A/N: So, I wasn't quite sure where to take this next chapter. I decided perhaps a little bit of everything was in order, since I have a little bit of everything planned for future chapters. Laying some groundwork, as it were. :-) There are so many awesome stories I want to tell...everyone's got a history, and they keep banging around in my brain. For those of you who are waiting for the SEQUEL to TDKS... well, it's firmly in the works. There's been actual writing done on it. No idea yet when publishing will be, but rest assured...the writing has begun, and that can only lead to eventual publishing. :-D
Nathaniel and Alfstanna snuck around the corner, hand in hand, hurrying away from the festivities. It was the second day of feasting and games since Isolde and Eamon's wedding ceremony, and after the tourney on the following day, the nobility would return to their homes. The two of them had almost no time left before they would be separated again, and they were hoping for an hour… or more… of uninterrupted privacy.
Nathaniel glanced around, looking for a safe nook where a girl and a boy could spend some time alone without fear of being seen by nosy busybodies with no sense of romance or fun. His eyes lit on the perfect location, and he squeezed Alfstanna's hand.
"There," he said, and pointed to the stables.
"Nathaniel! It's so….common," Alfstanna giggled with girlish delight and squeezed his hand. "I love it."
The two of them hurried across the yard, Alfstanna's full green skirts gathered into her free arm, a loose strand of Nathaniel's dark hair blowing across his eyes. He pushed it back impatiently, and opened the barn door just enough to allow the two of them to slip inside.
Sunlight streamed through cracks in the aging wood, leaving just enough light to make things interesting, and the sweet smell of curing hay and sleepy animals filled their noses. Perfect.
Nathaniel pulled Alfstanna into his arms, and their lips met, an unpolished move that nonetheless made their hearts pound with the joy of young love. The moment stretched out, and then Nathaniel drew back to look around.
"Somewhere more private…" he murmured, and tugged Alfstanna toward the ladder leading up to the hayloft. A moment later they tumbled back into the soft straw and lost themselves in each other's arms.
Nathaniel was just working up the courage to try touching Alfstanna a bit more intimately when the barn door swung open, and the two of them froze. Breathless, childish laughter echoed through the barn, and Nathaniel risked a peek over the top of the hayloft.
Lyra Cousland was gesturing for someone to follow her into the barn.
"Come on," she exclaimed. "They'll never find us in here!"
A small boy with red-gold hair skidded through the door behind her, and they ducked behind a haybale, giggling and trying to shush each other.
"Who is it?" Alfstanna murmured, sitting up slightly to glance over the rail. Nathaniel dragged her back down, his eyes imploring her to silence. Alfstanna opened her mouth again, and Nathaniel covered it with his hand. She began to giggle, and he grinned back, and slowly released her. She bit playfully at his fingers.
"She's a bit young for you, in my opinion," Alfstanna whispered. "How old is she, six?"
"Eight," Nathaniel whispered back. His father had been trying to arrange a marriage between Nathaniel and Lyra since the day the girl was born, but thankfully, Bryce Cousland had no interest in making such an arrangement. Nathaniel was just as glad – not only was he eight years older than the girl, but he didn't care for the idea of marrying just to advance himself politically. Unlike his father, Rendon Howe.
"Someone else would suit you better…" Alfstanna purred against his neck, and Nathaniel stifled a groan, took his courage firmly in hand, and brushed his fingers over the girl's breast. She responded by crushing her lips against his, and he felt heat rushing through him.
The barn door opened again, and he heard more voices.
"Maker damned children," he swore, and he and Alfstanna stilled themselves.
"They're in here, I know it. I saw," a bossy voice said, and Nathaniel's heart stopped beating. Delilah!
"Lyra? Alistair?" Maker, it was turning into a regular party. Eleanor Cousland was calling. There was whispering, and then after a moment, Lyra spoke up.
"Yes, ma?" Lyra said, her voice all innocence.
"Delilah tells me you threw mud at her dress. Did you?" Eleanor's tone was stern, and Nathaniel heard small feet shuffling.
Serves her right, Nathaniel thought. Delilah was an awful snob about her clothing.
"Um….yes?" Lyra said, and Eleanor's sigh pervaded the room, as only a mother's sigh can.
"Come then, Lyra. Delilah, if you'll come with us back to the castle, Lyra will make amends."
"I will?" Lyra said, and Alfstanna snickered.
"She's cute," she whispered.
"Adorable. Kiss me," Nathaniel breathed, and she did. Thoroughly.
"What about me, ma'am?" A boy's voice. The redhead, Nathaniel thought belatedly, somewhat distracted by the glory of Alfstanna's tongue.
"You come too, Alistair," Eleanor said, and the barn door drifted shut again a moment later. All was silent, and then a cow mooed, and Alfstanna pulled away.
"You can't marry her," Alfstanna said, and Nathaniel's hands grew bolder, lingering on her bodice. The warmth and the softness of what lay beneath was somewhat distracting.
