Four: Our Antebellum Innocence

.

And the city, burned and dimmed with smoke
screamed a reply:

I have no Voice, no sustenance!
My Maker is departed, the mortals
who tread my streets mere shades!

I am a pit-black place where all kindness fails.
I am a yawing hunger that admits no sweetness.
I am That Which Devours.
I am sere, sooty, terrible in my anger.
Surely I will shatter, crumble,
nibbled into nothingness by the relentless
waters of this world!
Surely I will end!

—from the Canticle of Demons , stanza 4: of the Black City

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Jowan:

"Are you sure you can't assign me elsewhere?" he asked the woman who had once been his best friend, and now was his commander. Kathil's expression might have been carved from stone, for all the expression it held. "Soldier's Peak? Ostagar? I could go to Montsimmard with Laurens—"

"And if the other Orlesian Wardens take the same dim view of mages as Montclair did?" She arched an eyebrow, then glanced out the window. "Andraste's little apples. What is it now?" There was a commotion rising from the courtyard below them, drowning out the sound of wind and rain. "Jowan, the answer is no, and you're going to have to learn how to deal with Anders if he survives the Joining." She went to the window, unlatching the casement and leaning out.

"I had to ask." The last week had been an exceedingly uncomfortable one. It was as bad as his first weeks with the Wardens, with the added discomfort of having more eyes on them all. The news that a qunari vessel had been spotted by the watchers on the coast—seen once and then not again—had added a new layer of tension to the proceedings.

Probably just a scout ship, Kathil had said. Looking at our defenses.

But there had been something about how she'd said it that made Jowan believe that she feared that it was much, much more. And now there were raised voices in the courtyard below. It was impossible to make out what was being shouted , but it was definitely angry.

"Maker's Breath, that's one of the banns—" Kathil left the window open and scurried toward the door of her makeshift office. "Let's get down there."

Cullen had joined them by the time they hit the main hall, where the commotion had moved. Laurens was already there, as was Varel and a group of well-dressed people apparently led by a tall, bald man. "Calm down, Eddelbrek," Laurens said to the bald man. "Please. Whatever this is about, we can't start solving it until we can talk about it rationally."

"There is nothing rational about my people starving to death," Eddelbrek said. "I told you in the autumn that this was going to happen unless you sent men to protect the farms. Between the darkspawn and the lack of food in our stores, we will be lucky if we have anyone left to do the planting this spring. The darkspawn ruined much of the harvest last year, and it is a blow we will not recover from without help. And as go the plains, goes the arling."

Varel chose that moment to clear his throat. "Bann Eddelbrek, there is someone here you should meet. Acting Warden-Commander Kathil?"

Apparently recognizing a cue when she heard one, Kathil stepped forward. Jowan stayed where he was, Cullen next to him, neither of them sure of what they were supposed to do here. "Gentlemen, ladies," she said, pitching her voice to carry into the crowd. "Like Laurens said, we need to talk about this rationally, and I need to understand what the issues are and what resources there are to solve them. Please, let's all sit down. You've all had a long, wet journey."

The tall bann gave Kathil a sharp look. "Acting Warden-Commander. Does that mean you are taking over for Laurens?"

Laurens broke in with, "I have been recalled to Montsimmard. Warden Kathil Amell—you may recognize the name—is stepping up in my place. I am here to ease the transition as I can."

Eddelbrek's countenance darkened. "She is to be arlessa?"

"That hasn't been decided yet," Kathil said. "I will be taking the Vigil, at least. The disposition of the arling is still under discussion."

There was a slowly spreading horror coming over the bann's face, and over those behind him. Jowan saw the realization of who this woman was, and what she was, come over the assembled throng. It would almost be funny, the stricken looks in their eyes, if it wasn't accompanied by a sick sensation in the pit of Jowan's stomach. He'd seen this so many times, as a stranger realized that the person standing in front of him was a mage.

She fought for you, for all of you. She nearly died a hundred times over, I've seen the scars. And still you look at her as if you expect a demon to come bursting out of her body at any moment.

Jowan stepped forward, and Cullen beside him moved in the same moment. The arrived silently on either side of Kathil, and Jowan found himself wishing that Zevran and Lorn were in attendance. Jowan did his best to radiate we are Grey Wardens and you do not mess with the Wardens, but he feared that he looked slightly ridiculous. Cullen, on the other hand, had an impressive glower on him.

Neither of them spoke, but he could see some among the assembled crowd sway back, just a little. Eddelbrek, no fool, bowed his head just slightly. "We should speak, then."

Kathil turned to Varel. "If you could see to the comfort of our guests? Gentlemen, ladies, I will be with you shortly." She showed no flicker of tension as Varel stepped forward and she stepped back, then turned and walked from the hall. Cullen and Jowan followed.

