Queen Anora stood by the dresser in her palace chambers. Her father and Arl Eamon, bloodlessly routed two days previously, were honoured guests. Her silver armour encased her like unbreakable ice; her face and hair bore Erlina's immaculate handiwork. Now the young woman worked on the Warden, at Anora's instruction - at dawn they addressed Denerim's army. The Warden had had word that the Dalish had joined her forces, camped by the Hafter River. The Circle, Templars and Dwarven troops massed at Redcliffe, ready to attack the horde from the west. Alistair and Riordan had already left, to get word of the alliance to the Warden's men. The Warden had sent Jowan with them - Anora suspected to get him out of the reach of Revered Mother Leanna. The Warden's Dragonscale glittered in the candlelight; wreathed her in flames - the helm's red plume added to her not very impressive height. The Warden turned slowly, a ghost of a self-mocking grin playing about her lips. Speaking from the corner of her mouth, she asked,
"Am I pretty?"
In truth the Warden's appearance did not trouble Anora nearly as much as it had done three nights ago, when the marks of Howe's torture had paraded across her face in a sickly riot of purple and green. Jowan's healing and Orlesian foundation had worked a minor miracle. That, and the look on her face when facing Alistair down, were vivid memories. The Warden had rallied, but her strength was as much a mask as the make-up. Her voice had never recovered any sense of liveliness. The sound was like bad steel scraping on stone.
A sharp rap on the door jolted Anora from her musings.
"Come in," she called, knowing only one person would join her at this hour. She and her father were both early risers. The General strode into the room, the withering cut of his eyes letting the Warden know exactly what he thought of her question.
"Pretty never won a battle - any more than legend did." The reference seemed to hold some significance, though Anora couldn't guess it. Caught like a child playing dress-up, the Warden's face was nearly as red as her armour - but her lips quirked in a cocky grin.
"The people expect a heroine: why shouldn't I look the part?"
"Indeed," was the sour rejoinder, "You're like a peacock for finery."
The Warden raked him with a long, cool stare. "Nice Orlesian plate you're wearing."
"It's a symbol of Ferelden freedom."
"Have you ever tried saying "Ferelden freedom" in a Tevinter warehouse? Perhaps it's the echo that makes the words sound a little - hollow."
Round one to the Warden, Anora thought with a silvery ripple of amusement. Unfortunately, no-one had ever taught the young woman how to win gracefully - or quit while she was ahead. Lured on by success, she thought she could do better yet:
"My armour says: Dragonslayer - which is the more relevant message."
"Warden, I do not dispute your dragon-slaying qualifications - only that you actually have a clue how to get to that point. Do share with me your strategy for defeating the horde."
Caught off-guard, the young woman floundered. "I…I thought we could use the same tactics I used against the undead at Redcliffe - I mean, on a larger scale…"
"Go on."
As the Warden explained, Loghain's expression became more and more damning. Finally, succinctly, he said: "Ridiculous."
"It's not ridiculous - I saved Redcliffe village!" The Warden bristled with indignation - Anora thought her very hair would crackle.
"You won despite your tactics. You made fundamental mistakes in placement of the militia and choice of ground. If you do that against the horde we'll all be dead before you can practice your vaunted dragon-slaying skills."
"Well," the Warden said finally, petulance warring with interest, "What should I do instead?"
A faint smile brushed the crags and scars of the hard-used features. "By the time we reach the horde, you'll know."
Anora, Loghain and the Warden left the chamber for the dimly-lit corridor outside, the Queen's guards forming a protective square around them. Tapestries of bloodless war, stylised dogs and horses stirred to faint, ghostly life in the flickering candlelight.
"Warden," Anora said quietly, "Did you wonder why I stopped short of revealing Eamon's treachery to the Banns?"
"Yes, my lady - I did."
"If I had pushed him, he would have fought harder; the threat served better than the deed. Lose with dignity - but win with dignity too."
The Warden's face lit up in sudden understanding, and softened in a rare, brilliant smile.
Anora smiled too. The young woman was learning - as she had learned through the process of readying the city, mustering the army, and dealing with the inescapable politics that went with it. Each Bann led his own men, grouped under Loghain's command - and in turn marching under the banner of the Warden-Commander. Each Bann claimed to have authority for every supply or assigned position or instruction to soldiers and servants - until something went wrong; then they yelled and blamed each other. The Warden practically destroyed Loghain's already inadequate sleep by keeping him up almost all night while she asked for explanations of everything they had done during the day. Her father had complained to her that working with the Warden had all the charm of having his brains pulled out through his ears - but he always provided answers.
Loud footsteps drew her attention - two of the noblemen staying at the palace rounded the corner. Anora recognized the burly form of Thomas Howe - the young man had obviously just returned from the Pearl:
"…teats like a breeding sow - what a handful..."
His brother listened in silence: pale, cool, amused. When they saw who approached, the Howe heirs stopped abruptly. Thomas' face was red with bluster; Nathaniel's controlled stillness had a catlike quality. But they collected themselves - at a prompt from the younger sibling, both men sank into respectful bows. Anora had spoken with them privately and assured them that though the Arling of Denerim had been dissolved, they would keep Amaranthine - if they remained loyal.
"Your majesty," Bann Nathaniel said quietly, grey eyes settling lightly and coolly upon the man Anora had named as their father's murderer - and the one who had actually committed the deed. She sensed the Warden's explosive tension; Nathaniel was a younger image of his father. "I wish to suggest a new weapon that may help against the horde. I have with me a Dwarven master smith named Dworkin, who has invented something called "grenades". Tiny things - but deadly." As he spoke his eyes left Loghain altogether and bored into the Warden with searching intensity. "As with many things: most dangerous when least obvious." The Warden was never a master at deception; Anora saw with dismay that her every thought was projected vividly across her expressive face. A fractional, understanding smile touched Nathaniel's lips with knowing malice.
"Thank you, Bann Nathaniel," Anora said coolly, "I will look into the practical applications. Such details will not be forgotten."
"Your majesty."
"Watch him," Anora warned quietly when they were gone.
Dryly, Loghain said, "Your concern for me is touching - after you blamed me for the deed."
"I did what was necessary: not even the Howe heirs could object to a father defending his daughter. We cannot afford Civil War now - as you should know."
"In any case - I hardly fear the likes of Arl Thomas…"
"Thomas?" Anora asked incredulously, "That young man is no more intelligent than the sword on his hip! Watch Nathaniel: he's the one. Above all, keep a sharp knife at his back."
