Chapter 9

Solace was hot.

Alistair sat at the small table, the tip of his tongue poked from the corner of his mouth as his steadying fingers formed letters with a stick of graphite. Chanter Sarah's sharp, hawkish eyes were watching his every move, and the small boy was nervous enough already. About his writing, yes - he'd rather draw than write - but he was even more nervous about what was to come later on.

Arl Eamon had told him he'd be speaking with him after dinner. It must be something important... maybe it was a trip? No, probably not. The Arl and his new wife had just returned from Denerim, and they probably didn't want to go anywhere else for awhile.

Maybe Eamon intended to send him to the school down in the village? Alistair's heart flared with wild hope. After being spoiled with playmates every day during the week of Summerday, it was even harder to sit in the castle and do solitary lessons with Chanter Sarah, even lonelier to lollygag around the courtyard and watch the trainees at their sword and bow work. He'd had more companions than he'd ever been allowed, and it had been such fun...

The village school had let out for the summer, everyone being concerned with harvest and food storage for the coming winter season. Alistair would have given anything to cease his own lessons as well, but Chanter Sarah said there was no reason to let his mind go idle. He had no parents who needed help with harvesting; no father who needed him to drive a second wagon, no mother who needed his handy help in corralling younger siblings.

Or maybe... maybe Isolde was expecting a baby! The thought of a younger brother or sister made Alistair's heart skip a beat. Someone he could teach, and play with, and help care for. Eamon and Isolde had been married, well, not that long, but Alistair knew that once men and women married, children inevitably followed. It made sense! He grew more excited as he thought of himself as an older brother, imagining all of the things they would get to do together as the baby grew.

His mind skipped back to the moment in the yard when he'd been building the pebble castle with Lyra, and the fancy carriage had rolled into view, revealing his father - his real father - and the son he loved best. Cailan was such a ray of light, all shining and golden. It was no wonder King Maric preferred him over small Alistair, with his fingernails forever dirty and scrapes on his knees. He swung those knees beneath the desk, scratching lightly at the newest offending scab, obtained when he'd fallen from the wall while watching the trainees in the yard.

He concentrated on the vellum again, then sat up, easing a crick in his back. Chanter Sarah peered over the paper, and he looked up eagerly, hoping she would approve of what he'd written. After a moment of silent scanning, she gave a brief nod, and Alistair grinned.

"Now your name. At the bottom." Her finger touched the lowest part of the paper, beneath the paragraphs of scrawls.

Head bent again, he went to it - his name was easy, just a few dashes -

"Chanter, may I add a picture?" He looked up at his instructor, and she studied the vellum.

"You don't have much room... but perhaps we can add a second sheet," she said, and he took a new piece of vellum. He knew just what he was going to draw.

.oOo.

"I wrote to Duncan today," Alistair announced at the dinner table. He'd been so proud of that letter - the first he'd composed almost entirely on his own. Chanter Sarah had helped, a little.

"Well done, lad," Eamon smiled at him as he sliced into a piece of cold ham. Alistair chugged his way through a glass of milk, feeling a sense of pride. Setting the cup back on the table, he dragged his arm across his mouth, drawing a sigh from Isolde.

"When can we send it? Where will it go? Where does Duncan live?" Alistair was full of eager questions, and Eamon sipped from his own cup.

"Duncan is on the move quite a bit. I wouldn't expect any kind of answer, Alistair. He's quite busy, you know, and I doubt he has much time for a small boy."

"But he told me he wanted to write to me," Alistair insisted. "He wouldn't tell me a lie."

"Alistair, eat your dinner," Isolde's refined voice said, and he turned resolutely into his snap beans. It was probably his least favorite vegetable, and he nudged them into the gravy, hoping to improve the bitter flavor.

When Eamon had decided he'd eaten enough to qualify for sweets, and Alistair had finished his slice of plum cake, Isolde nestled her eggshell delicate teacup into its saucer and cleared her throat. She glanced from Alistair to Eamon, and the Arl clasped his hands and set them on the table before him. Alistair waited in eagerness... was the moment here?

