The Keening Blade
Chapter 32: Inconvenient Truths and Pleasant Fictions
When Loghain had first arrived in Gwaren, a newly-made teyrn, there had been much to do. The ancient Voric family, who had long held the teyrnir, had been annihilated by the Orlesians; and the old Keep had been used for years as the base from which the usurpers had maintained their tyranny in the south of Ferelden.
That said, they had taken fairly good care of the place, since they were living there. The cellars had been stocked with excellent wine, the barracks had been adequately furnished, and his own apartments were startlingly lavish. The Orlesian jack-in-office he replaced had lived very well indeed.
Soldier's Peak was quite a different matter. No one had lived there at all—other than an ancient blood-mage in the south tower—for hundreds of years. Even when it was occupied, Loghain gathered that it had very much been an unadorned place for warriors.
Maude was busily changing all that. The weather was decent enough for them to live in tents for some time, while serious cleaning was underway. A temporary headquarters was set up in one of the old outbuildings whose roof was quickly made sound.
A few more bones were found and disposed of decently, and now a hellish pandemonium arose: carpenters and masons and glaziers and plasters: all working under the direction of the master builder, and, of course, of Maude. No campaign could have been planned more meticulously.
Loghain had written to his—no, really Maude's—seneschal in Gwaren, and a shipment of lumber would come sailing north fairly soon. It would still need to be carted overland from Amaranthine, but the Coast Road was not in hopeless condition. Building stone there was in plenty, chiseled from the Coast Mountains themselves.
The outside of the castle would remain largely as it was, but for the mended windows. The interior was another matter. From the ground up, Soldier's Peak was changing. Maude began first in the high beamed entry hall, with fresh plaster and a new stone floor; with new silken banners in bold colors fluttering on high. THe banners of Ferelden, of the Grey Wardens, of Highever and Gwaren: these new hangings banished the ghosts of the past, and declared that this was a place for the living once more.
Like a fantastic stone forest, carved pillars rose to support new ceilings in the Great Hall; while beneath their canopy the amazing marble floor spread from wall to wall, polished and shining, a vast chessboard.
Wooden paneling overlaid the crude plastered walls in the library, and new walls were built to make the place accessible only by a door that could lock and keep the Wardens' secrets from visitors. The old barracks became a sparring room, complete with seating in the gallery. A startled Andraste was brought down from the old chapel, and set against the wall by the splendid new stone staircase that led upstairs.
Quoth Maude: "Andraste doesn't need a War Room."
Kitchen and pantries, stillrooms and storerooms, all were cleaned, refurbished, and properly stocked. The contagion of renovation traveled up the stairs to the next floor, and the next, and bedchambers came into existence—rather nice ones, too. Maude saw no reason that Wardens could not have private rooms, especially as small in number as they currently were. In time, that issue could be revisited.
Not all their time was engrossed in building. There was an official Warden expedition to Kal'Hirol, which included their recruits and the visiting Wardens. The darkspawn had been driven deeper into the thaig, but they were not entirely gone. Darrow and Kain were bracingly matter-of-fact about facing darkspawn, since they had faced the creatures many times before. They killed them with brisk efficiency, collected their vials of darkspawn blood, and to no one's surprise, survived their Joining with considerable aplomb.
"Filthy stuff, innit?" remarked Kain. "Do we drink it all the time, like, or just the once?"
"Just the once," Maude assured him solemnly.
"Good job, too!" said Darrow in relief. "This stuff's almost as bad as the homebrew in Maric's Shield!"
All the northern Wardens were very curious about Broodmothers. Not one of them had ever seen the creatures. The Marcher Wardens, in fact, did not know about them at all.
"More Warden secrecy in action," Maude scoffed. "Really, how can you fight something you understand so little?"
For that reason, however horrible it felt, they took everyone deep into Kal'Hirol, past the Market District, past the mine works, down the long and twisting tunnel that led to the Broodmother pit. Even though fire had burnt away much of everything that would stink, the shriveled, twisted forms bore witness to the horror. It was a grim, sober party that returned to the surface.
"Why are female Wardens sent to the Deep Roads for their calling?" Telamon asked Wolfram, very pointedly. "It is…monstrous!"
"It is tradition," the Weisshaupt Warden answered guardedly. "There are not many female Wardens to begin with, and it is felt that since they are not fertile, they are no danger as far as producing darkspawn are concerned."
Maude stopped dead, and hissed like a dragon. Loghain forgot his own indignation, and glanced at her in alarm. She looked rather like a dragon too: swelling with menace, eyes blazing.
"Ssssssooooo." The sibilants lingered, echoing against cold stone. "As long as no darkspawn are produced, the First Warden is not troubled that women will still be subjected to unspeakable violation. I daresay that since he's in no danger of hurlocks lining up to bugger him, it's no great matter."
Wolfram flushed, sputtering. Usually taciturn, Ragnar spoke up.