The armies formed up on the flat plain south of the capital: the soldiers of Denerim (including a unit of the city's Templars) Gwaren and Dragon's Peak numbered nearly four thousand. The forces of Amaranthine added half as many again. Those of the other Banns would join them on the march south; half of Arl Eamon's men were already at the Warden's camp, along with Bann Temlen's soldiers. Bann Teagan commanded the remainder at Redcliffe. Loghain watched the Howe forces with narrowed scrutiny. Many were Highever troops: absorbed into the main body after the murky events at Castle Cousland. With no known survivors, and the rumours of Cousland treachery spread by Rendon Howe - rumours that Loghain had done nothing to squash - there was no overt rebellion, but the dark seeds of discontent threatened a harvest of violence. Many of the Amaranthine men were farmer levies of Lord Edelbrek, and reminded Loghain all-too-vividly of bunched bulls. They had that same air of solid muscularity, but it was a twitchy, uncertain strength that could as easily become milling panic. Cauthrien groaned audibly beside him, and Loghain raised his eyebrows.
"Don't let Arl Thomas hear you - he could send them back North." In fact, Loghain suspected the support was Nathaniel's doing: the young man was as slippery as his father, but he understood the greater threat far better than most of the Banns.
"Unbearable loss," said Cauthrien, bearing down heavily on the sarcasm, "Farm-boys with swords, most of them. If the Warden's information is good we'll be outnumbered five-to-one by the horde, and we're supposed to not only fight those monsters, but beat them."
"We must." Loghain's brittle vehemence went unchallenged. Cauthrien understood the situation as he did. He wondered if they were, truly, doing the right thing by facing the horde in the open, as the fool Cailan had done. For six months he had prepared the city for defensive warfare - but he and the Warden were in complete agreement that the cost would be terrible. From everything the Warden had told him, it was clear the Archdemon was no aerial tactician. She had headed to Orzammar straight from Lothering - seen the creature in the Dead Trenches - but since then the dragon had remained hidden while the horde advanced north. The old god's song and memories led them above ground, but it was no General. A bloated decaying carcass following a plague of locusts to the largest mass of humanity. He trusted Anora and the men who remained behind to defend the city if the need arose - he trusted his own strategy to make such plans unnecessary. Not even the Archdemon could take Denerim alone.
The war-dogs gambolled in the silvered dawn like pups, darting around their handlers, their hoarse breathing forming white plumes in the chill air. Like him, they had chafed under the confinement of blocky buildings and overcrowded streets. The heavy pounding of their running never failed to lift his spirits.
Dawn painted the skyline in banners of red and gold. Mother Leanna walked with stiff steps along the front line, with incense and blessings. The wardogs yipped, trying to chase the cloying smell - their handlers yanked them back. The loss of Mother Boann at Ostagar was a clammy hand on Loghain's back. He had always liked Mother Ailis' protégé; Leanna was the spiritual successor of Mother Bronach.
Queen Anora rode out to address the men, the Warden beside her. His daughter's grace did not surprise him: memories of their thousand lessons raced through his mind like beads on a golden chain. She was skilled as Rowan had been - though his memories of Rowan were accompanied by the sweat and blood and din of battle. On her white horse, hair gleaming like pale fire, Anora resembled the marble statues of the Queen - but her fierce conviction shone like a diamond flame. The Warden was also surprisingly skilled - from this he deduced that if Eamon had done nothing else for the Bastard Prince, a childhood in the stables had made him a better horseman than his father. Who else would have taught her?
Anora was a different woman in sunlight: her white face stark with uncompromising strength and the hawk-like shadow of his face: his cold eyes, his determined mouth, his nose, added to Celia's delicate beauty. Curiously, it made her seem more vulnerable - her bleak, slightly awkward courage plain for all to see. Her delivery was stilted, cool, but no-one could doubt her intense presence of purpose. And her words were poetic - she had always been Cailan's speech-writer:
"Before us stands the might of the darkspawn horde. Faced with this common threat, we are all of us - human, Elf, Dwarf and Mage - Ferelden: all of us equal..."
War had a habit of removing class - as he and the Night Elves knew very well - pity for them the sentiment wouldn't last beyond the crisis. He guessed from the slightly wistful smile on the Warden's face that she was thinking the same.
"...The Blight that destroys the land destroys the people - but fear not, for we have the Grey Wardens to lead us..."
Yes - so Cailan had thought at Ostagar...
"... The woman you see before you is the saviour of Redcliffe - the slayer of the High Dragon - the finder of the Sacred Ashes. She will lead you into battle against the Maker-damned horde - for behind her stands Andraste!"
Revered Mother Leanna was looking sour - mouth pinched, face puckered in a prune-like frown - but the men were cheering wildly. He thought it a rather grandiose introduction to a whip-thin, sharp-featured Alienage gutter rat - why couldn't Anora have just said: "the woman you see before you is an Elf, raised to the ranks of the Grey Wardens" and called a spade a spade! His daughter was calling the Warden forward - Loghain felt a moment's sympathy, knowing how he hated making speeches - but to his annoyance the little glory-hunter rose to the challenge with more aplomb. Her address was short, but to the point:
"We, the Grey Wardens, are honoured to lead you. If our skill matches yours - if our courage equals yours - no force can defeat us. I salute you. Now - a cheer for the Queen!"
Anora blinked in surprise at the sudden swell of rapturous applause, hesitated a moment, then gave a graceful wave. The movement was assured and elegant, and only Loghain noticed the faint flush of rose on her face - the shy pleasure. Anora had meant this to be the Warden's moment: had set the stage with immaculate direction and then intended to step back to let her star claim the glory - but the Warden had turned that on its head. Gwaren's little girl had rarely received such affection: Cailan had hogged the limelight, often edging her out of the picture altogether - a heartless sun eclipsing a pale moon. All at once, he felt a little warmer toward the Warden - a little better about this whole ridiculous farce...
The army turned west before heading south, to merge with the Warden's forces still camped along the Hafter River. This far north, the sparsely-settled farmland was untouched by the Blight. Despite the relative quiet, Loghain remained wary. Squads on horseback acted as point and flank guard. The soldiers might regard this as wasted effort, but Loghain's linguistic torching kept them warmed to the task. The vast majority of the army were infantry. Unlike Orlais, where the chevaliers were the main strength and symbol of nobility, the tough Ferelden foot-soldiers considered horses a mode of transportation and fighting a job for a man standing upright. They had a cavalry unit, of course - brought to prominence most memorably by Queen Rowan - but it was a fraction of the whole. As usual, Loghain rode at the head of the main column with a group that consisted of himself, the Warden, and a unit of twenty horsemen. Cauthrien marched with the men. Arl Eamon rode in the rear, responsible for rearguard as well as the supply wagons. Bann Sighard was in tactical command of the remainder of the column. Loghain was in touch with all the elements of the army through signal flags and messengers. As the footpace left the riders with time on their hands, the Warden practiced the manouveres Alistair had taught her. She swung off cavalry-style, across the neck with her back to the horse - the best way in battle, if the horse allowed it - and then remounted. The rest of the morning was devoted to acquiring this skill. Loghain had to smile when he contrasted this with Cauthrien's blunt efficiency. The Warden could afford all the flourish she wanted - the horse did the work. The soldier on foot bought her progress more dearly, and took a sterner view of life.