"What are you going to do?" Jowan asked as they walked down a long stone hallway. Kathil seemed to be heading for the practice grounds; reasonable enough considering that Zevran had taken Cerys down there along with both Mabari.

She grimaced. "I'm going to feed Cerys and collect Zev and Lorn. Cullen, you and Fiann will need to come with me. I knew this was coming, but I was hoping it would be after Alistair had been and gone and the arling was settled."

"And me?" Jowan asked.

"Warn the other Wardens that we have guests," she said. "If you can convince Justice to stay out of sight—"

"I'll do my best," he said, feeling an abrupt stab of horror. If was not necessarily completely obvious on first glance that the Fade spirit was what he was, but he took quite a bit of explaining to people who hadn't met him before. Especially since being a spirit of Justice apparently meant he had never even heard of this human thing called tact.

Jowan still wasn't comfortable around the spirit. He always looked at Jowan like he could stare holes through him, like he could see Jowan's soul and he wasn't particularly pleased with what he observed. Then again, few people were comfortable around him. Nathaniel and Sigrun liked him, Laurens trusted him like no other, and Oghren treated him just about as badly as everyone else. The rest of the Wardens, Justice simply made...uneasy.

They arrived at the practice ground at the back of the keep; Zevran was sparring against Nathaniel, blades flashing. At one side of the ring, Velanna was sitting on a bench with Cerys in her lap, watching the proceedings. Next to her, Sigrun was sharpening a blade. The two Mabari were at their feet, though after catching sight of them Lorn and Fiann both got up and came over to their respective humans.

Kathil dropped down on the bench next to Velanna, who handed her the baby without comment. Jowan watched Zevran and Nathaniel. Zevran was arguably the better fighter, through Jowan would take Nathaniel's bow at his back any day.

It was oddly comforting to watch them, to hear the metallic grate of Sigrun's whetstone on her blade. Even the barbed silence that seemed to be Velanna's default state was starting to feel familiar. It had been a long time since Jowan had been anywhere he could consider home. Maybe Flemeth's little house in the Wilds; at least there he'd had company who knew what he was, even if she was a crazy, insufferable old woman.

Still, that had lasted a matter of months, long enough for spring to turn to high summer, and then it had ended. He wasn't sure he trusted this new situation, this place, all that much yet.

Zevran closed with Nathaniel. The archer staggered, briefly off-balance, and Zevran drove his shoulder into the other man's chest. They went over in a graceless heap, and when the dust of the ring settled Zevran's dagger was at Nathaniel's throat.

"And that is that, I believe," the elf said with a grin. He rolled abruptly away and got to his feet, leaving Nathaniel to pick himself up off the packed dirt. Zevran sheathed his blades. "Sigrun, it is your turn, yes?"

Sigrun grinned and dropped her whetstone into the leather bag next to her. "Yep. Nate, you are a glutton for punishment."

"The only way to learn." Nathaniel quirked one corner of his mouth. "I've lost to the assassin. Now I will see if I can best the Legionnaire at her own game."

"Best two out of three." And that was a losing bet, since Jowan knew that the little dwarf was capable of incredible endurance. She could, and would, keep fighting long after the rest of them had dropped.

"I know better," Nathaniel said. "One more, then I'm done."

Kathil and Zevran left, quietly, and Cullen followed. The Mabari were at their heels, Fiann carrying the much-gnawed section of mage staff she'd found on their trip and had refused to leave behind. Evidently staves made for glorious chewing.

Jowan stayed where he was next to Velanna and watched Sigrun beat the metaphorical pants off of Nathaniel. Oghren came roaring through, if anything drunker than usual. Jowan was under the impression that the dwarf had always had a drinking problem, but from the look that Sigrun exchanged with Nathaniel as the warrior stormed off, it was getting worse.

Between that and Kathil's refusal to answer any questions about whatever history might lie between her and Oghren, there might be a storm approaching from within the Vigil, as well as from without.

Jowan would have to go and track down the rest of the Wardens, soon.

For the moment he watched and thought about homes, and the leaving of them.

Cullen:

The Vigil's hallways echoed around him as he walked toward his room, the walls giving him back his footsteps. The clicks of Fiann's claws on the stone pattered in counterpoint to his slower steps.. The place was almost peaceful, this late at night, when the only ones wakeful were those on duty. Cullen was heading for bed; he and Guaire had sat under the eaves on the battlements for hours tonight, drinking small mead and catching up.

It had been the first time he'd been able to talk to a fellow Templar about what had happened to him when he'd been sent away from the Tower and into the dubious safety of the Grey. Guaire had wanted to know what life was like as a Warden, and about how the withdrawal from lyrium had affected Cullen's talents.