"If it were up to me, I wouldn't," Nathaniel said.
"Why is it so important to your father, anyway?" Alfstanna complained. "Waking Sea is just as nice as Highever, and our family is…well, we don't go back quite as many generations, but…"
"Alfstanna…" Nathaniel brushed her cheek with his fingers. "We're leaving tomorrow. Write to me? We may get to see each other at the Couslands' Satinalia celebration, if your family can come…"
Alfstanna looked down, and drew a breath.
"I'll be sixteen in Harvestmere. We could marry," she whispered, and then looked at him, her heart in her eyes. Nathaniel grew serious, and her fingers sought his. The encounter had been elevated to a whole new level.
"You would have me?" Nathaniel said, and she nodded.
"I…" his mind raced at the implications of what she was offering to him, of the unexpected feelings her proposal roused.
Nathaniel had cared for Alfstanna as long as he could remember. They had seen each other so rarely as the years passed – once a year, maybe, Amaranthine and Waking Sea being on literal opposite ends of the country, and yet each time fate did see fit to bring them together, it was as if no time had passed at all. This last week had seen the beginning of their physical relationship, although as yet they had done nothing more than exchange a few kisses, and now this daring tryst in the hayloft.
"I would need to ask my father," Nathaniel said finally.
"He'll say no," Alfstanna said. "He's so very concerned with your status," she spat the word.
"I'm not my father," Nathaniel said. Alfstanna's hand clutched his own.
"Then why ask? Come in Harvestmere," she begged. "We could go away. To Rivain, or Antiva…"
"Are you serious?" Nathaniel laughed. "What would we do in Antiva?"
"You could join the guard. I'd keep house for you."
"Alfstanna…" Thoughts of his father's ire at the idea of such a plan invaded the happy dream she was creating. "Your brother, Irminric – he's being trained as a Templar, isn't he?"
"So?"
"So who's inheriting Waking Sea?"
Her silence was telling.
"I can't leave Amaranthine, and you can't abandon your family," he said gently.
"What about Thomas? He could inherit Amaranthine," she pointed out. "You would be free to come to Waking Sea, and we could rule there, together. Will you speak to my father? And to yours?"
Nathaniel wavered. In truth, Thomas was much closer in age to Lyra, and there was no reason why his father couldn't make a match between the two of them. Nathaniel had only been to Waking Sea once, but he'd loved it…it wasn't that dissimilar to Amaranthine, and the smell of the sea was just like home.
Besides which, anywhere Alfstanna was, Nathaniel was happy to be.
"Write to me," he said again. "If you still wish it, come Satinalia…I'll speak to your father."
Alfstanna captured his face in her hands, and the only witnesses to what followed were a few lazy cows and an old donkey.
.oOo.
"I don't know what to do, Father," Anora said. "He's so childish, and he grows more and more insistent. I don't want—"
"You'll do what you must, Anora. For Ferelden." Loghain said, and peered over his paperwork at his daughter's concerned face. "Bed him."
"I…" Anora hesitated, and then looked at the floor. "Yes, Father." She turned to go, and Loghain felt a stab of grief at the slump in her shoulders. He wished it didn't have to be this way…
He closed his eyes, and then turned back to the paper he'd been reading when she came in.
Emperor Florian is showing signs of instability. There are whisperings that Ferelden is weak, that it would take only a small push to reclaim your country for Orlais. You and I both know this is most ridiculous, but the players in the game ever vie for favor, and the Desmarais family is losing their status with their daughter's defection to Ferelden. Be warned – an assassination is all it would take to topple the throne. It is not as unlikely as you or I might think. ~A Friend
Loghain rubbed his eyes. The missive meant the same thing it had meant the first three times he had read it, and he liked it no better. The father in him wished he'd never risen to this height.
The General in him set his mouth, and tucked the missive into his pouch. Anora would marry Cailan, and Maric would be removed. Ferelden would be made safe. The General saw what needed to be done, and put plans in motion to make it happen.
If Anora and Cailan found themselves – unexpectedly – expecting the heir that Maric was so sure Cailan was not ready for…
They will be married.
Loghain stood, and strode out of the office.
He didn't see his daughter in the hallway behind her, her back pressed against the rough stone, her face buried in her hands.
.oOo.
Anora sagged against the wall, allowing herself a moment of weakness before straightening up and moving down the hall. Her stomach was in knots, but she pushed the fear aside and took herself to Cailan's room.
When facing down a fear, there was no time like the present. She pushed open the door and was met with the sight of scattered maps and papers, sticks of graphite on the floor, and crumpled balls of vellum lying haphazardly about.
Cailan wasn't within.
Anora swore to herself and exited the room again, bothered that she should have to go to so much trouble to do something she not only didn't desire but was afraid of.
.oOo.