"Alistair, we have something very important to tell you," Eamon began, and Alistair's legs began kicking under the table as he fought to contain his excitement.

"There are big changes coming," Eamon continued, and Isolde reached over to clasp his hand. He gave her a warm smile, and Alistair thought he might burst.

"Are you having a baby?" he blurted out. "Are you giving me a brother or sister?" An eager smile brightened his face, and a shocked gasp slipped from Isolde's lips. Alistair's smile faded at the harsh look in her eyes, and Eamon placed a placating hand on her shoulder.

"Isolde, he meant no offense." the Arl said, his eyes gentle. He turned to the boy, who was shrinking back into his chair. "Alistair, you did nothing wrong. Although usually, we do not bring delicate subjects such as that up at the table."

"Nothing wrong?" Isolde cried. "You truly see nothing wrong with what he said?"

"Well, no," Eamon said, his voice sounding a bit cross. "But you do, obviously. Enlighten us, please?"

Isolde turned chilled eyes on the small boy. He twisted the edges of his pants between his fingers, sweat breaking out over his palms.

"I am not your mother," Isolde hissed. "You are not his son. And when we do have a child, you will not be a brother."

"Isolde!" Eamon gasped, but Isolde forged ahead, her anger over Alistair and the rumors that floated around him pushing her over the edge. Had Isolde actually been with child, perhaps she would not have reacted as harshly as she did. But her monthly courses were as regular as ever, and Alistair's reminder of her childless state was a slap in the face. Her thirty-second name day was rapidly approaching, and she could feel the months ticking away.

"You have been Eamon's ward long enough, child. You will be sent to Denerim, to study in the Chantry." Isolde's voice was bordering on triumphant, and Eamon pressed his eyes shut as an exasperated sigh escaped his lips. The enmity his wife felt for his ward puzzled him, but to his knowledge, she'd never been this cruel.

"But-" Alistair turned frightened eyes on his guardian. "Eamon, you're sending me away?"

Eamon's blue eyes sparked with anger. "Isolde, this is inexcusable-"

"Eamon," Alistair said urgently, slipping out of his chair. He came to stand by the only man who'd ever been a father to him, and placed a small hand on his arm. Rounded, freckled cheeks were drawn, his wide hazel eyes filled with anxiety. Eamon turned to him, unsure of what to say. This had not been the way he'd intended for his ward to learn the news.

"Eamon?" Alistair said again, his voice dropping to a choked whisper. "It isn't true, is it? You wouldn't send me away... would you?"

Eamon clasped the small hand in his own, and sighed. "I'm sorry, my boy. You're going to Denerim in the morning. There will be other children for you to play with. The Chantry school is well attended-"

"No," Alistair whispered in horror, his tawny head shaking back and forth. "I don't want to go. Don't make me, please!"

"You are lucky Eamon has cared for you for so long. ," Isolde interjected in a cruel voice, her face a frigid mask. "Most bastard children are killed at birth."

A stifled whimper fell from Alistair's lips, and his eyes squeezed shut. He turned and fled, Eamon's voice entreating him to return. He paid no attention, his scrawny legs carrying him up the stairs and to his room, where he pushed the door closed and flung himself on the bed. He curled himself into a tight knot, huddling in the blankets, aching sobs racking their way up to bury themselves in his pillow.

A soft knock a few moments later, and he halted his ragged breath to listen.

"Alistair," Eamon's muffled voice sounded through the oaken door. "Will you come back downstairs? Isolde would like to apologize to you."

"No," he called in a watery voice. "I hate her."

"Alistair-"

"I HATE HER!" he screamed. He sat up in the bed and kicked his legs into the covers, crusts of dried mud flaking into the coverlet and smearing it with dirt. He should have removed his shoes first - Gert would tan his hide. Oh wait, he wouldn't be here.