He hadn't asked about Cullen's relationship with Zevran, or what was going on between him and Kathil. Cullen had managed to pry some details out of Guaire about the winter that he and the rest of the Tower refugees had spent holed up in a little farmhold in the middle of nowhere. Hobart, one of the mages, had died of the combined effects of one of the coughing diseases and an attack by winter-maddened wolves. The mage would have survived his injuries, if he hadn't been weakened by illness. Guaire was obviously not easy in his soul about it.

They were used to losing mages to demons, or to the effects of magic gone awry. Not to battle wounds.

Guaire said little enough about Petra, but even his silence on the subject of her was deafeningly loud. There was obviously a strong connection between the two of them, though at least on Guaire's side it seemed to be free of the sort of longings that had drawn Cullen to Kathil.

"I couldn't let Petra go alone," was Guaire's only comment when Cullen had asked him why he'd left the Tower. It had been so strange, to sit across the table from his old friend and read that mixture of commitment and uncertainty in his expression.

This was a path that none of them knew how to navigate.

I suppose we're all making it up as we go along.

He was almost at his door when he heard a familiar noise from down the hall—the wail of an infant. Cerys was about seven weeks old now, and he'd had time to learn what some of her cries meant. This one was that inconsolable wail that she got when she was tired and yet couldn't be soothed to sleep. Cullen paused, then headed down the hallway. Fiann gave the door a longing look—she had been fast asleep at his feet earlier, and her drooping ears clearly said that she did not like her human keeping such late hours—but followed.

He'd barely seen Cerys today, not to mention Zevran or Kathil. Kathil had been closeted with the banns who were still lingering despite it having been ten days since they'd arrived, still wrangling over who was going to get what from the Vigil's treasury. Zevran and Cullen took turns being Kathil's guard during these long sessions, and today had been the elf's turn.

The door to the sitting room next to Kathil's bedroom was slightly ajar, and as Cullen approached the baby's crying momentarily doubled in intensity. Cullen pushed the door open, ready to smile and offer to take the baby for a bit and see if he could get her calmed—

Kathil was sitting on a low couch, rocking Cerys, and both of them were crying.

Lorn was sitting with his head on the couch next to Kathil, his brow furrowed. He lifted his head, giving an interrogatory sniff. The pup was upset, his human was upset. He flicked an ear and whined briefly. Do something.

The mage didn't so much as glance up as Cullen crossed the room and sat down next to her. "Here," he said. "I'll take her." He lifted her from Kathil's arms, feeling tension and indignation in Cerys' small body, one fist waving as if clenched around an air current. Fiann came to sniff noses with Lorn. Both wardogs seemed to decide that the matter was well in hand, and settled down nose to tail, Fiann's head on Lorn's hip.

Next to him, Kathil scrubbed her face with her sleeve, and then leaned against Cullen's shoulder. "She's not hungry, doesn't need changing, doesn't want to be picked up or put down. I'm out of ideas."

"Where's Zevran?" he asked.

"Keeping an eye on one of the banns for me," Kathil said. "After this afternoon, I'm not sure I trust Lady Liza not to do something stupid." The negotiations with the banns were rapidly deteriorating; Cullen had heard that this afternoon's session had ended with screaming and shouting. At this point, they were trying to delay long enough to allow Alistair and his retinue to get here. "I really ought to be able to get through a whole evening by myself, but—Maker, I don't think I'm much good at this."

"Good at what, exactly?" he asked. He rocked Cerys a little, trying to settle her. Her wailing was starting to trail off into a kind of hiccupping crying, and Cullen was uncomfortably aware of Kathil leaning against him.

"Everything." She made a sharp gesture with one hand, a wave that encompassed the entire Vigil. "Being Warden-Commander. Trying to get a bunch of quarrelsome banns to see that we all have to work together if we're going to keep this sodding arling in one piece. Getting Kinnon or Petra to go back to the Tower." Her head tipped forward slightly. "Being a mother."

And what, precisely, did one say to that?

"You're doing all right," he said, fumbling for words. "The banns will just take some time, and I think Petra is coming around. And Cerys is fine, she's healthy as anything and she's happy, I mean usually, and—" He stopped. "Oh. Just come here."

It was a little awkward to arrange to hold Cerys on his lap and sling one arm around Kathil's shoulders. She had started crying again, more tears than he had ever seen from this little mage before, and there was a wordless pain inside of him, that there didn't seem to be anything he could do to make this better. She will have bad days, Ilse had told him. All mothers do, especially new ones.

Cullen supposed this qualified, but—he wished he could do something other than hold their daughter with one arm and Kathil with the other. It was what he could do for the moment, though, and after some time Cerys fell asleep, and Kathil stopped crying and rested where she was. Silence stole over them, and Cullen was a little afraid to move, for fear of disturbing the fragile balance that the moment had fallen into.