Afternoon edged toward dusk; the purple sky glimmered over the low hills around Dragon's Peak - by tomorrow they would reach the Warden's army. Heather and scrub formed a fuzzy brown-and-grey carpet. The cavalry slowed, careful of loose stones. The thick line of infantry - rough, practical armour dark as the stones; weapons bristling like the thorny scrub - marched steadily. Loghain sent out scouts, picked his site carefully, and finally made camp by the river's eastern edge. Its long curve gleamed like Maric's Dragonbone blade under the darkening sky. The cavalry went downstream, to water their horses without fouling it for the rest. The men unpacked supplies; watch-fires budded into flame. Loghain spoke to Cauthrien, and took the feel of morale. He found a healthy tension, like a drawn bow's - there was a sense of momentum; this would be the greatest battle of all their lives.
"I'm going to swap this damned plate for leather and go hunting," Loghain told her. Cauthrien opened her mouth to object.
"I'll be careful. I know it's not my job. Who knows when we'll have the chance in the Blighted lands - we should save the supplies. Besides, I need to stretch my legs."
Cauthrien snorted. "I'd gladly swap places with you, ser. Keeping these so-called soldiers alert and moving is like kneading bread: no matter how I push and shove, they look just the same. Go ahead; I'll keep things organized."
"I know. Thank you."
Loghain headed north, to the edge of autumnal woodland. Leaves swirled in the erratic breeze like candle-flames. It occurred to him he hadn't been hunting so long he'd forgotten the exhilaration of it; this was probably his last evening of relative freedom.
Rilian's warhorse had hated the cautious pace, and hated being trapped in the middle of the column - after feeding and watering the animal, she was aware of the rippling tension, the trembling as if energy were trying to burst through his skin. The black horse she had nicknamed "Racer" had been a gift from Eamon after the quest for the Sacred Ashes - though the Arl might regret it now. One slender, callused hand stroked the elegant arch of the neck; a wistful smile on her distant, absorbed, down-bent face. No-one regretted the betrayal more than she - yet she would do it all again. She pictured the squabbling of the Banns, the chaos of the preparations - a single heart-stopping vision put Eamon in charge instead of Loghain... The sight of orange skies and crumbling buildings was a nameless, persistent horror: vivid as memory, though it hadn't happened. Maybe it had - in the mind of Urthemiel. A promise, a warning - a page she struggled to unwrite.
Racer nudged her, and snorted. It was clearly a challenge. Rilian curled her left hand about the silky mane; her right gripped the base between the shoulders. She leapt, threw her right leg over; she was up. After Howe's torture and Riordan's revelation, her nights were full of the water-loud swirl of blood, the drumbeat of her heart. If you're not killed, you're still alive, Shianni had said - and she had never wanted to live as much as now. She felt the thrill of powerful muscles bunching beneath her, felt herself lifted and taken out of her own body, forgot that she was anything but a fast wind racing through a purple-gold dusk. The myriad sounds and smells of the evening washed over her: the rhythmic, mournful, three-note cry of a bird - the damp loam of the riverbank, where sparkling water raced past the wet, refreshed earth - the savoury smoke of the orange campfires... She and Racer leapt around scrub like flames in a playful breeze, occasionally jumping clear across. All too soon they caught up to the red-gold forest - and the dour figure of Loghain, gnarled as the tree-trunks and gloomy as the shadowy dimness. He said nothing until she had dismounted and finished petting Racer, then asked:
"What brings you up here? Boredom?"
"Exactly." She looked him over: strange to see the armoured knight in battered leathers and hunting bow; as strange as hearing Cyrion's stories of a hot-blooded young man who sought the Dalish... Then her gaze slipped past him to the downed stag in the distance - and the famous Grey Warden appetite roared into life. She started forward.
"Don't move." Rilian froze. She felt the weight of the encircling trees and pictured them closing ranks ominously in the fading light. The mesh of branches made her think of a net. One fallen tree lay with its roots in the air like the feet of dead men. She yearned for the complex patchwork of oblong buildings, winding streets like capillaries bringing the bustle of life, the comfort of enclosing walls. Loghain stood as if part of the woods: a grizzled, dark-shrouded old wolf watching from cover. Unexpectedly, a ripple of amusement quirked her lips: the Elf scared of the forest and the shem at home in it. Surely some racial memory must call from ancient woods? Nope, nothing but the prospect of hot food. Her Elven heritage was community and music and laughter, stories and gossip and dreams.
"You made enough noise riding here to draw a whole army. If anyone else is lurking, they'll catch you off-guard heading for the kill and you'll get an arrow in the back." He smiled - a smile that did not touch the merciless eyes. "I should know - I've done it often enough."
"To chevaliers?" Rilian knew she didn't really need to ask. "Why do you hate Orlais so much?" She cocked her head, her chin tilted up and a little leftward, wondering if he would answer. She thought of him as taciturn - though it appeared that when faced with incompetence he became quite eloquent. She'd overheard his analysis of the Howe turn-out and was still amazed by the inventiveness of his language.
"Hate - doesn't describe it. I've seen painted masked lords beat an old farmer to death with riding crops - to this day I don't know why. Is that hate? I saw good, sensible men fight armoured chevaliers with nothing: no weapons, no armour, not even hope of success, to see the occupation end. Is that hate?"
Rilian blinked. The words were calm, even, but in the steel-blue eyes shone the razor image of memory. Thirty years ago - I read his history in Mother Boann's book - so strange to be out here, talking like this...
"All of that was in the past."
A faint, sardonic smile moved the stern mouth. "Spoken like a woman of twenty," he acknowledged dryly.
Or maybe spoken like an Elf - how many times has father said that remembering the wrongs of the past is like keeping soured milk at the bottom of the pail? We have to forget, in the Alienage, or we couldn't live. We move forward by forcing ourselves never to look back…
Five years ago in Denerim square. The coiled violence of the mob. Laughing, hateful shem faces. The arc of the descending sword. Blood. Fountaining. The unimaginable sight of Adaia's hand, dropping across her vision, its fingers still clenched in defiance.
It might have been yesterday. Would Shianni ever forget Vaughan? Will I ever forget Howe? The older women say such men take a fraction of our lives; but you can lose a limb, a future, in seconds; it is no argument…
"The past is always with us. It's in our bones and our blood and we wear it on our skin. You can think otherwise, but you'll never get far without it."
"I - suppose you're right." Loghain was watching her with a strange expression. She hoped it was not contempt - she could feel rage rising in her like a dangerous spring; one wrong word would set a fire under it. "You and Arl Howe were - the chevaliers of the Alienage..."