"This one…this." Cailan's eyes were shining as he pulled the sword from the wall. "It's fantastic. Look at it, Fergus!"
The younger boy looked eagerly on the filigreed weapon. Lyra and Alistair were playing on the other side of the room with a bag of marbles they had gotten from Bryce, and he took a quick glance back at them, fulfilling his duty of watching his sister after her stunt with Delilah Howe and the mud.
"It's awfully fancy. How can anything that looks that pretty hold an edge?" Fergus said, and Cailan took a few swings with it, testing the weight.
"Hmm. Balance feels off. Want a go?" He handed it to Fergus, who swung it gingerly. It didn't feel right to him.
"I think this one must have been made as a reward for some great deed. Maybe from the rebellion," Fergus said, and replaced the blade on the wall. "Not much use, is it?"
"A sword should have function and form," Cailan said. "You've seen my father's blade, have you not?"
"I have. It's a beauty," Fergus said. "Is your father fighting in the melee?"
"No. He says it isn't fair to the others, whatever that means. I'll be there, though," Cailan said, pure excitement in his voice. "I'd like nothing better than to prove myself in battle. Sometimes I imagine myself leading the armies, like my father did during the rebel battles against Orlais. It was such an exciting time to live in! I envy him that…will you be fighting?"
"I will, Highness," Fergus said. Cailan clapped him on the shoulder.
"Then may we meet on the field as equal foes, and may the best man be left standing," he grinned.
"Cailan?" Anora's voice called, and the prince turned around as his fiancé came through the door. Anora hesitated when she saw the others, and then a polite smile graced her lips.
"Anora! Come see – we were just looking at Eamon's weaponry collection."
"Cailan, we must talk…" Anora began. Her vague plans of seduction were being fizzled by the presence of the children – and in her estimation, that included fifteen year old Fergus Cousland.
"I'm busy. Can't it wait?" Cailan was examining a shield that was set against the wall, and Anora pressed her lips together, annoyed at his inattentiveness. It was all fine and good to paw at her when they were alone, but when she wanted his attention...
"No. It can't. I—"
"Cailan! Here you are," Maric's jovial voice rang out, and Anora suppressed a sigh of frustration. She hated being put off, especially when she had decided she was going to do something.
"Your Majesty," Anora said, dropping a curtsey. Fergus bowed low, and in their corner, Lyra looked up with interest. Alistair scooted himself behind the girl, hoping not to be seen.
"Anora. Fergus. Cailan, I'd like a word. If you'll accompany me?" Maric's tone brooked no nonsense, and Cailan followed his father from the room without a backward glance.
Fergus rubbed the back of his neck, awkwardly unsure of what to do or say, with beautiful Anora Mac Tir standing before him. Fortunately for him, she spun on her heel and walked out.
Anora gave no though to the children she left behind, her mind planning her next encounter with Cailan. Perhaps the best approach would be to wait for Cailan in his room, and spread herself naked across his desk. If that didn't get his attention, nothing would.
She wondered if she should bring one of the damned swords with her, just to make sure he couldn't get distracted.
.oOo.
"Loghain tells me you haven't been studying the maps," Maric said, and Cailan groaned.
"Father, really? Must we discuss this here? Now? I have all season to finish the work—"
"When we return to Denerim, I expect you to know the maps. You have tomorrow, and then a five-day carriage ride. That's the end of it. Are we clear?" Maric's voice was stern, and Cailan's eyes flicked sideways, a resigned look in his eyes.
"Fine. I'll know them." His tone was anything but convincing.
"Good." Maric searched Cailan's face. "This is important, Cailan. You must know the country. How else do you expect to rule?"
"You'll be king for a long time yet, Father. I don't see what the point is, really. Isn't that what advisors are for?"
"Would you trust an apprentice to build your house?" Maric said.
"What?" Cailan laughed. "What does that have to do with ruling?"
Maric turned and began strolling down the hall, inviting his son to walk with him. Cailan hurried to catch up, and the two ambled through the castle. Maric gestured to the walls.
"See the stones, Cai…they were cut and fitted by dozens of people. But who led them? Who directed them in their jobs?"
"The foreman, I suppose," Cailan said.
"Why not his apprentice?"
"The apprentice doesn't have the training," Cailan said.
"Well, why not the stonemasons, then? They know the stone."
"They know how to cut the stone," Cailan said. "Not how to build a castle."
"What of the woodworkers, who make the beams in the ceiling? The ones who pour the mortar, or the laborers who move the blocks? Why not have them lead?"
"Father, where are you going with this?" Cailan said, and Maric gestured to the castle.
"You, my son, are the apprentice, and someday, you'll be the foreman."
"…Ah." Cailan said. "And I cannot trust my stonemasons or my woodworkers or my laborers to tell me how to do my job."
He looked at his father for a moment, and Maric's eyes were expectant.
"Point taken. I'll learn the maps," Cailan said.