But disturb it he must. "To bed, with both of you," he said. "Come on." He cradled Cerys against his chest, feeling her warm, sleeping weight in his arms—nothing in the world felt quite like a slumbering infant—and got to his feet. Kathil, after a moment, followed suit.

They went into her room in silence, moonlight shining on the bed where rumpled blankets bore mute witness to a restless night. The dogs followed and settled onto the big pillow at the foot of the bed. Cullen laid Cerys in her cradle, the infant making a small whimper as he pulled a blanket over her but not waking. He gave a silent sigh of relief.

He turned, intending to leave, but Kathil was standing in the center of the room, and the look on her face gave him pause. A small flame kindled in his gut, somewhere between nervousness and anticipation, fragile as a dragonfly's wing. "Stay," she said, her gaze meeting his. "Please."

He stepped forward and so did she, and a heartbeat later he was holding her, her face tucked into his shoulder and the past weighing on both of them, everything that had gone wrong between them, everything that had gone right.

Cullen bent his head a little, and his lips grazed her hair. He breathed in the scent of her chased with the starlight edge of magic and lyrium, thin as a whisper, a blade. "I'll stay."

Kathil raised her head, and a moment after that her mouth was on his. Her lips were tentative at first, as if she wasn't sure what his reaction was going to be. His return of the kiss was equally slow as they tasted each other's mouths for the first time in half a year, since the shadows had claimed him that night as they had camped on the road to the Tower.

Maker, he wanted her, had been wanting her, hadn't admitted to anyone just how much. He'd even denied it to himself. A feeling akin to dizziness broke over him in a wave. He broke the kiss, took a deep breath to try to clear his head.

It didn't work.

"I...probably shouldn't have done that," Kathil said. Cullen could feel her hands on his back, her hands fisted tightly in his shirt. "I mean, yes, I wanted to, but I just—" She breathed out, set her forehead against his shoulder again. "I swore to myself I wasn't going to do this again."

"What, exactly? Kiss me?" He tried to keep his voice light, though the heady feeling in his chest was swiftly being replaced by concern. "Because I didn't mind. At all."

"This. Just...everything." She took a breath. "Have you thought about what you and I are to each other? Not personally, but as mage and Templar. If the worst happens, Cullen, you're going to be the one responsible for ending it for me. If we're involved with each other..."

Cullen shook his head. "If it comes to it, you won't be you any more," he said. "And it's my job to see that the worst doesn't happen." There was a suspicion curling around his heart. "We've been through this. What's this really about?"

"Mmm. Zevran has been teaching you bad habits. Like figuring out when I don't want to talk about something." She turned a bit in his arms, and one of her hands found his. Her fingers were icy. "There are days that I don't like myself very much. I've taken your whole life, and I've twisted it into something unrecognizable. I've done what I had to, but—" She stopped, and sighed. "I know that the lyrium madness is unlikely to take you again, but that's a few months it's going to take me some time to forget."

Ah. I see.

He intertwined his fingers with hers. "The course my life has taken isn't your fault, Kathil. And even if it were, I've had experiences that I never would have had as a Templar in the Tower. I wouldn't give up any of it. The good or the bad. I would never have had a family other than the Chantry, and now I have the Wardens, and I have Cerys, and Zevran. And you. And Jowan, I suppose." He tightened his hand on hers, felt her fingers curl in return. "Everything else...well, it's going to take time, is all. We have time." Maker, I hope we have time. He hadn't forgotten the despair demon, or the deal Kathil had struck with it.

She leaned into him, a hard curve of flesh and bone. "We do, at that."

They stayed like that for a moment, silent, and the spinning feeling in Cullen's chest abated. "I can go," he said. "If you want."

Kathil glanced up at him, and he saw the brief foxfire gleam of the Fade in her pupils. "I want you to stay," she said, her voice soft. "Besides, it's evidently a night for Cerys to want her fathers. Zevran won't be back until near dawn."

He nodded, and after a moment and some slightly awkward negotiation, they curled under the blankets on the bed. Both of them left their shirts on.

He woke as the window was beginning to pale with dawn, finding himself with Kathil on one side, and Zevran on the other. The elf insinuated a possessive arm over Cullen's waist, resting his hand on Kathil's hip. He said nothing, and Cullen closed his eyes again and was almost immediately asleep once more.

It was enough, for now.

Kathil:

She paused in the corridor outside of the Warden-Commander's office, hearing a familiar, strident voice coming from within. She pressed herself to the wall, quietly casting the veil of unseeing over herself.

"I am coming with you., and that is final."

There was a heavy sigh. Then Laurens spoke. "I am returning to my family, Velanna. You can't—"

"That's what you may tell yourself." Her voice was a knife, hard and sharp. "You're going after him. And I am coming with you." A pause, and then Velanna's voice softened. "He has my sister. You saw her. If I find him, then I find her."