Loghain's face darkened; for a moment, his expression was pure rage. Rilian blinked, startled: her careless thrust had hit some old wound. His jaw clenched, his eyes turned to ice, drilling through her as though looking for the perfect stretch of ground upon which to spill her blood. It was satisfying, seeing her own tightly coiled rage siphoned off into him. She thought he was going to let out a blast that would rip her to the bone - but he caught himself, regained control; did not try to explain that the Tevinter deal had been necessity, not sadism. Probably he didn't think her worth the explanation - or maybe he just knew his own motives made no difference to those on the receiving end.
She began to relax, her anger draining out of her - let him wrestle with it! "History tells what you achieved with the aid of a King's army. See what we manage with a Queen's support and Hahren Valendrian as Bann..."
...and a female Garahel...
"... But if we can ally with you to defeat the Blight, you ought to have been able to ally with Orlais."
His jaws chewed iron. Yet in spite of his ire he answered her: "That is a fatuous argument. You had already freed the Tevinter captives when you allied with me. Allowing chevaliers across the border afforded no such guarantee."
"No - but you couldn't be sure they meant to enslave Ferelden either. You sent men to the border on the suspicion, divided our forces when we needed them most - and then made my people pay the price."
"I made - a tactical error."
Under other circumstances, Rilian would have been amazed to hear Loghain admit a mistake - amazed to hear him say something that sounded almost like an apology. With the memory of her family packed in crates - the smell of sweat and sickness and desperation so stark in her mind - it acted on her like blood in the water to a shark. Forgetting the wisdom of Anora's advice, she leaned forward, fists on hips, and added: "And another thing: remember that blather about "slaves in your own country"? Well, forget it - I don't think you're tough enough to live in third class with us."
"Is that it?" Loghain scoffed, "Surely you have more to say to me than that? I've heard the Alienage speaks profanity as a native tongue; do feel free to - indulge yourself."
"As if you're an example of civilized language! I heard you talking to the Howe men: that particular use of sabatons had never occurred to me." Loghain mumbled and huffed, then finally found a tight grin that acknowledged Rilian's point. "Your errors in command were more than tactical. Did you ever wonder why the Night Elves fought for you? People can be more than they are, if they will try for it. It's in the worst of times that we need to cleave together the strongest."
"Where did you hear that?" Loghain asked abruptly, with an odd, searching intensity.
"Mother Boann," Rilian said absently, unwilling to be distracted from her point, "And she was right. It's how I try to lead. Don't you see that soldiers won't fight so well for a leader who sells his people? My community may be "only" Elves - but when that money ran out which social group would you have picked next? That would threaten all their freemen's rights."
Loghain snorted - half-cynical, half-sad:
"I think you underestimate the average citizen's short-sightedness - do you know how many Fereldens were happy to sell their countrymen to the usurper? And I think you do not understand that an army will fight, first and foremost, for a leader who puts their welfare above stiff-necked ideals."
Or even Kings... Rilian remembered his words during their meeting at the gates: that he could not have made Ostagar a repetition of West Hill; his soldiers deserved better. What other stiff-necked idealists had he known: what had been the cost of that first meeting with Prince Maric?
"I looked after my men - human and Elf - should they care for the fate of strangers who happen to be of the same race?" Reluctantly, Rilian remembered Devera: I am a member of the Tevinter Imperium first; the Minrathous Circle second. Those are the things that matter... "And I wonder," his tone cooled and hardened, "what your men would think if they knew you had destroyed the one weapon that could have saved hundreds of them - the one weapon that could have saved an entire race from extinction?"
That hit Rilian square in the gut. She relived the hunt through the Deep Roads - the sticky-sweet taint that choked the air - the twisted flesh that curled in red tendrils about the tunnel walls - the tormented form of - Laryn... Rilian had sworn to remember her by her name. She remembered her agonized decision and knew she had capitulated to her gut: to her disgust at Branka's crimes and the pleas of Caridin (who had mentioned the slavery of her own ancestors, so near to any Elf's heart). That her decision to destroy the Anvil had been emotional, not moral.
Loghain was right: would she have destroyed magic, or a Siegetower, or Dworkin's "grenades" because of the potential for misuse? The original golems were volunteers: how did the sacrifice of their souls differ from the truth Riordan had shared with her at Howe's estate? The dwarves had always known such a sacrifice was necessary - how long before Orzammar fell to the horde? Was she a mass-murderer too? She had decided the fate of a people not her own, even as Loghain had decided that Tevinter slavery was better than darkspawn death for the Alienage.
"I - did not have the right, any more than you did. But I was the one there." Alistair and Wynne too, but they had looked to her to make the decision…
…The only soul I sacrifice will be my own...
He was looking at her closely, and something strange happened in his face. His expression softened; the tamped-down rage let go of his features. For some reason, she noticed that his right hand was curled. At first she thought it was because he was still angry. Then she realized he had spent so much of his life with a heavy sword in his grasp that he could no longer completely straighten his fingers.
"In any case, there's no use discussing this," he said, "However important you think you are, you didn't cause this mess." His tone was rude, but she could tell his intent was kind. "We have much work left to do." Dismissing the matter along with his own odd charity, he returned to his task.
Loghain carefully scanned the woods, watching as the branches slowly swayed in the evening breeze, listening for a sound out of the ordinary. She realised it was more an exercise than a necessity - he had set his watches carefully; they were still at the borders of Dragon's Peak - but she supposed it was only wise to be cautious. Without comment, Loghain headed for the kill, and Rilian followed, leading her horse. Together, they hoisted the downed stag and laid it across Racer's back. Racer snorted and stamped at the smell of blood, until Loghain went back and, with a firm hand on the bridle, stilled him. Then he scouted ahead for a few moments, before returning.
"Nothing," he grunted, "Unless you have someone hidden in the woods waiting to kill me."
Rilian stiffened. "When I turn against you, I'll go through the front."
"Of course. Sometimes you move so fast one wonders."
It was yet another stinging reference to the night of Howe's death. It rankled to be reminded that Loghain saw the killing as less than honest. She stopped, a cold grin lighting her face.
"Bothers you, doesn't it?"
"I - would like to know how you got close enough to him."
… The door burst open. The four figures were blurred, shadowy blocks, back-lit by orange torchlight…
"You really want to know how the Arl met his end?"
"I asked, didn't I? It wasn't just to hear the sound of your voice."
… There was a roaring flame, a thick coppery taste. Then the world exploded in a tornado of weight, curses, hot breath …
"Alright."
…She was half-stifled by the rank human smell of dirty flesh and hair, bloodlust, rage and sex…
"It's simple. When I got to my room, I had a dagger concealed in…my boot. The door was sealed, of course - but Alistair taught me the Templar ability to negate magic." Actually, she had never succeeded in learning the Templar discipline, though he had tried to teach her; Oghren's Berserker training had proven far more effective. And could the Dispel Magic ability even work on wards? She didn't know - but she was willing to bet Loghain didn't either.
"Go on."