"I do not think the First Warden has considered the matter at all. There are few female Grey Wardens. It is not encouraged in the Anderfels. It is a matter of lore to him, not of reality."
"You mean," Sigrun said, her usually pleasant voice shrill, "that since nobody he knows has been carried off to a nest, he doesn't care. He should try it!" she burst out. "If Maude and Loghain hadn't found me when the hurlocks were dragging me along by my ankles, it would be me lying there like a sack of used-up coal."
"Surely," Pyrrhus said, looking anxious, "you would not wish to become a ghoul in the sight of your comrades."
"Certainly not," Morrigan said coldly. "Preventing such an unseemly display does not require going to the Deep Roads at all. Tradition is all very well, but it cannot be permitted to pervert all reason and sense."
Anders and Morrigan had attempted to keep a low profile during the Weisshaupt visit. The Wardens certainly were accustomed to mages serving in the order, but Morrigan saw no reason at all for them to know the full extent of her powers. Very carefully, they did not shape-change in the presence of the visitors, nor did they invite them into the Mage's Tower. In fact, while Maude moved back and forth freely, and Loghain could not be kept from going where he pleased, the mages were rather territorial about their space. Maude liked what Morrigan had done, though she thought it too plain for her own taste.
Much of the Mage's Tower was in fairly good condition, other than all the windows needing reglazing. At Anders' demand, the old cages where Avernus had once kept his "experimental subjects" were sent to the scrap metal pile, and the holes in the laboratory floor filled with new stone. In addtion to their very pleasant bedchamber, the mages had set up a cozy study, combining Avernus' collection with what they had looted or purchased. Morrigan also had Flemeth's old books and grimoires from her days in the Wilds.
"It's nothing like the library at the Circle, of course," Anders mourned, "but that's not to be expected. Sometime, when we're on a recruiting drive, Maude can distract the First Enchanter, and I'll swipe what we need."
"Good idea!" Maude praised him. "Make a list. We'll want to plan according to how heavy the books are."
"You could simply order the books from Tevinter," Loghain pointed out. "We have a great deal of money, and some could be budgeted for the library."
"Buy books?' Maude said, surprised. "Where's the fun in that?"
The mages were reading through Avernus' notes, working on reconstructing the improved Warden's formula. Anders had never known Avernus, and fiercely disapproved of blood magic, and so was not entirely comfortable with delving into the places where the old mage's studies had led. Morrigan, however, revered his memory as the only mage who had ever treated her as she thought an older mage should treat a younger.
"I learned a great deal from Avernus," she would always say. "He was many things, but he was not a liar, like Flemeth; or a hypocrite, like Wynne. He did not withhold information to manipulate me or control me. He did not glory in his own superiority or insult me with false sympathy about my upbringing. He treated me at all times with respect. He wanted me to learn, and he gave his knowledge freely. His work shall not fall into oblivion while I live."
And there was the expedition to the Dragonbone Wastes. If they were going to collect the dragonbone—at least the easily accessible dragonbone lying out on the surface—they could not wait much longer. With peace, the people of Amaranthine were traveling about. Refugees from the south were looking for vacant land. Maude disliked showing the other Wardens the area, and forced them to swear never to reveal the existence of this place other than to fellow Wardens.
"It wouldn't be safe!" she told them earnestly, her voice throbbing with persuasion. "This must be known only to Grey Wardens! There are still darkspawn stragglers, and if word got out that dragonbone had been found here, people would travel here and then be killed, and we would be plagued by complaints from the Crown and the nobles. It's better for us to clean out the entire area first."
Their heads bobbed in agreement like so many puppets. Loghain looked away, rather repelled by the sight. They reminded him, too, of that ghastly ogre figurine Maude had given Alistair, its head bobbing, bobbing, bobbing…
Still, it was not unreasonable for the Wardens to wish to see the remains of the Architect, if only to be certain that he was dead. Telamon had parchment and charcoal, and drew pictures of the decaying corpses. The grotesque, attenuated figure of the Architect claimed most of his attention.
The other Wardens knew nothing about the dead elves, but could tell Loghain much of the history of Warden Utha. Loghain searched his memory in vain for the dwarf woman. She must have been there, when Maric had first received the Wardens. Loghain had been there himself, but had taken little notice of anyone other than their leader. Commander Genevieve was Orlesian, but an estimable warrior. She, too, had defied the Architect, and paid for her courage with her life. Among the crowd of foreigners he remembered Duncan, of course, from having him about and resenting him heartily for twenty years.
Who else had been there, in that pack of Orlesians? Maric had dithered a bit about a young woman elf mage—though not too much, since Loghain supposed Maric had seen his expression. Maric and elf women were a combination Loghain really, really did not want ever to hear anything about ever again.
And then the visitors wanted to see the remains of the Mother—a place where Maude absolutely refused to go. There was not much to see, actually. The mages' spells had scorched the cavern black, and reduced the remains to bits of charred bone. The Warden poked through, and found a rockfall that blocked a tunnel to the Deep Roads. Wolfram suggested having dwarves build barrier doors at the spot.