"I suppose there's nothing I can say that will dissuade you? I didn't think so. Fine. I sail tomorrow."

There was a brief silence then, and a rustle of movement. Then Velanna emerged and walked down the corridor with long strides. After she was gone, Kathil released the unseeing and stepped away from the wall It was not the first time she had used that spell to avoid an awkward conversation, and it was certainly not going to be the last.

She rapped on the doorframe of the office and stepped inside. The Warden-Commander's desk was almost clear; almost everything had been transferred to Kathil, now. She was waiting until Laurens left to take this office for herself, out of courtesy.

The Orelsian was standing by the window, looking out. He turned to see Kathil, then waved at the chair across the desk from him. He took his own chair, folding his hands. "What can I do for you?"

She kept her gaze steady on him. "It's been weeks since I arrived, and you haven't told me what happened this winter. I need to know what happened with the Mother and the Architect."

From the look on Laurens' face, he had been dreading this conversation. "Then I will tell you, since I leave on the morrow. I warn you, this tale is not a pretty one."

And it was not.

Kathil listened with a growing sense of horror, and a newfound appreciation for the trials that had knit the Wardens of the Vigil into a cohesive unit. At the end, when Laurens told her about his decision to let the Architect go, she wanted to stand up and scream, why? Why? Why would you?

But she knew why. The Architect had held out a hope, of a sort; an end to all Blights, forever. And she had seen something shuttered in Laurens' eyes, when he looked at Velanna. He had been away from home a long time.

He had let the Architect go for hope, and for the Dalish mage.

It had been a foolish decision, and it was probably been wrong. But in his boots, she could not know if she would have done anything different.

Still. It begged the question: was this what happened when the last Old God was destroyed? When the last remnant of the song they pursued was silenced? Would the darkspawn gain sentience, and in the process go mad?

Kathil tried to imagine several thousand Mothers, all of them grieving the loss of the only thing that had kept them from being aware of what they were. What they had been created to be.

She was glad she wouldn't be alive to see it.

"And then, there is this." Laurens rummaged briefly in a desk drawer, coming up with something small. He slid it across the desk towards Kathil.

It was the tooth of some creature, yellowed with age and bound to a leather thong. Kathil picked it up and turned it over in her hand It was smooth, almost unnaturally so; she could well imagine someone fidgeting with it constantly for years, wearing the surface to that strange sheen.

"I took it from the Mother's neck, after I killed her," Laurens said. "At the time, I wasn't sure why."

Kathil looked down at the tooth in her hand. It lay in her palm, innocuous. "That implies you've discovered a reason since."

"A theory. I've seen necklaces like this before, mostly worn by people from the Free Marches. It may be an identifying token of some group there, some family. The Mother was human, before she was captured."

"You think you can find out who she was. Before."

"I thought I could. But I'm not sure if it's right if I do." He shook his head. "So I give it to you. Do with it what you will."

She closed her hand around the tooth, feeling the edge of it biting at her palm. Even if they could discover the Mother's origins—what would they tell her former family? Your daughter, your wife, your mother, she was captured by the darkspawn, tortured and raped, turned into one of them, and spent her days giving birth to more of them until finally a Grey Warden put a sword through her.

No. No one wanted to hear that. And the existence of the broodmothers was a closely guarded secret.

Well. You wanted to know. And now you do.

"Thank you," she said after a moment. "And good luck in Montsimmard."

"I think you're going to need the luck more than I do," he pointed out.

She gave him a half-smile. "Duly noted." She paused for a moment, then said, "And were you planning on telling me that Velanna is going with you?"

His dark look was sour but not at all surprised. "I expected her to take care of that detail. She has made no secret of being unhappy at the prospect of being under your command."

"You mean she's taken exception to my relationship with Zevran. I know." It wasn't unexpected—but she had hoped Velanna would be more a Grey Warden than a Dalish elf. It would have been nice if one of Zevran's people had respected his choice of what to do with his life.

Then again, Kathil thought that in Velanna's case, there might be a very personal reason that Zevran's marriage to a shemlen would bother her.

"There is no rule keeping us here, and she has little loyalty to Ferelden as a country," Laurens said. "She will seek her sister."

There was so much Kathil might have said, more she might have asked. But in all of their dealings with each other, there had been a thread of grace: a silent agreement that there were things it was far better to leave unsaid. Laurens did not like her, but if nothing else he respected what she was. As she respected what he was, and what he had accomplished.

They would have to leave it at that, it seemed.

She rose to her feet. "Good journey to you, if I don't see you." Laurens inclined his head towards he, and she returned the gesture. Then she was walking out of his—soon to be her—office.