… He lifted her to her feet by her hair, encouraged her to strike at him again, and when she did, he let her drop. She spat at him. Her last blurred, collapsing image was of him straddling her, one fist raised like a cobra …
"I reached the corridor - and took out four guards on the way to Howe's chambers."
Loghain's face crinkled dubiously. Rilian echoed Valendrian's words with no small amount of satisfaction: "We are not all so helpless. The proof of the pudding is in the eating, as my father used to say - I reached him, didn't I?"
…Something choked off her breathing. She snapped awake. Black cloth suffocated her. She struggled, tried to roll over, but she couldn't move. Her entire body was a screaming mass of pain. It was only a little worse where the ropes bit into her wrists and ankles...
"I found the Arl in his room - counting Tevinter coins. He looked up - drew sword and dagger. I engaged him."
…One elegant hand rested, with the solicitous touch of friends at sickbeds, on her thigh. There, from her neck on down, lay a nothingness freely possessed by a monster. The pinpoint eyes were dispassionate; her body a slab of meat on a butcher's block that happened to be still breathing…
"He fought like a rat cornered by a terrier - but he was no match for me. I stuck that arrogant bastard in the gut - it took him a long time to die."
Rilian could almost see it; would have changed, if she could, her very memories. She watched Loghain's face grow darker and darker and smirked: it was the least he deserved after his blind trust had left her there - left his own daughter in that monster's hands! Howe needed some last words, she decided. In truth, she could barely remember anything after that - but Leliana would have told her a villain always made some exposition.
"He spoke to me before he breathed his last."
What last febrile thought would have raced through a mind gone rotten like a piece of old fruit? Ah - she had it! She drew her words out in a sibilant hiss:
"I…deserved…more…"
She darted a satisfied glance at Loghain, only to find him glaring at her, weatherbeaten features pinched in a dubious scowl.
"I don't believe a word of it."
Rilian's smile broke open slowly. "Ah - but you can't come up with a better explanation, can you?"
"It's a long march south," was the dour response, "I'll get to the truth eventually."
"It was truth! Told with the lightest touch of necessary artistry."
"Lies, then."
Rilian turned away to hide a grin, wondering how many different tales she could come up with before they reached the horde. Howe could be killed in any number of creative ways. The best part of it was, even if he heard the sordid truth from Anora or Jowan, he would never now believe it.
Several hours later the long baggage train lumbered down, with Arl Eamon leading. The army could sleep soundly; they were in Bann Sighard's territory; Loghain had been careful setting the watches. The following afternoon they reached Rilian's camp.
Rilian feasted her eyes on the long curve of the Hafter River, enjoying the mingled greens of the metallic water and the scrub along the banks. Higher, further from the sustaining moisture, the hills were dark greens and purples shading into a softly-luminous grey sky. A light rain was falling. They crossed one last hill towards the large valley where she had left Ser Perth in command of the soldiers of Redcliffe and their growing number of refugees. The elderly Bann Temlen commanded his own men.
"You have a sentry out - that much I can approve - but you're too bunched up," Loghain said. Rilian bristled, not liking to hear that analysis from a man used to dealing with experienced - and disciplined - soldiers. Then she remembered that the rebellion must have been every bit as chaotic.
"I'm going to ride ahead," she told him, "To, um, organise things." She could tell from Loghain's expression that her eagerness to see friends and family swirled across her face as clearly as clouds foretold rain, but he made no comment. She nudged Racer's sides and started forward at a gallop, flowing with him like water.
The first of her companions nearly bowled her over as she rounded the bend. Ravenous yelped and ran in delighted circles about horse and rider - Rilian could not stop the silly grin from spreading across her face. Leliana, Wynne and Zevran followed. Her heart leapt - her last sight of the golden assassin had bathed him in lurid tones of blood and fire as he ran towards the ship where Isabella waited to bring the Tevinter captives to safety. His broad grin told her all she needed to know:
"We all made it. Isabella left after I'd seen to - payment." Of more than one form, said the gleam in the golden eyes. "All thirty of your folks are here - your cousins are out hunting with the Dalish. Ser Otto is with Ser Perth. And your father sure knows how to feed an army."
Rilian giggled, happiness singing through her. "I bet it beats working for Arl Bryland!" Advancing at a slow canter, she observed gaily, "You're too bunched up - my father and a dozen eggs would turn you all into an omelette! Can't I teach you people anything?"
"Nothing about how to greet a friend, that's for sure! All ten Dalish tribes are here, led by Lanaya; with Mithra commanding the archers. We moored the ship near the Wending Wood - it was the only way to avoid Denerim and Amaranthine forces - and we'd not have made it through without the help of Keeper Velanna and her sister, Seranni. They're here - though I'm not sure how long they'll stay." Rilian remembered Alarith's stories of the Dalish who had helped him on his flight from Tevinter.
"I'd like to meet them." Her happiness became brighter and brighter, as if she were burning. She dismounted and went to Leliana first, exchanging hugs, and then to Wynne. The older woman embraced her - but there was a stiffness to her spine that had not been there before.
"Alistair arrived three days ago - but he left the very next morning: to scout the movements of the horde, he said. Riordan went with him. He told us you had allied with - Teyrn Loghain."
Wynne's voice was soft, but the taint of accusation in it hurt. Rilian reached down, stroked the warm comfort of Ravenous' bristly coat, scratched behind his ears. Her mabari friend gave a deep, contented growl.
"Would it be better if I had killed him? We have an alliance now: eight thousand men, added to our own. We have a chance to save Ferelden!"
"And how many men did the Teyrn have at Ostagar?" asked Wynne, voice dark-laden with bitterness.
"The same number," Rilian answered flatly, "Because, thanks to his retreat, they lived. We could not have won - the darkspawn were too many." The beacon was delayed... "He means the best in the worst he does. I'm just beginning to understand that."
"I can't believe you're defending him!" Rilian was stunned and horrified by the swift wash of troubled concern that raced across the austere features: a face that still bore the elegant lines of the beauty she had been. "Alistair told me he forced you to go to Arl Howe's estate - he still suspects something happened. You're as blinded as the rest of his victims!"
Blinded - didn't the Guardian of the Ashes tell you you were merely parroting the Circle's beliefs? Rilian nearly blurted - but loyalty and respect stopped the reply at her throat. She swallowed hard, eating words.
"It's my decision."
Her need to command put ice in her tone, solidified it into a barrier between herself and her friend, and she didn't know how to call the words back. She reached out. Wynne was already turning. Rilian was left standing, starkly, hand outstretched. She reached to lean absently against a moss-covered boulder. Its ancient, grey solidity seemed to mock anything as ephemeral as grief.
What she'd done was right. So why did she feel such a tearing sense of loss? Why had she never wondered what it cost to be right?