"I hate her, I hate her, I hate her! And I hate YOU!" he shrieked, his voice cracking with the passion he threw into the final note. Seeking release for the fury that was bubbling up within his soul, he yanked one boot from his foot and sent it spiraling at the wall. It smacked against the stone with a satisfying thwack, and he took grim pleasure in seeing it clash against the granite floor. A second boot followed the first, hitting heel-first against a tapestry and leaving a dark smudge on the woven fabric. He sought further violence, and leapt from his bed to pull the books from his shelves and fling them across the room. The water jar was next, and the sound of shattered glass was vaguely frightening to his ears. He'd never dared this much destruction - such behavior had never occurred to him before. Gert would whip him.

But he was leaving. Gert could never whip him again.

Breath coming quickly, he surveyed the mess, then decided he should clean up the glass, at least. Sniffling, he looked around for something with which to sweep up the mess, and leaned down to pick up a book from the floor. He could use the open cover as a sort of dustpan, and perhaps another book to shove the shards into a more manageable pile -

As he bent, the locket he wore around his neck slipped from his shirt and banged him in the nose.

He forgot his intention with the books and the glass, and slipped the locket from his neck to open it and gaze on the woman inside. His mother stared back, a fond smile on her beautiful face, her vivid blue eyes shining out at him, just as they always did.

"You wouldn't make me go to Denerim," he murmured, and then ugly realization filled his soul. His mother was the very first person who had abandoned him. If she'd loved him at all, she would have lived, would have stayed with him - but she had died, left him all alone in the world with no one who cared two bits for an orphaned boy.

Temper flaring once more, he hurled the locket away. It impacted with the stone wall and cracked into several pieces, and Alistair flung himself into his bed once more and cried himself to sleep.

.oOo.

From the window of her room, Isolde watched as the rest of the household said their goodbyes to Eamon's ward. It was a meager gathering - a few servants, a groomsman, the kennel master and a few mabaris, and the Arl. Gert, the cook, was on hand as well, and gave the boy a rough hug, her sturdy hands cupping his rounded face for a moment before she trundled off, likely headed to the kitchens to begin breakfast preparations. Eamon ruffled the boy's hair, and Alistair threw skinny arms around his waist. Even from this distance and at this early, not-quite-light hour of the morning, Isolde could see that the boy's eyes were reddened and his face puffy from tears. He nuzzled his head into Eamon's shirt, and her husband's arms went around the child, awkward. Always awkward - Eamon had never connected with Alistair in the way that Isolde knew he would connect with their children. When the Maker saw fit to bless them with children, of course... which she prayed would be soon.

Eamon knelt before Alistair, his strong hands lightly gripping the boy's upper arms as he said something. Sound was impossible to make out at this distance, but whatever it was, Alistair nodded, his face solemn, and then his face crumpled, eyes squinching shut as he turned and clambered into the back of the wagon. He settled himself in among the crates, pulling his cloak around his body, a small cloth bag of his few possessions serving as a pillow to his auburn head. Isolde knew just what that bag contained - two changes of clothing, extra socks, and a book of blank vellum, half-filled with drawings and sketches. Eamon straightened, his eyes arcing over to his steward as he pulled a paper from his pouch. He gave it into the hands of his steward, then the two men shook hands. Isolde hoped the man would remember to obtain some of the perfumed soap she liked, the one from the Orlesian stall in the Denerim town square. It was on the list Eamon had given him, but Maker only knew if he would recall just where to get it.

She turned away from the window as the supply wagon began to rumble off, a sigh of relief escaping her lips. At last, the lad was gone. For the first time in years, she felt as though she could breathe more easily, and she climbed back into the great bed in her room and snuggled down between the sheets, a delightful drowse overtaking her.

Birdsong and the bright mid-morning sun woke her a few hours later, and Isolde's heart was light as a feather as she sent Gwena to the kitchen for a breakfast tray. Alistair was gone, and with him, the awful rumors! No one could accuse Eamon of sending his own son away to the Chantry. At last, the stigma of the bastard would be gone from her life. She felt like caroling for joy. Her soft-boiled egg had never tasted better, and she treated herself to an extra pat of butter for her toast, ignoring Gwena's derisive sniff.