Tomorrow, she would no longer be merely the acting Warden-Commander. Her post would begin in earnest.

I will be equal to this task.

I do not have the option not to be.

Alistair:

Vigil's Keep reared against the sky, rising from the cold spring mud. It was a very welcome sight. Alistair had done a lot of traveling in his day, but—

"That child is staring at me. Again."

He pulled his head back into the carriage, and looked at Rima. She was holding Duncan on her lap, the boy protesting and squirming silently. She was glaring out the other window. Leliana and her ward, Murena, were riding alongside the royal carriage.

The girl had an unnerving habit of staring at people as if she were attempting to peer inside of them. It would have been bad enough if the girl were normal, but no, it was all too obvious why Leliana had taken on the girl as an apprentice. She was preternaturally fast, intelligent for all that she spoke so little, and she had a certain feral quality about her. She was going to be a terrifyingly good bard some day. Alistair only hoped that she would be that bard somewhere away from his country.

As it was—

"She's a little girl, and from what Leliana says she's been terribly mistreated. She probably thinks you're the prettiest thing she's ever seen, Rima, and you know she likes other children." Liking was probably a misstatement. They'd discovered her crouched in Duncan's nursery twice in the space of the three days that Leliana and the Redcliffe guard she had been traveling with had been in the palace in Denerim. She was just there, and whispering to him! Duncan's terrified nurse had claimed. "Whoa now, Duncan—"

The little boy had wiggled free of his mother's grip and lurched towards Alistair. The movement of the carriage was enough to make anyone lose their balance, much less someone who had only started walking a month ago. Alistair lunged forward, battle-trained reflexes rescuing his small son from cracking his head against the bench or the floor.

Duncan shrieked, apparently mortally offended that he had been rescued from certain death. Again. He squalled angrily and kicked as Alistair lifted him and sat the boy on his lap. "He is going to be the death of me," Rima said. "Take your eyes off of him for a moment and he's trying to throw himself off of things."

Alistair set Duncan on his lap and the boy settled down, muttering something that sounded like, "Dadadadadadadadadada." Alistair didn't blame him for being restless. It had been a long journey, and the carriage was punishingly confining for all of them. Left to his own devices, Alistair would have ridden. Unfortunately, Rima was many things, but a horsewoman was not among them. Equines of all sorts only barely tolerated her, and the dislike was mutual.

Not to mention that they were, arguably, safer within the carriage. Bandits taking potshots at Alistair was one thing; it didn't happen that often these days, and he was a Warden. Being shot at was in the job description.

It was another thing entirely to think of someone attacking his son.

Duncan started chewing on the edge of Alistair's sleeve. He removed the cloth from his son's mouth, and glanced out the carriage window again, past the swaying curtains.

Ahead of them, just barely glimpsed, were men in armor. A lot of men in very familiar-looking armor. Out the other window, he could see Leliana's face take on a look of concern. She rode closer to the carriage. "Templars," she called over the rumble and squeak of the wheels. "At least twenty. Maybe more. They're in a hurry."

Templars were never in a hurry for any good reason. They probably weren't rushing to a party, for example. Alistair stuck his head out the window again. "Let's get moving," he said. "Quickly."

They weren't far from the gates of the Vigil, and the guard appeared to have been warned that there might be a royal procession coming through their gates. They made it through the outer ward quickly enough. Alistair's guard kept the gawkers at a distance. After a quick, tense consultation with Emris they divided their forces; Rima and most of the royal guard would stay in the inner ward, and Alistair, Leliana, and some of the rest of the guard would go into the keep proper. If they hadn't spied the Templars, they would have followed a more ordinary protocol for a royal visit, and Rima and Duncan would have gone into the hall with them.

As it was, he kissed Rima and then his son, and then strode up the stairs to the great doors that marked the entrance to the keep. Leliana was beside him, looking grim. They were followed by a flustered door-guard who looked like she was at an utter loss as to what to do with them, and ten of Alistair's guards.

At the end of the long entrance hall, the doors were standing open, and he could hear raised voices coming from inside. One voice in particular was very familiar.

"—and in conclusion, gentlemen, I am not about to roll over and let you do this." As Alistair and Leliana passed through the arched doorway and into the hall, Alistair's eyes swept the room, long years of battle experience having taught him that he could not combat danger he was not aware of.

Templars, check. A group of people in clothing that nearly shouted that they were nobility, check. Elven assassin and scowling Templar flanking one very cranky-looking Warden-mage, check. Pair of Mabari, check. (And was that Cullen's puppy? She was enormous.) Dark-haired, familiar-looking mage-type lurking behind Kathil, check. Seneschal Varel and a motley crew of Wardens, check.

Hands starting to reach for swords? Also, check.