"He would!" Maude remarked contemptuously, when their guest was out of earshot. "There is absolutely no reason whatever for the Wardens to pay for it. We can let Delilah know about it, and if she wants to grant Drake's Fall to someone, the new bann can bloody well pay for protection, unless they particularly like the idea of darkspawn in the dungeons!" She shot the Weisshaupt Wardens another veiled look of dislike. "Anyway, we got the dragonbone, as nasty as the circumstances were."
That was indeed true. Three wagonloads of dragonbone creaked triumphantly back to Soldier's Peak.
Maude's spirits were a little depressed by bad memories, but she granted Loghain a wry smile, glancing back discreetly at their companions.
"This will be worth thousands in any port along the Waking Sea. Absolute thousands…" Her smile smoothed out to genuine pleasure, thinking of it. "I don't even mind if Mistress Woolsey tallies it down to the last knucklebone!"
Days passed, the visitors' impudent curiosity was satisfied, and those who were departing prepared to depart, down the Coast Road to take ship in Amaranthine. Loghain forced himself to be polite, but he was really much more interested in the situation of Topaz, who was due to deliver her puppies quite soon. She was getting very round now, settling in for the event. It might have been Loghain's imagination, but it seemed that Ranger was positively swaggering. Not that swaggering was difficult for any mabari, of course.
Loghain particularly wanted the visitors to leave lest they linger long enough to imprint on a puppy. Godfrey was not a bad sort, but mabaris belonged in Ferelden.
Who knew which of the Wardens might appeal to a puppy? Kain and Darrow were knowledgable about mabaris; but Telamon, now hard at work restoring the damaged library, was a pleasant, even-tempered fellow; and Valentine was not unlike a puppy himself. Secretly, Loghain held some hopes for Keenan. It would be a comfort and joy after the pain his bitch of a wife had inflicted on him. Loghain had no idea if a mage or a dwarf could actually imprint on a mabari at all. It would be very interesting to see. He just wanted the visitors gone before the litter made its appearance.
Luckily, the sailing weather was so good that they decided to make use of it. The night before they left, Wolfram gave Loghain a sealed letter.
"I was asked to give this to the Warden-Commander, but only the night before my departure. You may send a reply by me."
"Very well," Loghain shrugged. The Anderman nodded and left to pack. Maude saw the man leave, and pounced, wanting to know what was going on.
"What is that?" she asked, trying to pry the letter from Loghain's fingers. "Is it a secret?"
"Yes. Let go."
"Then let me read it over your shoulder so I don't have to go to the trouble of stealing it."
He smirked as she pleasantly draped herself over him. After the first few sentences, they were gaping in unison.
"An Orlesian Grey Warden elf mage?" she burst out, horrified and delighted. "Maker's flaming breath! If you'd known about Alistair's real mother at the Landsmeet, you'd have trampled us flat!"
"Quiet!" he snapped, reading the missive from Warden Fiona with mounting fury and dread. Yes, the elf who had traveled on the fateful journey to the Deep Roads with Maric was claiming to be the mother of the King of Ferelden. Pieces fell into place. Loghain read the letter in its entirety, ignoring Maude, and then read it again, feeling winded.
But only for a moment. He handed it to her, letting her take it all in, and then said, "Obviously this can never be revealed to anyone else, let alone Chantry Boy, who would probably want her to live in the Palace!"
Maude was amused and indignant for another reason. "To think I went to all that trouble for that wretched woman Goldanna, when she's no relation to Alistair at all! I was even going to ask Fergus to take the eldest boy as a squire!"
"Do so," Loghain said instantly. "You must. It's an excellent cover for the…inconvenient...truth."
Yes, had this letter been in his hands the day Eamon had confronted him at the Landsmeet, there would have been no way that Alistair could possibly have been considered for the throne. Such a claim would have been laughed out of the chamber, and they would all be laughing at Eamon yet, if any of them had managed to survive the darkspawn. It was not possible not to have very, very conflicting feelings.
However, this half-elf was now his king, his son-in-law, and the father of Loghain's grandchild, the long-desired heir to the throne. This information must never, never become public. And there was something else…
"A mage!" Loghain groaned, clutching his head. "What if the child has magic? Sometimes these things skip a generation."
"I would rely," Maude scoffed, "on the indomitably prosaic nature of Mac Tir blood. Alistair did not inherit his mother's magic, any more than he did her elven ears. If he didn't inherit it, it's most probably that he will not pass it on. Look, this woman wants a reply—"
"The bloody letter should be burned to bloody ashes!" Loghain snarled.
