The Keening Blade

Chapter 41: Hideaway

"The water is wide,

I cannot get o'er.

Neither have I

The wings to fly.

Give me a boat

That will carry two,

And both shall row,

My love and I."

"I love boats," Maude purred, from the blanketed and cushioned depths of her seat on the quarterdeck. She set her lute aside. "You can see all sorts of new things from a boat."

Loghain grunted, eyes on the passing landscape. Water was a foreign country, but he could hardly let Maude travel unprotected to Gwaren in her adored Wild Wyvern. People had always talked about sea travel making one puke, but Loghain, unlike some of his Wardens, had experienced little trouble. Surreptitiously, through narrowed eyes and little side glances, he had studied Captain Winters and his scabby First Mate Crawley, and gradually adopted the moronic bowlegged stance they used when aboard ship—and off it. It seemed to help.

And, truth be told, Maude was hardly alone anyway. Fergus was traveling with them, since Maude had begged her brother so winningly to be their child's godfather. Maude's powers of persuasive, coercion, and guilt seemed to work even in writing, at least with Fergus.

Fergus had not liked to leave Cauthrien and Caradoc, but wanted to help his sister. Being the child's godfather was a clear political declaration of alliance.

"And I'd like to see Gwaren," the young teyrn admitted. "I've never been there. I want to see the place where Maude will be spending so much time."

"Besides, if not you, then who would be Gareth's godfather, Fergus?" Maude inquired sweetly. "Of course, I could ask Ranger, and he'd do it, but there would be a problem with declaring the name in Chantry. Or maybe not. Maybe Ranger can actually say the name 'Gareth.'"

She looked around for the mabari, who immediately raised his head from his paws and trotted over.

"What about it, sweet boy?" Maude asked. "Do you think you could say 'Gareth?'"

"Gaurghff!" Ranger barked cheerfully.

"Close enough," Maude leaned back on her pillows, smiling. "And Ranger will be an extra godfather, anyway. Dogfather…" That made her laugh. "And Topaz will be Gareth's kind dogmother and Onyx his dogbrother. What a nice big family."

Fergus and Loghain, leaning on the rail together, exchanged a brief, wordless look. The dogs, however, seemed pleased at the idea, considering nothing more natural.

It had been a rather peaceful, pleasant voyage so far, with no storms and no attacks. They had seen a few ships on the horizon, but those vessels had not approached, probably noticing the Grey Warden banner flying from the mast. Pirates really would have to be complete idiots to attack a ship full of Wardens.

Mistress Woolsey had been appalled at the expenditure, and performed a minute audit to determine if Grey Warden funds had been used improperly. Maude was serenely unconcerned. It was proved beyond doubt that she had paid for the ship out of her own private fortune...and had made a good bargain of it, too. Loghain, once committed to the venture, began studying ship-building lore. This was a very fine ship of the type called a "topsail schooner," a very advanced design now being built in Hercinia and Wycome. It could be sailed with a small crew—even by two men alone, if need be—and was fast, maneuverable, and comparatively shallow-drafted, which made anchorage in Breaker's Cove possible. It had four cabins, decent quarters for the crew and a band of warriors, and would get them to Gwaren in less than a week, needing no stops for water or provisions.

The dirty grey horizon of Alamar slipped by, an unknown country of rocky shore and low-lying scrub.

"It's good to see this for myself," Fergus muttered. "It's easy to forget how big these islands are. I'll certainly back an initiative to bring them under proper Fereldan control. Anyone could build a base —and we wouldn't know until too late. I think next summer we need to send out a proper expedition and see what's here."

Below them, on the main deck, lounged the Grey Wardens brought on the mission to explore the Deep Roads beneath Gwaren. Chief among them, Morrigan and Anders gestured at the passing islands, their voices low.

They reached the Isle of Mourne the following day, and Loghain told Captain Winters that he wished to stop there and have a look at the remains of the old castle.

"Perhaps something can be done with it," he remarked.

Maude's smile was a carefully repressed flower. "You just want a chance to walk on dry land."

He gave her long braid a tug. "That is always a consideration."

"I'll stay with Maude," Fergus offered. "I don't like to leave her alone in her condition."

