. Then her mind jerked as though it had hit a wall.

She'd thought herself resigned to the price of Alistair's kingship: whether Empress Celene or Queen Anora or any other noblewoman, there would be someone. She'd made the loss bearable with dreams of the King he'd be - the fairness and justice he'd bring. For a moment, rationalisations were blotted out in a searing flash of jealousy.

She struggled to master it. Whatever happened, Alistair must be his own person - not Arl Eamon's puppet; not hers. She trusted him to be a good King - a good Warden - just as she trusted him to do right by Goldanna. If it means I lose him, I'll take it as bravely as I can...

All that crumbled to insignificance in the face of the stark choice. Erlina's voice was a soft echo of her thoughts, almost floating in the night air.

"Arl Eamon's plan has no chance - and if you accede to Loghain's demands, you'll be leaving Alistair to face the Landsmeet alone. Even if the Teyrn carries out his threat, how many can he kill? Wait him out - show strength - and we can win."

Rilian's fists balled up. The numbers didn't matter - she saw them all. Elva and Siela and Valendrian...Cousin Iona and little Amethyne. She couldn't abandon them, not even for Alistair. She pictured him facing the Banns alone: clumsy, nervous, crippled by worry. She had a sudden sinking feeling, as if a hole had opened in her chest and let her heart fall out on the ground. But Alistair was King Maric's son: they would recognize his face, his golden charm - would respond to his own, so much stronger than he knew. If this was not his wish, it was still his choice - and he had a fighting chance. Her people had no choice - no chance to defend themselves. If she failed them, their faces would haunt her all her days.

"I have to go."

"Warden - Rilian - this is no time for idealism."

"I'm not an idealist. I don't fight for a nation - the honour of the Wardens. I fight for real people: my family and Alistair's, my men. If anyone's an idealist it's Loghain. He's the one who fights for Ferelden - and sacrifices its people and even its freedoms to do so."

Rilian stopped, scared by an idea too elusive to put into words. Were her chances fatally compromised by her inability to sacrifice individuals for the sake of something larger? Was she destined to lose this confrontation because she couldn't match Loghain's ruthlessness?

She remembered other idealists – people who reminded her of Loghain in some ways – people who had sacrificed everything, even their own kin, for what they believed in. Zathrien, Branka… Each had lost the ones they loved, and ended up clinging to the ideal because it was all they had left. Where would she be without the people who centred her, held her in place? She flinched from the thought: the madness, the driven intensity that seethed behind it.

Perversely, the thoughts left her more optimistic about what lay ahead. "Don't be afraid, Erlina. Loghain may think he has the upper hand, but he could find the trap turned inside out. There are many strands to this – many people in that estate – many cards to play. Queen Anora – the Orlesian Warden – even Jowan. There's Howe and Loghain at each other's throats. It's too dangerous for you to come with me – but I'll get a message to you any way I can: Alistair's position could be stronger than before. When the Blight hits, all walls, all boundaries, all bets are off. My people will be with me – these so-called nobles won't have the protection of their estates. There'll just be my men, and his. We'll see who sinks and who swims."

There was another reason: the flickering images of crumbling buildings, a sky like lava; vivid as memory, though it hadn't happened yet. Teyrn Loghain was the only person who could answer her question – help her unwrite that future.

Wraith-silent, the two women slipped inside the estate. Rilian padded down the hallway, passed Arl Eamon's study but did not go in. What was there to say? She crept to her room, sat down at its desk, and wrote a message for Alistair with a shaking hand. When she explained how Erlina had helped her, asked him to look after her, a loathsome worm twisted in her mind. Wasn't this what the woman had wanted? Erlina – King Cailan – Empress Celene; wasn't the triangle going to repeat, with Alistair the only different player?

What difference did it make? Erlina hadn't lied about Loghain – it was something the man would do. She was the one betraying Alistair, abandoning him when he needed her most. He would not forgive her this alliance. She slipped into his room, unable to take her eyes from the slow rise and fall of the broad chest, the flicker under the eyelids in the peaceful, dreaming face. She didn't touch him – if she did she would never be able to leave – just put the letter quietly down by the side of the bed.

Shortly afterward, she left, armed and armoured, smiling grimly as she thought of how Arl Howe had wanted her to arrive, how happy she was to disappoint him. The scales of the High Dragon fitted her like a second skin, brilliant and glittering as the iridescence of oil on water. Some of the legends that had grown up around her were as far-fetched as anything the cultists of Haven had come up with; the reality equally prosaic. On her left hip was a curved Dalish blade – of course, she would be disarmed as soon as she got there, but she would go in as a warrior. On her other hip, Adaia's dagger was curiously warm; she felt her mother's touch on her skin. Overhead, a crescent moon slit the darkness to create a mass of silvery clouds. Rilian walked onwards, steadily, towards the darkening bulk of Arl Howe's estate.