"No, no, no!" Maude soothed. "No, no...that won't do at all, my dearest. If we don't reply, she'll just keep writing, and then someday a letter might indeed fall into the wrong hands. I shall write to her in my most persuasive style, and explain why she must never, never, ever come to Ferelden, why she must write no more letters, and why the king cannot possibly acknowledge her. Truth to tell, I think she has her bloody nerve, ignoring him all these years, and then trying to contact him once he's King. Is she deliberately trying to ruin things for him? I shall say something along those lines, in fact, though with softer words and tender regret."
Another horrible possibility presented itself to Loghain. "Do the Orlesians know?" he wondered aloud. "I'll bet my right hand the First Warden does. Did he allow her to send this letter to warn us that he has leverage over us? That if we don't submit sufficiently, he'll tattle to the world the origins of the King of Ferelden?"
"I don't think the Orlesians know," Maude said, thinking it over. "If they did, we'd have heard about it by now. They would have used it to destabilize the country right after the Blight. And I can't believe they would know it and not use it. The First Warden…well…don't expect me to leap eagerly to his defense. It could be indeed that Fiona has never before been allowed to write. The First Warden wants us to know that he knows. Bastard. As long as it's useful to have a Warden King here in Ferelden, I don't expect him to make trouble. He'll use it, though, as a safe conduct for his busybodies like Wolfram and Ragnar. The sooner we see the back of them, the better I'll be pleased."
Maude sat down instantly, composed the answer, showed it to Loghain, and they were both quite satisfied with it. Prudently, she had not used Alistair's name or explicitly spoken of the nature of the relationship.
To the Senior Grey Warden Fiona of Weisshaupt—
Greetings, sister:
Knowing my dear friend as I do, I am sure it will be a joy to him to learn of your existence and your sentiments. I plan to take the letter with me on my next trip to Denerim, and share it with him.
He is the finest of fellows. Brave, skilled at arms, tall, handsome, and vigorous: yes, he is all of those. He is also kind-hearted, generous, and compassionate. Those who are fortunate enough to call him friend cherish his regard.
Best of all, he is now a happy man. With his beautiful wife and his expected child, you could hardly find someone more content with his lot in all the kingdom. With time, his situation should be more secure. However, I would be lying if I did not say that even he has enemies. These enemies would be delighted to seize on any compromising information that could harm him.
Your situation must indeed have been difficult and painful, and I am certain that he will understand your reasoning completely. Considering the delicacy of his situation, I personally, as his closest friend, implore you not to attempt another letter, which could so easily go astray, and then be used against him. It will be enough to know that you are in the world and have thought of him.
Your sister,
Senior Warden Maude
Loghain presented the letter to Wolfram the next day, and saw the visitors off with a great deal of satisfaction. Maude herself was perfectly charming, but said nothing whatever about them returning.
Maude cocked her head, looking at the Wardens growing smaller in the distance.
"I suppose I wouldn't mind it Godfrey came back, but the rest of them can go hang, for all I care," she murmured. She turned and smiled brilliantly at Valentine. He was slouching on the other side of the gate, looking a bit depressed.
"Come on, Valentine!" she called. "I need you to help me with the color scheme in the guest apartments. We must uphold Warden honor when the King and Queen come to visit!"
The handsome young Marcher gave her answering smile, white teeth flashing. Then his smile turned to Loghain, as he strode over to join them. It became more rueful, more abashed. Was that a blush?
"I was thinking about that," Valentine said to Maude. "Gold is good, of course, but it's not anything one could call restful…"
The two of them then went back and forth to a tortuous degree about the infinite gradations of the color blue: and if a blue-green might be better; and if so, if it should be more blue or more green. Loghain escaped the horror of it all, thinking that he had better talk to Maude about Valentine's improperly flirtatious behavior.
He talked to her about it in bed. Though living in a tent caused them to be quieter than they liked, they were still happily diligent about their projected procreation, taking their potions; performing their various duties in various positions. Loghain's breath was slowing a bit, the sweat on his skin cooling, when he broached the subject of Valentine.
He did not expect that it would make her laugh.
"My darling!" She absolutely giggled, and turned on her side, fingers playing with the hair of his chest and belly. "Valentine is a very nice sort of friend for me. Like Leliana. He likes beautiful things and has wonderful taste. We have a great deal in common."
Was she really so naive? "Maude—"
"And one of the most important things we have in common is a tremendous admiration for you."
He frowned up at the silhouette of the purple dragon. "What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean… Valentine isn't attracted to me in the way you think at all. His heart-felt devotion is all for another. Perhaps I should be talking to you about your behavior, you big tease."
He snorted, taken aback and rather annoyed. Of course, it was not the first time some young soldier—man or woman—had taken their admiration for a famous warrior too far. He had thought that at this point of his life he would be free of that sort of foolishness.
Apparently not.
"He does understand, I presume, that his 'admiration' must be forever unrequited."
She found that very amusing.