Maude rolled her eyes. "Oh, my 'condition!'"

A small party set out in the ship's boat. Loghain, the dogs, the two mages, Darrow, and Kain were rowed to the little cove on the southern shore. The cold of winter had crisped little pools of tidewater along the beach. The boatmen were left to wait, while the Wardens went exploring.

Anders, with teasing gallantry, handed Morrigan carefully out of the boat. She ran up on the heavy brown sand, sighing deeply in satisfaction, looking about her.

There was quite a bit to look at. A bluff rose up from the southwestern shore. Above it loomed the imposing hill upon which Castle Mourne decayed, its ancient stones irregular as broken teeth.

The castle had been built in the early days of the Blessed Age, when Ferelden had been far more flush with coin that it was now, and it had functioned as a watchtower and lighthouse. Later, the garrison had shrunk by attrition and false economy until only a handful were present to witness the great Orlesian fleet bearing "King" Meghren, as he sailed in triumph to an almost unresisting Denerim.

Mourne, impotent and unarmed, was ignored as the irrelevancy that it was. Loghain had no idea if the Orlesians had even bothered with it. He had never much bothered with it himself. The Orlesians, after all, had got their foothold by way of Amaranthine, coming down from the north. There had been no lighthouse keeper assigned to the old castle throughout the whole of Maric's reign.

Maude was right in a way: Loghain knew that his view of the world was insular, bound by the borders of his own beloved Ferelden. The world, however, was full of greedy foreigners with no respect for borders of any kind. And lots of them had ships.

A rugged path led up one side of the bluff, twisting and turning in its ascent. Loghain began studying it more carefully. He frowned.

Morrigan touched his arm and gave him a look. They passed under a scrubby tree, halted, and she abruptly shifted and took to the skies.

Loghain made a show of ambling slowly from the shade of the tree, drinking from his water flask.

"What?" whispered Anders.

Darrow muttered, "Others've been here. Very recent, too."

Loghain nodded briefly. In fact, this crude path was very well-traveled. Mourne, it seemed likely, was not uninhabited. Pirates? It was possible. Perhaps they had a boat hidden elsewhere. Who else would want to live in such an isolated spot?

They moved on, not hurrying. At a turn in the path, Anders moved into the cover of the rocks and shifted himself, winging off in search of Morrigan.

"Looks like fun, don't it?" Kain remarked.

The dogs hurried up to the summit, interested in the smells. There at the top was the half-extinguished remains of a campfire. Someone had been keeping watch up here and had dashed off to warn someone else.

"Keep your eyes open," Loghain warned. "And you dogs! Don't go haring off. I want a look at the castle."

Castle Mourne, they called it, but it was little more than a bare, square tower. A good place to keep watch, certainly. From up here, the entire island was visible, and the sea around it. The tower was roofless now, and much of the east wall was gone, but the first floor was largely intact. Down a trapdoor was a ladder leading to the cellar. Loghain could hear the trickle of water from a spring below. Their own water? A pity the little castle was in ruins. With a reliable water supply, Loghain felt he could have held the spot against an army.

Darrow grunted, jerking his head toward a corner. A raw, crudely-made ladder led up to the next level. The dogs did not seem to think anyone was up there, so Loghain nodded back, and Kain made his way up gingerly, dagger at the ready. He made barely a sound, moving about over their heads. After a few minutes he slid back down the ladder, and not alone. With him were Morrigan and Anders.

"A blanket up there and a few odds and ends. They keep a lookout there, but he don't live there permanent-like," Kain reported.

"Apostates," Anders announced cheerfully. "Nearly a dozen of them. They live in the remains of a little village not far from here."

"In the old Chantry, in fact," Morrigan added, brushing dust from her long-fingered hands. "'Tis the largest, sturdiest structure. They would not want to live in the tower. Aside from the state of the walls and roof, passing ships would see lights in the tower and questions would be asked."

"I think I should pay them a visit," Anders said. "I might know them! I can at least tell them they don't have run for their lives. Or row, as the case may be."

"Ask if any of them want to join the Wardens," Loghain ordered. "And we'll follow you, just in case they decide not to welcome a fellow mage with open arms."