The dull silence held nothing but the many sounds of the rain and the rhythmic rumble of pounding feet. She could hear Loghain's army approach like imminent thunder. Softly, she said, "I think I like it better this way. Everything misted and uncertain. It's as though the rain wants to absorb the conflict; even the Blight."
"It does change the way things look," Leliana agreed, "The subtle colour - the effects of flat, universal light - have their own beauty. It's not obvious - you have to look for it."
Leliana's whimsical, affectionate talk began to relax Rilian's knotted muscles - soothed her pain in ways she didn't even consciously realise. Neither Leliana nor Zevran would ever ask about her time in Howe's estate - just as she had waited until they were ready to tell her their own stories. She was startled when Zevran approached her - more serious than she had ever seen him. She caught Leliana's silent plea with a pang of sharp, anticipatory knowing.
"This is about Alistair, isn't it? Is he alright? Is he hurt?"
Leliana said delicately, "When he rode away from camp, so angry so - troubled, some people wondered about it. Some made up stories to suit their own standards."
Rilian had not grown up in the Alienage for nothing. "Stories?" she asked quietly, her gaze seeking the southern lands, as if she could pierce the rain-washed distance and find him, "Or story?"
Leliana understood. Stories meant gossip, uncertainty. One story meant a root somewhere - a lie, perhaps, but a lie people agreed on. Maybe for a reason.
"When you hear, you'll know it's a lie," Zevran told her, "The rumour says Morrigan made a move on Alistair, and when he regretted what he'd done, he left. See how stupid it is? Just don't lose your temper. And don't let him, either, when he gets back."
Rilian jerked, like a cat stepping on a thorn. The words were a knife to her windpipe; her breath caught. Her first, instinctive words shot the messenger:
"I don't think you're in much position to give out advice on how to deal with relationships."
Zevran went carefully still, expressionless.
"Oh, Zevran." Rilian hung her head, tried to shake away a sudden rush of burning tears. "I'm so sorry. What a bitchy thing to say! I wasn't thinking..." Vividly, as if it had happened yesterday, she heard the normally light, teasing voice - a voice made for playful smut as Leliana's was for song- turn sombre; heard him draw the story of Rinna out like an arrow from a wound, wet with his blood. How could she have said such a thing...
"Do not worry, my fair Warden. I can imagine the heat you got from Alistair. You're wound about four turns too tight - allow me to demonstrate the kind of massage skills one only learns growing up in an Antivan whorehouse..." The slender, supple fingers waggled suggestively.
Rilian made a sound half-way between a laugh and a hiccup. She took the hands and squeezed affectionately, trying to convey the gratitude her voice could not. She startled herself with a sharp, false smile and an offhand manner so artificial it made her throat catch: "We'll sort it all out, me and Alistair. For now, we have work. I must speak to Ser Perth and the Dalish leaders, integrate our troops with Loghain's men. And I need to see what sort of stores we have. No-one goes hungry in this outfit..." Hands working in eager circles, Rilian's bright mood was partially restored.
Leliana and Zevran looked at her with the slightly tolerant expressions of artists listening to a soldier talk shop. Unwilling to see the matter end with the most important aspect ignored, Leliana cheerfully brushed aside such inconsequentials:
"Alistair loves you. What lie, what tale, can darken that?"
"I hurt him a lot."
The rain melded with the heat and smoke of campfires, creating a mist that transmuted the green-and-grey distance to a veiled insubstantiality. It curled around hollows and valleys, pale against the silvery wet sky. Closer at hand, it was alive, dancing around them before shimmering away to nothingness. Ravenous settled against Rilian, his warm breath creating ripples. Racer snorted, creating another small cloud, this one swift and boiling, disappearing like curling smoke.
Leliana smiled softly, her gentle sympathy warm against the cooling breeze. "You and Alistair are like us right now - finding your way in the mist. You two hit a tree. You've got to get past that. Remember what you told me: it's going to be alright..."
"... long as we stick together," Rilian finished for her. She extended an arm, gave Leliana a grateful hug, felt her old smile ease onto her face as she met Zevran's eyes. "Come on, I'll race you back to camp..."
It wasn't much of a race: Rilian was leading her horse, while Ravenous bounded in circles around them. Rilian scratched behind the alert ears and he wagged his short, stubby tail. Zevran shot the mabari a wary look: "I found a trail of dog drool in my pack this morning. Not that I like to make accusations - and I certainly appreciate the artistry of a good burgle - but leaving all that drool as evidence? Sloppy..."
The valley was nestled into the pale curve of the Hafter River. The Redcliffe soldiers and Bann Temlen's men had spread out from there to the eastern foothills. On Ser Perth and Sten's advice, the first thing Rilian had done was order a slit trench dug at its edge; no soldier with any field experience would let his men foul their own camp.
The mass of leather tents covered the dark green ground like some lumpy, dun-coloured carpet. The smoke of cook-fires was rising, with here and there a spurt of flame. Servants and refugees lived in a workmanlike shanty town of tents, lean-tos and propped upturned carts. The air smelled of rain, crushed wet sage, grilling fish, horses, and leather. The tall chestnut-haired knight strode towards them, eyes lit with joy and a kind of fervour that brushed her mind with faint unease. The same look had shone in Leliana's eyes when she asked to join them - but Leliana's faith was in their quest, not in Rilian personally. The view from the pedestal was a dizzying drop, and the guilty knowledge that her own white lie about the amulets had started this made her more afraid of failing him.
"Warden!" the young man breathed - and the look in the bright brown eyes was of faith fulfilled, "I knew you would succeed. You set out to bring us allies; and Riordan tells me you have joined forces with Teyrn Loghain..."
A thought struck Rilian and she bit her lip. Wynne had not mentioned Jowan. She had sent him ahead to get him out of the Chantry's orbit - but Ser Perth was bone-loyal to Arl Eamon...
"I sent the Wardens' newest recruit ahead with Riordan," she said, "Is Jowan here?" It was a stretch to call Jowan a recruit - Riordan had found the Wardens' quarters at the palace empty of all Joining supplies - but she would give him what amnesty she could.
Ser Perth's young face crinkled, as if fearing disapproval. "I - was uneasy leaving the Blood Mage entirely unsupervised. I asked Ser Otto to guard him - and to protect him, if need be. Did I do wrong?"
Rilian's smile broke open slowly: shining, totally delighted. She could not have explained that her pleasure was in this man seeing Ser Otto's worth as a Templar, after his fellows had written him off. "You did absolutely right."
Rilian walked through the camp, her friends beside her, refused the attentions of a squire and fed, watered and rubbed down Racer herself. She left the warhorse tethered by the stream, and found Jowan and Ser Otto sat over a game of chess. In the Alienage, Ser Otto had taught her the game, and it had amazed her that he could play from memory, without being able to see the board. A young man's face beneath the burned, scarred scalp and blinded eyes: but she couldn't see him in that way. What she saw was courage, singleness of purpose, youth and strength and joy. Nearly all the men raced to be near her - she spoke to them all, but at the end turned to Ser Perth and asked, "Where are the Dalish?"