By the end of Bloomingtide, Loghain was deeply relieved to be moving out of the Tent of the Purple Dragon, and into their quarters, which more or less occupied the same place as Sophia Dryden's, but was hardly recognizable as such. The walls were paneled in silkwood, dark and shining: the grain of the wood extravagantly burled as tiger's eye. The furniture was ornately carved, the velvet drapes richly crimson, the carpets voluptuously deep underfoot. Loghain eyed it from the doorway as he would a darkspawn lair.
"Don't be so suspicious, Loghain!" Maude reproved him, drawing him into the room—her handiwork of many days—and giving him a long kiss. "Anders and Morrigan agree that the Veil here is strong again and absolutely nothing remains of Sophia—or, more to the point—of that loathsome demon who ate her up. This is just a bedchamber. Our bedchamber. You'll like it better once we've had sex here a few times."
"Did you have to make it so…so…" He did not want to say the word 'Orlesian,' but he knew she knew he was thinking it.
"Gorgeous?" She asked, with wide-eyed innocence. "Ravishing? Magnificent? Lavish? It's all those things, of course. Yes, I did. I decided that when we were not actually sleeping on the stones of the Deep Roads, or in some mudhole in the Wilds, we deserved not only decent comfort, but a balancing dose of luxury."
"You're not afraid of making us soft?"
"No. I want us to feel appreciated. There's little enough of that going about. This mattress is really wonderful. Now, about your excess of clothing…"
Early one morning, Topaz had her litter. Everyone would have been much happier had not two of the puppies been stillborn. Topaz licked at them to no avail, and whimpered a little.
"Here, Topaz," Maude consoled her. "You have three lovely puppies. Look at this little black one! He's so sweet."
Loghain said nothing, but sat with Topaz, petting her gently, hand on the silky hair at the top of her head, giving her silent support. Yes, they would have liked more puppies, but any mabari was precious. Whether she would ever litter again was unclear. Anders did not claim to be a mabari expert, of course.
"She's suffered a lot of traumatic and damaging events this year, even aside from ingesting darkspawn blood, which she obviously has. I really can't tell if the effects will be long-lasting or not. It seems that the placenta can protect a fetus from the Taint somewhat, since I don't sense anything about the surviving puppies..."
The puppies, in fact, did very well over the next few days. It helped to see them thriving, for while she was upbeat and reassuring with Topaz, Maude was clearly upset and off-balance about her own prospects.
"It's not like I can hope for three out of five," she said, tense and brittle, nibbling on a thumbnail. "I shall simply have to get it right the first time."
Anders, usually so flippant, could be considerate with a patient.
"Now that I have a better idea what to look for, I can cast all sorts of protective spells to strengthen the placenta," he assured her. "In fact, I wonder if Wynne did that for the Queen..."
No one had heard from Wynne. No one knew anything about the College of Magi. Anora certainly had not heard from the old mage, or she would not be writing increasingly shrill letters to Loghain. Today's letter was very alarming. Petra had not been released from the Circle to tend to the Queen; not because the Knight-Commander had questions about her reliability, but because the Grand Cleric was displeased at the number of mages unaccounted for after the Blight. Some had been killed by the darkspawn, of course. If their bodies were found, their names could be lined through neatly.
However, many had completely disappeared. While some had been captured, there were not enough Templars to track all of them down. In fact, it appeared that during the fighting in Denerim, the phylactery storage facility had been damaged, hindering the search efforts. In short, the Grand Cleric regretted any inconvenience to Her Majesty, but releasing yet another mage from custody was simply not feasible at this time. The Queen was far better off, anyway, not exposing her unborn child to the influence of magic. Needless to say, relations between the Palace and the Chantry were currently very strained.
There was nothing for it. Anders must go, and he must go at once.
But not alone. Given the Chantry's current attitude, Loghain was uneasy about sending Anders off by himself. True, he was a Grey Warden, but past experience suggested that would not protect him if he were confronted by the more zealous sort of Templar.
He made his plans quickly. Maude was wrapped up in her renovations, so while Loghain hated to leave Topaz and the puppies, he decided that he would go to Denerim himself, bringing Anders to take care of Anora. Yes. He would go and see for himself how his daughter was faring. He would go, and he would stay until her child was born. Later in the month, just before Anora was due, Maude could come and join him at the Palace.
He brought it up at dinner, and had immediate volunteers to accompany him.
Darrow and Kain wanted to go wherever Loghain went. Oghren simply wanted to escape the danger of being shown fabric swatches.
"Told her to stick to something that matches the ale," the dwarf declared.
"And the puke," sniped Anders.
Oghren smirked, and bowed in acknowledgement.
Maude nodded, glancing over at Valentine, who was in deep thought. "Maybe a jacquard weave," she mused, "in a nice nut-brown? Don't worry, Oghren, by the time you're back your room will be totally done and utterly magnificent. You'll hardly be able to see where you've thrown up."
As soon as she decided he had had enough dinner, Maude seized Loghain's hand and hurried him upstairs. He let her, of course. Either she had some new criminal plot to share, or she was eager for him.
She was certainly eager. Her kisses were particularly ardent and stirring.