Isolde tended to a few household chores that day. She spoke with Gert about the supplies they had on hand, and sent a contingent of hunters out for fresh meat. The recent heat wave had spoiled a batch of milk, so she arranged for the cooks to make clabber cheese from the curds. When Eamon's steward returned, he would bring dyes and thread for winter clothing, and she set one of her maids to measuring the household. Everyone would receive a new outfit, and there would be the recycling of cloaks and shoes, the older and more worn pieces being repaired or cut down. She joined the women in the afternoon as they spun and wove, enjoying the female company and even taking on a share of the spinning - a task she personally hated. But one could only do so much fancy work in a frontier castle such as this one. After she'd finished the altar cloth for the Chantry, there was nothing left that needed her deft embroidery needle, so she put her nose to the grindstone and joined the other women in the more practical sewing. A few merry, social hours passed, and then she left the servants to their work and went to see about dinner preparations.

She found Gert crouched in the corner, sobbing her eyes out. The hefty cook had begun to prepare an afternoon snack for the lad before remembering he was no longer there, and it had sent her into a tizzy. She was inconsolable over Alistair's leavetaking, and Isolde spent a few uncomfortable minutes trying to reassure her that the lad would be taken care of, without success.

"'E was such a good boy, mistress," Gert blubbered. "The on'y boy I'm likely to 'ave, and I didn't tell 'im. I never told 'im that I loved 'im. I was 'arsh, I was - an' all 'e wanted was a lil' love. A lil' love, a fam'ly... Isn' that all any of us want?" Gert was waxing philosophical, for her. She blew her nose into her apron, her words jangling in Isolde's skull. She recalled the last thing the boy had said to her, discomfort waging a war within her.

"Are you giving me a brother or sister?" His hopeful face, shining with light... Isolde's stomach twisted as she remembered her own hate-filled words to Alistair.

The arlessa fled the room after not very long, seeking something, anything else that needed doing.

She passed by the chamber that had served as Alistair's school room, and her footsteps paused, the silence seeming uncanny. Always, at this time of day, Alistair was seated at his small desk, Chanter Sarah's droning voice lecturing about something, or coaching him through an assignment of some sort. Her feet carried her into the room, and she pursed her lips, trying to decide what it would become now that the small nuisance was no longer a part of her home life.

Her eyes were drawn to the miniature desk, and she opened the lid, wondering if she should save it for her own child, or if she should... she lost her train of thought as her eyes raked over the piece of vellum that lay atop the other papers and supplies. Delicate hands lifted the paper from the grained wood, and her heart stuttered as she realized just what was on the page.

A sketch of herself, face smiling, hair neat and tidy, her arm slipped through Eamon's, stared back at her. Her husband's face was smiling as well, and they were in fancy clothing. In front of Eamon stood a small boy whose hair stood up a bit in front, and on the boy's shoulder, Eamon's hand was laid. All of them, standing together as though they had posed that way, the perfect picture of a happy family.

The sketch was rough, and lacked fine details, but it was clear who it was, and Isolde felt a twinge at her heart. Had the boy drawn it as a gift? She turned it over, and on the back were scrawled the words "My family".

She laid it back on the desk, her hands trembling ever so slightly, and stalked out of the room.

.oOo.

Isolde was in her room seated before her vanity, her shaking hands trying their best to twist her hair into its usual chignon but finding the task to be outside their ability. She cursed under her breath and laid the slender hairpin on the table to press her fingers to her eyes.

He was gone. She should be happy about it, but now she was wondering if she hadn't been selfish. Eamon had never said he would name the boy his heir - why had she been so worried? Was she truly so vapid as to send him away from the only home he'd had, the only father figure he'd ever known, and - she swallowed to think of it - the only mother he'd ever cared for? Between herself and Gert, she supposed they'd made a sort of parent for him... it had hurt her heart to see the drawing Alistair had done. She'd never thought of herself as his mother, and it had never occurred to her that the boy might wish for her to be his mother. Only Eamon had cared for her so much. Her own family had been political - her own mother had cared more about her potential marriage, and it was only her brother Rene who had made her feel truly loved - until Eamon. Now she wished she had given Alistair more of a chance. She'd been so blinded by the rumors, her upbringing in political Orlais masking the true thing that mattered. And now, it was too late... he was gone.