Ser Perth explained that the Elves had made camp in the forest over Tarcaisne Ridge: the two forces were clumped separately like birds of different species, not really belonging to the same army at all. Rilian said:
"Send a messenger to the tribes: have them bring ten of the most likely leaders here. Within one hour I want our forces - humans and Elves - and the Teyrn's formed up in the valley - we can't plan anything until we know what we have to work with. Our first requirement is some organisation." She heard the cold precision in her voice and was repelled by it. Ser Perth reacted too. After a moment of surprise, he saluted.
"Yes, Warden-Commander."
The title set off a complex series of disquieting emotions. She had only just begun to discover Rilian Tabris - she had no idea who the Warden-Commander was.
Was this what the title meant: this steel-souled woman who ignored the love of friends in the name of authority? During her quests with her companions she'd led, not ordered; if they followed her, it was because they were all fighting the same fight, for the same goals. She would rather have remained the favourite child at a family gathering, responsible for no more than her eight companions, or alone with Ravenous and her Warden senses. All this - this responsibility for leading thousands of men, of organization, bringing them to the peak of their individual and combined strengths, knowing she must throw them into battle and not all of them would survive - this was something she wasn't ready for, even if she had a General to help her. It never occurred to her to consider throwing the tough decisions on Loghain's shoulders, any more than she had tried to avoid responsibility for the Anvil. In her mind, the military experience and strategy were Loghain's; the decisions must be her own. For a devastating moment, she thought of Wynne - gentle, motherly Wynne - turning away from her. Had Duncan ever found himself standing alone against those he was trying to protect? Loghain must have done after Ostagar... For the first time, Rilian had an intimation of the separation a leader must work within; the intense desolation of command.
She, Leliana and Zevran headed up the trail to the peak of Tarcaisne Ridge. The view from the top was magnificent: on the eastern side the river encircled the camp like a sickle blade; the cooking fires were glimmering points of red light. On the western side was the green-black backdrop of forested mountainside, gilded by the rain, as though the Maker had carpeted the world in emerald and silver. Oghren and Sten were camped here; it was the perfect vantage point. Rilian was nearly bowled over by what looked like a fiery beard on legs: "Well, shave my back and call me an Elf - it is you!" She hugged him back: the miasma of ale, sweat as strong as a horse's, and other, less savoury, aromas was comfortingly familiar. Sten merely nodded, but the violet eyes that shone from the carved obsidian face held a quiet satisfaction.
Rilian looked around the camp, amber eyes seeking, the muscles of her back tightening unconsciously. There was one other person here. The brilliant feral Morrigan was sitting as she always did, in a secluded spot away from the others, stark tree branches giving privacy. Morrigan had chosen her spot well: a gravelly rock pool glittered in the rain-washed light; droplets making tiny coloured explosions along the surface. Fed by a spring, the stream eventually trickled into the river below. Rilian started forward with studied nonchalance, trying to avoid awareness of the weight of Leliana and Zevran's stares. The nerves along her spine prickled. She found Morrigan bent over a bowl of herbs with the tense poise of a cat. Her ragged robes hung about her like black cobwebs; her skin so pale it was luminous in the yellowish bruise of light. The narrowed lupine eyes were full of secrets; and was it just her imagination that endowed the beautiful face with a preening gloss of satisfaction? But Rilian remembered her after Flemeth's death: her hands, white and erratic; the cut-glass sharpness of her face drawn into lines of tentative friendship, wavering and unsure as though seen through water as they exchanged confidences never before shared. Morrigan who met every danger with wild power and cool courage and dark, sarcastic wit. Wynne and Leliana had coached her in language, history, song - but it had been Morrigan who had taught her how to meet pain with gallows humour: an invaluable lesson for any soldier. The memories rose like golden bubbles, conquered tension and distrust: a smile eased across the taut coldness of her face like green shoots breaking through snow.
"I thought we'd gotten into the habit of sharing food," she said, "Come on - don't stand on ceremony. Afterwards, we'll all meet in the main camp - there are things we need to talk about. War plans: I have some ideas. Secret stuff - you won't believe it!" In spite of herself, enthusiasm bubbled through.
Morrigan's strange eyes widened almost imperceptibly. "Then - you did not approach to discuss the rumours?" There was the faintest tinge of petulance in the hard clear voice: she seemed both relieved and vaguely affronted that something else could occupy the lion's share of Rilian's attention. Rilian bit down on her lip to hide a smile, remembering her own cattiness with Anora - how she had spoiled for a good, wholesome woman-to-woman challenge. Had she really seemed so childish? Had the strange friendship she'd forged with the Queen changed her?
She drew a deep breath, squared her shoulders, forced a reassuring smile that felt like something twisting across her face. "What happened at the Landsmeet was my decision - none of that is your fault." Did he really go to you afterwards... Rilian swallowed the question like poison. It was pride as much as friendship; she could not bring herself to ask this too-beautiful woman for reassurance. Her next words were effortful but sincere: "As for the rumours - I trust you both. People talk all the time - we won't worry about it."
"You are not worried?"
Damn her - she was not making this easy! Rilian held on to her good humour the way the small, wind-blasted plants clung to the stark cliff-face. "I was upset when I heard them, that's for sure," she said carefully, "But what happens between Alistair and me is entirely our doing. You're like my sister - you said it yourself."
The hard face - its cheekbones so sharp they could probably cut through steel - softened imperceptibly. "Do you think this is the way sisters argue?"
The smile that had felt like a crack along a porcelain vase became genuine. "Well, you're nothing like my cousin Shianni but - yes, I think it is. Come on, Witch of the Wilds - I need you." Her grin was open confession - and open challenge.
Rilian held out her hand and Morrigan took it, her fingers curling like languid petals around Rilian's hardened palm. Unconsciously, the witch's other hand slid down to cup the taut whiteness of her belly like a blind cave-creature seeking nourishment. Rilian avoided looking: Morrigan's taste in clothing was unique; what she was - or wasn't - wearing left very little to the imagination. Enchantment made the artfully arranged beads and feathers and ghost-light rags solid as armour.
"You are right in that, Warden - you do need me. More than you realise." Strange, sombre laughter raised tiny hairs on the back of Rilian's neck. She wished the light were good enough to study the face of a woman who could warp the sound of merriment, make the ancient mist-shrouded mountainside echo with buried loneliness.