"I shall miss you horribly when you go to Denerim," she murmured into his throat. "Sit down on the edge of the bed. I feel like being very, very nice to you."
The bed was not too high for what she had planned. She had undoubtedly measured it for the purpose. Loghain relaxed, letting Maude's bewitching mouth take possession of him. To slow her down, he buried his fingers in her thick brown hair, guiding her, pushing her away a little at times. Time stretched out, and the firelight flickered in crimson glory. It really was a very...stimulating...room.
Time sped up abruptly, and he was spent and light-headed, falling back onto the welcoming bed with a grunt. Bright-eyed, she slithered up from the floor and curled up beside him. She still had that Look, the Look that warned him she was Up To Something.
"Loghain..."
"Ugghhh..."
He wrapped an arm around her, holding her close until he could get himself into marching order to reciprocate.
"Loghain..." she wriggled on top of him, nuzzling his throat. "Are you still working on the Garethopedia?"
"Ugghhh?" He blinked. "Of course. I suppose," he croaked, "that Rhoswynopedia sounds too odd?"
"Garethopedia," she said firmly. "Garethopedia. You know that blue-flashy-glowy thing that Anders does? You know that thing?"
His heart thumped oddly.
"Well," Maude whispered, in a low and thrilling voice, "It really flashed just before dinner. I thought you should know. I didn't want to wait until I join you in Denerim. I wanted you to know this very minute."
"Eleanoropedia?" he suggested, still dazed, picturing a squalling infant; a mischievous, adorable toddler; a cheerfully defiant, incorrigibly reckless child...
"No. Garethopedia. Definitely. I made Anders check. He doesn't approve of wanting to know ahead of time, but I made him do it."
"Of course you did." He took a deep breath. Maude was very good at getting what she wanted, and she had wanted this very much. "This will change things," he observed, looking up at the red velvet canopy. He had not realized how much he had wanted it himself. Of course, it was only one day, and things could happen...Celia had had three miscarriages before she and Loghain had accepted that there would be only one child... Still, Maude was Maude, and she was indomitable.
"I daresay Anora will find it very inconvenient," she murmured happily. Loghain could feel her smile. "Perhaps we ought not to tell her right away. I want to go to Gwaren and get a good grip on things first."
"Sound thinking." He wanted to give Anora a chance. Once she had her own child and heir in her arms, she was less likely to feel betrayed and furious at the overthrow of her plans for Gwaren.
But for now there was Maude, who must be tended to...
Five men on horseback made good time—even if one of them was a dwarf and a poor rider. They arrived in Denerim, they were announced, and Anora—now almost too big to walk— greeted them with joy and relief. Alistair was genuinely glad to see Anders, and managed to nod politely in Loghain's general direction. Loghain took his daughter in his arms and was concerned to see tears in her eyes. Of course, pregnant women tended to be emotional, but this was Anora, his own child. He kissed her brow and looked her over, sorry he had not come sooner.
"We've been worried about Wynne," said the king. "Something strange must be going on. And then for the Grand Cleric to be such a hag about—"
"—Don't, Alistair," Anora said instantly. "Not in public."
"But they're Wardens..."
"Just don't."
"Oh, all right," he sulked, and muttered for Loghain's benefit, "but she is a hag, the interfering old prune..."
The Queen, Erlina, and Anders disappeared into the Queen's private apartments. Kain and Darrow looked about them in interest.
"Never been in this part of the Palace before. Very nice." Kain remarked.
"Nice," Darrow agreed. "Very posh."
Loghain quickly introduced them. "Your Majesty, these are Wardens Kain and Darrow."
"New Wardens?" Alistair smiled genially. "That's great! Congratulations!"
"Thanks, Your Majesty," they muttered, Kain a half-beat after Darrow.
"Maker!" Darrow whispered to Kain. "The King is a Warden! I can feel it."
"Sshh," Kain reproved him. "Not supposed to talk about feelings in front of royalty."
Alistair only laughed. Loghain pointed at a corner, and his three companions obediently withdrew to discuss the strangeness of their situation.
"How is she, really?" Loghain asked his son-in-law, without preamble.
"Pretty cranky," Alistair said, harassed and blunt. "I'm not complaining, but she's really uncomfortable, and all this trouble about getting a Healer hasn't helped at all. I don't know what the Chantry is trying to pull, denying Anora proper care, but we're not going to forget it anytime soon, I can tell you."
"So Wynne has simply...disappeared?"
"There was trouble at the College of Magi," Alistair said. "Serious trouble. We've written to Nevarra, and the King says it's a Chantry matter. We've written to the Grand Cleric there, and she says the Templars are sorting it all out. So we wrote to the Knight-Commander in Cumberland, and he hasn't written back. We think the Templars broke up the meeting, and they've probably locked up all the mages in the Circle there at Cumberland. Or maybe sent some of them to different Circles. Anora thinks they wouldn't want all that power and experience in one place. We just don't know. My guess is that we're not going to see Wynne anytime soon. Maybe they'll let her send a letter eventually, and we'll find out what became of her. At that point, we can work on getting her back, but considering how the Grand Cleric has been behaving so far, I'm not holding out much hope."