A soft tap on her door brought her out of her reverie.

"Come," she called, and Sylvie, one of the maids, pushed the door open and peeked in at her.

"Mistress," she said. "What would you have me do with Master Alistair's things?"

"His things?" Isolde said, her voice faint.

"He left some clothing in his room. Shall I..."

"I shall look through them," Isolde said, pushing herself away from the vanity. Her honey-blonde hair fell around her shoulders in soft curls, and she brushed them back as she followed Sylvie to Alistair's room.

She had rarely been in here, and she found herself looking around, curiosity overcoming her aversion. The walls had been tinted a soft blue, while the curtains and bedspread were of a deeper shade. A small model boat was perched on a shelf, along with another collection of drawings. Isolde found herself wanting to go and look through them, but Sylvie gestured to the bed, and Isolde stepped over to begin the task of sorting through the clothing that had been left behind. Her gaze continued to drift around the room, and her eyes fell on a few shards of... glass? Broken glass on the floor?

"Sylvie, is that broken glass? Sweep it up, please," Isolde said, irritated. Had the boy broken something and not told the maids?

"Yes, mistress," Sylvie murmured, and returned a moment later with a hand-broom and dustpan. She made quick work of the glass, and then moved to another place in the room that apparently needed the broom's attention. Her movements grew hesitant, and she straightened up from the floor, a bit of something held in her fingertips.

"What is it?" Isolde asked as she folded a shirt.

"Mistress, this appears to be a bit of broken jewelry." Sylvie brought the shard to Isolde, who turned it over in curiosity. This looked like Alistair's locket - but why was it broken?

She set the shirt down on the bed and moved to the small mess on the floor, kneeling to look more closely. Her fingers gathered the pieces into a pile, and then collected them into her palm, along with the chain. The locket had been made of a kind of clay, then painted. Isolde had only seen it once or twice since the boy kept it forever around his neck, and she wondered what would possess him to remove it. It was a shame that it had been broken, and she was on the verge of telling Sylvie to toss it in with the rest of the trash.

"Is that Master Alistair's locket?" Sylvie said, her voice reverent. "Oh, mistress! Why would he leave that behind? It was his own mother pictured there, it was!"

Isolde's heart skipped a beat. That was why he wore it?

She swallowed, and her fingers curled closed, trapping the loose bits within her palm.

"See that the clothing is given to the servants who have children of a size, Sylvie. And do not disturb me. I shall be down for dinner," she said brusquely, and hurried from the room.

.oOo.

Isolde did not consider herself to be artistic, but she was neat-handed. She could sew, spin, and do fancy needlework. Her eyes were bright, and sharp enough to see the individual leaves on the trees when she and Eamon went walking - something she knew he was having trouble with already. She seated herself at the table in her room, a small pot of glue and the broken locket set before her, and it took only a few minutes of work to fix.

The locket had split in a very clean way - her clever fingers found it simple to fit the pieces back together, and she held the shards tightly against each other in her fingers, counting to one hundred before she loosed her grip, wanting to be certain that the glue would hold. When all was reassembled, she brushed her fingers off and smiled at her handiwork. The locket was as good as new, almost. A faint network of cracks could be seen across the back, but that couldn't be helped - she had done the best she could. She left it sitting on the table to cure overnight, and closed the door softly behind her.

.oOo.

Dinner finished and his face washed, Alistair curled himself deeper into his makeshift bed in the wagon. The stars were bright as fire in the sky above, and he yawned, the long day of travel colored by his grief closing his heavy eyelids. In his fingers he clutched his letter to Duncan, and rolled tightly within the vellum was the picture he'd drawn for his mentor... the Grey Warden griffin.