Morrigan said nothing as she joined the others - Zevran and Leliana conquered curiosity with tact. In a way, Morrigan was always alone, even in company - there was some gulf the others could not cross; some unhealed wound. Instinct told her it had to do with the ancient, knowing, cruel hag now buried in the Korcari Wilds. Rilian drew her out as much as she could - to her, as to Leliana, silence was unnatural. It was Sten who had shown her it could also be comfortable; that friendships could be forged without chatter. The five huddled together over a meal of bread, cheese and salted meat flavoured with pepper. Its sharp, mouth-watering scent saturated the air. Ravenous begged with silent eloquence. She gave him the lion's share, then sliced up leaf-thin bits for a pair of jewel-feathered birds fluttering eagerly around. They formed a brilliant squawking cloud as she flipped morsels that were deftly taken in mid-air. Sten frowned. "It's bad enough you spoil the mabari; you shouldn't spoil the birds too."
Rilian grinned. "There's no harm in some fun."
The stolid, unchanging features managed to convey Sten's opinion of such frivolity. "It's a good thing I know you're not as callow as you look."
"Callow?"
"You seem surprised. You must have heard this before."
Rilian shrugged and flipped another titbit to her grateful suppliants. "And I'm sure I'll be hearing it again - from the Banns at the War Council. I'd like you to be there - you and the Dalish leaders and Ser Perth."
"As you wish. But the burden of leadership is yours."
It was so close to Rilian's own thoughts that she blinked, startled.
"If you were a simple power-seeker, it wouldn't bother you. As it is, I expect it to kill you." That last came with a dismissive nonchalance that snapped Rilian's head around. "There's something eating your mind: something that you fear more than defeat, more than death. I don't understand it - I do know that I will follow you. You gave me more than life."
Asala glittered in the rain, sleek and iridescent.
"You owe me nothing."
"No-one spoke of debts." Sten's voice sharpened. "I'm grateful to you - but not so grateful that I live for you. I live as I choose, Kadan - and I choose to fight at your side."
Rilian's smile started as a slight movement of her lips, spread to illuminate her entire face.
"I won't talk about this again," Sten promised gruffly, "Once is enough. But I will say almost everyone here feels exactly the same."
There seemed to be nothing Rilian could say to that; her lower lip quirked oddly. Not having Leliana's way with words, she covered the moment by opening her pack and sharing out a fragrant sachet she had bought in Denerim. Soon the subtle, spicy aroma of Seheron tea leaves filled the camp. All five shared the steaming mugs, and the cookies Leliana had brought. Quietly, the beautiful Orlesian brought her lute, played notes that reached into Rilian's heart. The words to "Alindra And Her Soldier" melded with dreams, to seek the stars:
…How often she has gazed from castle windows all
And watched the daylight passing within her captive wall
With no one to heed her call
The evening hour is fading within the dwindling sun
And in a lonely moment, those embers will be gone
And the last of all the young birds flown
Her days of precious freedom, forfeited long before
To live such fruitless years behind a guarded door
But those days will last no more
Tomorrow, at this hour, she will be far away
Her trail of tears as starlight at the dimming of the day…
Rilian didn't open her eyes until the last haunting echo died to silence. For several heartbeats she cherished the notes, savouring until they were gone, trying to tell herself they remained when she knew better. Sometimes, Leliana's voice was the only thing that silenced the faint chittering that teased the corners of her mind, the black web connecting her with the writhing, teeming horde. The little group remained silent, sharing wordless communion. The tinge of melancholy - the restless change in the air - was offset by the excitement of new challenges. At last, they stood. Leliana and Zevran volunteered to remain on watch; Sten and Morrigan headed toward the main camp. Quietly, Rilian said: "I'll join you shortly - I'm going to speak to the Dalish." She called for Ravenous and the two headed down the trail.
The verdant forest reached to embrace her. The air sang with primal vitality; Rilian drew in greedy lungfuls. Ravenous rose on his hind legs, almost bowling her over, and planted a wet lick on her cheek. Her thin, sinewy arm curled around the muscled neck and shoulders in an impulsive hug. "Some fierce wardog. You're a big old pussycat. I'm supposed to protect you, is that it?" A happy bark was clear agreement. She scratched behind the alert ears, and almost laughed out loud at the way he accepted it, yet still watched their surroundings with his full attention. Between the base of the ridge and the forest that encroached like a creeping greenish dark, whispering secrets, was a small stretch of flat ground; bare earth and flattened scrub, worn by wagons. Emissary Caron Mahariel and his guards called greetings. Rilian joined them, caught up with news, performed a quick mental inventory of supplies - caught her breath at the sight beyond. A thing of grace and power, of curving arcs and soaring spires and proudly billowing sails. A wagon hitched to the stars... They were bright as stars: the six halla who pulled the half-carriage, half-ship. Seeing her open-mouthed wonder, Emissary Caron laughed gently. "Your first sight of one of our aravels?"
"It's a tale of wonder - my mother's stories - I never thought..." For long moments, Rilian simply gawked; wild, sweet, secret dreams swirling within. When Emissary Caron beckoned her closer the pleasure of discovery added to her joy.
"You have seen we do not make bows the way the shems do: they use wood only; ours are a blend of ironbark, horn and sinew. We use the same materials here. The sails are a weave of parchment, cloth and wax." Rilian hesitantly touched the brightly fluttering material, and had a sense of great strength cloaked in delicacy. Caron laughed boyishly. "You can't tear the stuff with a team of halla, I swear!" Rilian was staring so intently the stationary vessel seemed to waver as though seen through smoke...
...Anora sent the glider spinning into the night. The parchment caught a gust like a white-winged ship sailing on air...
Rilian recalled the dream that had morphed to nightmare in Arl Howe's estate: how she had melded with the Archdemon, musculature and skeleton fluidly rearranging themselves until it seemed impossible that she had ever walked on two legs. The aravel shimmered in her mind: harness turned to rigging - curving wood becoming flat and sleek and arrow-sharp - sails becoming wings...
"Who are your crafters?" she blurted.
"Among my tribe, Master Ilen is our finest. Master Varathorn you know: he told us how you ended Witherfang's curse."
"I should like to meet with them." Rilian clapped her hands in glee. Caron nodded, beaming, infected by her enthusiasm. "If what I have in mind works, the Wardens will fly again. Ancient Elven lore and a forward-thinking Queen: what a combination!"
Author's Note: this is one third of what I planned to fit into Chapter Ten – 30 000 words would have been indigestible! Part 2: Rilian's reunion with her family, the War Council, and the Battle of Ostagar should be up in a few days :)
The idea of using Dworkin's explosives in the original campaign was first done by Arsinoe in the excellent "Victory at Ostagar". It makes perfect sense.
"Alindra And Her Soldier" is the haunting "Fotheringay" by Fairport Convention - only the last line is changed, to fit Leliana's story.
Hi to my amazing reviewers: icey cold, Arsinoe, Shakespira, Analect, lisakodysam, ArtemysFayr, Josie Lange, Persephone, mutive, mousetalker, Enaid Aderyn, Papillon2, Rancho Relaxo, sleepyowlet, Nithu, Eva Galana and Forestnymphe. You guys make my day :)
Happy Christmas!