"We have orders from Mother Leanna," the leader of the Templars said. It was Knight-Commander Maron, who Alistair had met a few years ago (though he really doubted the man remembered; just another traveler, passing through Lothering). He was ostensibly assigned to Amaranthine's Chantry, but—

"Let me be perfectly clear." Kathil's voice held an edge of violence in it. The feeling of an approaching storm pressed in on Alistair, as if lightning were lurking just the other side of the Veil. From the way that the Templars shifted, they could feel it as well. "The is a Grey Warden fortress. The Chantry has no sovereignty here." She was glaring at the Templar, but as Alistair and those with him came to a halt at the other side of the firepit in the center of the hall, she glanced at them.

Alistair had seen Kathil blanch like that before, but rarely. But even as she faltered, he could see in her dark eyes something like a voracious hope. She turned back to the Templars. "We will need to continue this discussion later. We have august company." She turned toward Alistair, and raised her voice as a ripple of murmur spread among those present. "Your Majesty. I bid you welcome to Vigil's Keep."

She swept a showy bow, and the nobles as one dropped to one knee. The Wardens, befitting their status as members of no nation, merely bowed. After a moment, the Templars too went to one knee in a rattle and crash of armor.

Into that silence Alistair spoke. "And it is good to be here, though it seems you are having a bit of trouble."

"Merely a discussion with the good sers." The scar on her face turned her smile sardonic. "Ser Maron, the chapel in the fortress will see to your comforts. Gentlemen and ladies, we are done for the day. I have much to discuss with the King. A full court will be held on the morrow, at the usual time." She glanced at Alistair, and then past him, and her eyes warmed as she saw Leliana. "Alistair, I can't imagine that this is your full retinue."

"Not nearly." He turned to the guard who was stationed on his shield side. "Tell Emris it's all right to bring everyone in." The man nodded and hurried away, past banns who were filing out the double doors under the watchful gazes of the Wardens. The Templars, evidently deciding that discretion might be the better part of valor, were retreating out the side doors. Soon enough , Emris returned with Rima and Duncan in tow, the boy having evidently decided that he needed to be carried.

Murena trotted beside them, her sharp face looking all around, taking in post and beam, fire and Wardens. She came to Leliana and slipped her small hand into the bard's.

Kathil was conferring with the mage who looked familiar—Jowan, it had to be. He handed her something. It looked, from here, like a blanket-wrapped infant. "Follow me," she said to Alistair and the rest. "Sigrun, if you could find Guaire..."

"I'll tell him." That was one of the Wardens, a woman who was on the small side even for a dwarf. "Come on, Nate, let's keep an eye on those louts in the armor."

The man in the dark leathers had to be Nathaniel Howe; that nose could belong to no one else. Alistair had heard that the oldest Howe son had gone into the Wardens, but it was decidedly odd to see the evidence with his own eyes. Kathil was leading them down a side hall into what must have once been a reception room, but currently looked as though it had been used as a storeroom for some months. Crates were piled high by the walls. "We're still getting things settled," she said. "I am so glad to see you, all of you, you have no idea."

Leliana stepped forward, then paused. "Dearest...is that—"

"Ah." Kathil glanced down at the child in her arms. "Everyone, this is my daughter Cerys." She shifted the child so they could all see her face. She was perhaps two months old.

There was an odd, twisting feeling in Alistair's gut. "How..."

"The usual way, Alistair." Her eyes narrowed with a familiar bladed humor. "There's other news. We should probably sit down."

But Leliana's eyes were narrowed. "This is why you were not at Redcliffe this winter, yes? And why you have a number of angry Templars on your doorstep."

"Among other reasons. Gossip travels fast, and when it became known that the new Warden-Commander is both married and has a child—well, I believe the Chantry in Amaranthine is not best pleased. This is only the opening volley."

"Wait. Married?" Leliana's brows were arched. "Dearest, there are all kinds of things you're not telling us."

The mage wrinkled her nose. "I know, I know, I had hopes of being able to sit down and tell you about everything, but I wasn't counting on you arriving at the same time as the Templars. Please." She motioned to the chairs that were set next to what appeared to be a hastily-built (and probably mage-assisted) fire. She took one of them, Zevran and Cullen taking up seats on either side of her.

It occurred to Alistair that he didn't even know which one of them she'd married. "Isn't that illegal?" he asked, wondering about mages and the possibility that she had married both of them and everyone was suddenly looking at him. "Er. Mages. Marrying." He chose a chair altogether too quickly, and Rima pulled one over beside him. Duncan wiggled out of her arms and went scampering off into the shadowed corners of the room.

"It is not illegal," Zevran said. From the look on his face, he was taking a rather large amount of pleasure in Alistair's discomfort. "Merely not customary, and there is very little about our Warden that is customary, yes?"