"Well, Anders is here for as long as she needs him. He's a first-class Healer himself."
"Thank the Maker for that. Don't let the Chantry get their hands on him, whatever you do!"
Anders himself appeared very soon, looking cheerful enough to set their minds at rest for the moment.
"She's fine and the baby's fine. I assured her it was perfectly normal to feel as she does and that all women go through it. She might believe it better from another woman, but it's no more than the truth. However," he fixed Alistair with a stern eye. "I've put her on bed rest until the baby comes. I'm serious about that. I know she has duties and responsibilities, but someone else will simply have to step in. She can read letters—if they won't get her too upset—and she can consult, but she shouldn't be holding audiences or receiving petitioners or going out to do squat for anybody else. I want her to stay in bed, and I want her to take the nutrient potions I'm going to brew for her. She's being stubborn about the staying in bed thing, but surely her husband can make her see reason."
Alistair visibly quailed at the idea of trying to make Anora see anything contrary to her own wishes. Then he saw Loghain scowling at him, and he scowled back, stiffening his shoulders.
"Right. Anora. In bed. Seeing reason. Me. Stepping in."
"Eamon is your chancellor," Loghain said. "Surely he can help."
Alistair scowled even more darkly. "Eamon's gone to Redcliffe. Arlessa Isolde's expecting, too. She doesn't want to be in Denerim. She thinks it's unhealthy. Teagan's here, though."
"Well, Teagan will glad to help you, I'm sure. And I will help in any way that keeps my daughter healthy, in bed, and resting."
Alistair looked ready to tell him what he could do with his help, but subsided. "All right. I'll summon Teagan, and we can look at the growing pile on my desk. If it involves the University, though, Anora wants to see it."
They settled in at the Wardens' Compound with little fuss. After dinner, Oghren really wanted to go out to a tavern. Anders did too.
"The Queen's sleeping for now," he told them. "But who knows when I'll have another chance? I may be stuck in the Palace for the rest of the month!" He wheedled, "Just one night at a tavern...a little drinking...hearing the local gossip..."
If Anders was going, Loghain thought he had better go as well. He could not possibly risk losing Anora's Healer to some overzealous Chantry buffoon.
"Just this once," he said. "And we'll go to the Gnawed Noble, where we're less likely to have trouble."
"It's full of stuffy, self-satisfied aristocrats—" Anders grumped.
"—Gnawed Noble, or nothing," Loghain countered.
Anders gave in. "Gnawed Noble."
If Loghain was going, then Darrow and Kain naturally wanted to go, too. It was a well-armed and armored party of five that set out on foot for the Market District.
The twilight was soft, the evening breeze pleasant, and Loghain enjoyed his walk through the city. Crossing the the new—and much improved—East Gate Bridge, they headed up Gate Street. The traces of battle were mostly gone. The greatest changes were in the new buildings that had sprung up on the sites of those destroyed in the fighting and the fire. Refugees were here in plenty, and labor was cheap; so the new houses were finer and more substantial than their predecessors, using more stone and less wood. Many had fire-resistant slate roofs, and Loghain approved of them. Perhaps all new buildings should have slate roofs. He would have to mention it to Anora.
No. To Alistair. Anora was not to be worried or bothered. Alistair it was. They would work more on his papers tomorrow. Loghain had studied his son-in-law, looking for tell-tale signs of his elven blood. To his relief, he could detect not the least hint that Alistair was anything other than human. Other than being a Warden, of course. Children of humans and elves always turned out human, he knew, but sometimes there was a delicacy of feature, or unusually large eyes, or a nose too straight and fine, or short stature, or something that hinted of elven blood. Alistair was certainly very handsome, but there was, thankfully, nothing ethereal about him. Loghain hoped fervently that his grandchild would take after its good-looking parents, and not betray anythng of an ancestry that would be unacceptable to—well, to be perfectly honest—every single member of the Landsmeet.
The inside of the Gnawed Noble had not changed at all. It smelled, as always, of good ale, roast mutton, woodsmoke, and expensive perfume. A minstrel was finishing a ballad as they walked in. Loghain was pleased. Music meant less conversation. Nonetheless, a few men he knew were there, and he had to engage them in tiresome small talk. He must make an effort: for Anora, for Maude, and for his embryonic son. For Gareth.
Foaming pints were set before them, and a tray of snacks: stuffed mushrooms, bread and cheese, little sausages, oatmeal cookies. Despite a substantial dinner not an hour before, Loghain found himself munching along with the rest. They finished their pints, and Oghren called for another round. It really was rather pleasant to be out and about...
The minstrel played another ballad, and then another: a suitable background for food and drink.
"Never drank here before," Kain commented.
"Me either," Darrow said. "Stood guard here a few times, though."
A third round. Then some well-disposed nobles bought them a fourth. Loghain listened to bits of gossip floating past, and was civil to those who insisted on speaking to him or buying the Wardens drinks. He learned that there was still a certain quiet discontent about the Crown's assumption of the Denerim arling, that many people were absolutely baffled about what a University was supposed to be (Loghain could not much enlighten them), that the betting was five to two that the Queen would bear a son, and that Habren Bryland's wedding trousseau was the most spectacular and expensive ever seen in Ferelden. Loghain grimaced at the Orlesian term "trousseau," but was assured no other word sufficed. Further description proved the informant absolutely correct. How the bloody hell was the girl's father paying for all that, with South Reach in the shape it was?
After four rounds, he had no trouble expressing his opinion.
"Poor bastard," he grunted, meaning Teagan Guerrin. And Leonas Bryland. Either one. Both of them. Every man within earshot nodded dolefully.
The minstrel, a scrawny, lanky, tow-haired fellow, was tuning his lute, and getting ready to sing again. He strummed a few chords, and Loghain turned to listen. It was a song he'd always liked. Yes—it was the song his mother had sung, but this time it was...different...
.
There was a wild Fereldan girl,
Maude Cousland was her name.
She was born beside the Waking Sea
In a castle known to fame.
She robbed the rich, she helped the poor,
She killed the Wicked Arl.
And dearly loved her parents,
Did the Wild Fereldan girl.
.
Loghain felt his jaw drop. This was definitely not the version his mother had sung. Maude? They'd changed the name of the heroine to Maude?
.
The Wicked Arl he hunted her,
He hunted up and down.
Swore her fair head would hang on high
O'er Amaranthine Town.
He called to him his lackeys,
His blood mages and his churls,
They all set out to capture her,
The Wild Fereldan girl.
.
"Yeah, he had mages with him," Oghren agreed, foam on his moustache. "Rotten sods. Needed killing."
Anders was offended. "I wouldn't have taken you for an anti-magic bigot, Oghren! You think mages should be killed just because they're mages?"
"No," Oghren snorted. "Only if they're rotten sods. And trying to kill me."
"Oh. That's different."
"Sssshhh!" Kain hushed them. "He's getting to the fighting bit now..."
.
"Surrender now, Maude Cousland,
For you see we're five to one,
Surrender in the Queen's high name.
Your rebel's day is done!"
Maude Cousland laughed their threats to scorn,
Her silver sword awhirl.
"I'll fight, but not surrender!"
Said the Wild Fereldan Girl.
.
"That does sound pretty much like our Maude," Anders pointed out.
Loghain nodded silently, utterly horrified. If Maude knew they were singing songs about her, her head would swell too large to fit even into the vastness of Soldier's Peak.
.
She fought them sword and dagger,
And she fought them hand to hand.
The churls and mages fell to her,
And only Howe did stand.
Her sword thrust through his evil heart,
From his tower he did hurl.
And that is how she had revenge,
The Wild Fereldan Girl.
.
Oghren shook his head solemnly. "Nope," he said. "She killed him in a dungeon. A dungeon. No hurling involved. I was there."
"Hurling from towers is better," Darrow mused. "More dramatic, like."
"Definitely better," Kain agreed. "'S'hard to hurl somebody to their death from a dungeon."
.
Teyrn Loghain called her to account,
She boldly told her tale,
He saw the truth and pardoned her,
For truth will e'er prevail.
"The darkspawn are a greater threat,
'Gainst them your flag unfurl."
And so they allied, Loghain and
The Wild Ferelden Girl.
.
Loghain dropped his head in his hands. Oghren slammed down his tankard. "What happened to the duel?" he demanded. "Loghain just PARDONED her? What'd she do? Bat her eyes at him?"
"Didn't she?" asked Anders, smirking.
"I like it," Darrow said to Kain. "If it didn't happen that way, it should have."
"I like it, too," Kain agreed. "Nicer, innit?
.
Grey Wardens both, they fought the fiends,
To save Ferelden dear.
The Archdemon fell to Loghain's sword—
.
"Enough! We're out of here!"
Loghain was on his feet, raging. A song? About how he had stolen the Archdemon from Maude? She was going to kill him.
The Wardens burst out laughing.
"You rhymed!" Anders beamed at him owlishly. "That was great!"
Thanks to my reviewers: Kira Kyuu, Menamebephil, JackOfBladesX, Eva Galana, MsBarrows, Judy, Josie Lange, cloud1004, Anima-StarWars-fan-zach, Zute, Phygmalion, Juliafied, Lehni, Sarah1281, Shakespira, Angurvddel, Jenna53, Enaid Aderyn, mutive, Duel Soul, Tyanilth, Jyggilag, Tall Tails-Feline Jaye, and mille libri.
Thank you, Guile, for your idea about the ending.