"Truth, that." He decided to drop it for the moment. "So. Is there any other trouble that I should know about?"

Kathil glanced down at her daughter, then back at Alistair. "A few things. I'm going to have to talk to you about the possibility of having aid sent to the arling. I am happy to sink what money I have into the rebuilding, but people can't eat coin, and it's not a matter of food being too dear to afford—there simply isn't any to be had. That's what the banns are doing here. Well, and eating us out of house and home. The food stores at the Vigil fared better than those of the rest of the arling, but we're still getting low."

"We can work that out," Alistair told her. This was known, and one of the largest reasons he'd chosen to come to see the damage to the arling himself. The letters from Warden-Commander Laurens that had reached Denerim after the roads had thawed enough for travel had been very clear on the fact that Amaranthine was in terrible shape. "What else?"

"We need a new arl." Kathil's mouth hardened. "And it's not going to be me."

Alistair stared at her. Was she really— "Why not?" he asked. "I thought that my intention was perfectly clear in the proclamation that gave the arling to the Grey Wardens."

"Even if it weren't against the law of the land for mages to hold positions of nobility in Ferelden—yes, that is still on the books, Alistair—my status as a Grey Warden is currently my only defense against my daughter being taken by the Chantry. If I'm arlessa, you can bet your ass that the Grand Cleric is going to use that to claim that I'm acting as a citizen of Ferelden, and thus should be subject to Chantry law." One of her hands, the one not cradling the baby on her lap, clenched on the arm of her chair. Her knuckles had gone white.

"The Chantry doesn't make the laws in this country, Kathil," he said. "That's the job of the Landsmeet and the crown."

She looked at him with eyes gone cold. "You may want to remind the Chantry of that."

Rima spoke, her voice soft yet perfectly pitched to cut across the murmurs that were beginning to rise in the room. "It is different when it is your child, isn't it?"

Kathil's attention went to the Princess Consort. Rima looked back at the Warden, utterly calm. (And he knew never to trust that calm; when Rima was that still, there was always something going on under the surface. Usually, whatever it was jumped out to bite Alastair later.) There was a long, tense moment during which neither of them spoke.

Then Kathil inclined her head. "As you say," she said. "I will not give my daughter to the Chantry." She unclenched her hand from the chair arm.

Rima nodded, as if satisfied. Alistair took a long breath. "I suppose you have someone in mind for the arldom."

"Varel." Kathil smiled thinly. "He knows the arldom, and more importantly he loves it. His judgment is good, if his tenure as seneschal is anything to go by, and the fact that he got thrown in prison for opposing Rendon Howe."

"And what does Varel think about this?"

"That it's a terrible idea. But he'll be good at it, and he is very sympathetic to the Wardens. And it doesn't show favoritism to any of the banns' families." She glanced at the door with a faint smile. "I have enough trouble on my hands without that."

True, and yet—

And yet.

He'd thought he could somehow make things up to her, a little. If she hadn't been a mage, she would have been heir to a bannorn at least; was it too much to think that she might get a little bit of her own back? Prove that even though she was a mage, she was capable—be an example—

But looking at her, he thought that maybe Warden-Commander Amell didn't particularly care about being an example. And maybe it hadn't been fair to expect her to be one.

(He was a King. He wasn't required to be fair, or so he was told.)

There was a pounding at the door, and Kathil shifted the baby in her arms and stood, an annoyed expression crossing her face. "What now?" she called.

The muffled voice from the other door sounded slightly panicked. "Commander, the dwarf—he's gotten into a fight with one of the banns—

"Andraste's little apples. Your Majesties, we'll need to continue this later." She gave Alistair an apologetic look. "I sometimes wish Oghren weren't so good at what he does. Cullen, Zevran, you're both with me." The assassin and the Templar were both on their feet already, and Kathil made for the door with them on her heels.

Leliana glanced at Alistair. "We should follow them," she said, and there was an all-too-familiar light in her eyes. "She might need some backup, yes?"

I think she has all the backup she could ever need, he almost said, then thought better of it. "I think so," he said. "Besides. I've missed Oghren. Though I haven't missed the smell of his breath."

"Or any number of other smells that emanate from him," Leliana said. "Come, your majesty. We will go see what trouble he has started this time."

They collected Duncan from a dusty corner, and traded down the hall towards not-so-distant sounds of a scuffle. Rima was beside him, her expression unreadable, except for the tiny quirk at the corners of her mouth that might herald something like satisfaction.

He wondered what battle Rima had won this time…

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Author's Note:

Many, many apologies for how long this chapter has taken. Gah, that was slow even for me. (I was traveling, and then I was sick, but that really is no excuse.) The good news is that I hope to resume posting every other week, at least for a while, as I've finished all but one of my other obligations for a bit.

Thank you to all who have stuck with me so far!