They followed the path down the other side, staying in what cover there was. Anders swaggered ahead, hands up, smile on his handsome face.

Ahead was a shapeless stone chantry, not much bigger than a large cottage. Anders stood outside, calling out greetings. "I'm the Grey Warden Anders, late of the Circle of Magi! We were having a look at the old fort and saw your fire. Is there anything you need?

A long pause. The door cracked open slowly, and a pale face peered out from the shadows.

"Anders? Is that really you?"

"Petra!"

He started forward, pleased to see an old friend, when the door slammed open and a man stepped in front of Petra, arm out to protect her.

"Stop right there! What do you want?"

Nothing daunted, Anders kept his empty hands visible, still smiling. "Wanted to say hello, Kinnon! We saw the signs that someone lived here. I snooped around and saw you were mages. I didn't want you to think we were after you. Now that I find you're all old classmates, I thought I'd drop by and see how you're doing."

Petra pushed past impatiently. "He's all right, Kinnon! It's Anders!"

"He's not alone!" came a frightened voice from inside the Chantry. "They're not all mages! There's a ship at anchor out there!"

At least it now became apparent why the Circle had not released Enchanter Petra to the Queen. She had escaped after the Battle of Denerim, and a band of her friends with her. Loghain was impressed at their initiative in finding this isolated spot.

He stepped forward, out of cover, along with his companions. He motioned to the dogs, and they sat quietly, panting but unthreatening. There was frantic, whispered conversation among the mages. Clearly, he had been recognized. From their frightened looks, Loghain could see that Petra and the other mages did not trust him. Considering the demonic chaos that his agreement with that lunatic Uldred had unleashed at the Circle, he could not much blame them. Petra and Kinnon wanted to know where Maude was, whom they did trust.

"Out on the boat there," Anders waved. "She'd love to see you, but she's up the spout in a big way, poor girl, and I can't see making her climb up hill and down dale in the shape she's in. Don't worry, though. Loghain knows I'd tattle to her if he did you dirt."

Morrigan burst out laughing...cackling really. Loghain inwardly predicted she would be as formidable an old hag as her mother Flemeth, given a few decades.

"I'm not going to do anything of the sort!" Loghain bit out testily. "If any of you want to Join the Wardens, you'd be welcome. Otherwise, we're hardly going to inform the Templars that you're here. We have nothing to gain from it. Much of our mage recruiting comes from apostates, after all."

Anders wanted to catch up with his old friends, but it was clear that to demand hospitality of the precarious little colony would place unreasonable pressure on it. All the mages had that look of living rough, their once-elaborate robes bedraggled and frayed.

Petra told their story in brief. "After the battle, we went north and wandered in the Blackmarsh for awhile. We were safe from Templars, but the place was haunted by spirits and demons. We found an old fishing boat on the far side of the peninsula and when we saw Mourne a few miles away... well, we knew we'd be out of range of the Templars even if they had our phylacteries. The island was completely deserted. Why shouldn't we live here? We're not doing anyone any harm!"

"Can't we give them some of our extra supplies?" Anders pleaded with Loghain. "Look, it can come out of my pay. These are good people. I grew up with them."

"They must learn to take care of themselves!" Morrigan said coolly. "First they needed Maude to save them from becoming abominations, and now they want us to save them from starvation?"

Kinnon overheard them and stiffened in outraged pride. "We're not starving! There are fruit trees and nut trees on the island, and we do all right getting birds and fish—even bird's eggs. A change would be nice, I admit, but we're not about to die!"

"You've learned to use a bow?" Loghain asked, interested. He had never heard of mages hunting. Well, other than shape-shifting mages gobbling rats and rabbits.

"No," Kinnon admitted. "I'll show you."

A band of the shabby mages took them out to a bluff, proud to display their accomplishments. Kinnon could fire a very precise bolt of lightning at birds on the wing, bringing them down only half-cooked. Others were mastering the skill, but Kinnon was still the best at it. Fish were even easier: a hard slam of magical force would kill fish in the water within a certain radius, and they would then float to the top to be harvested. The mages had learned to prepare their kills and even to cook, after a fashion, but they had not had sufficient supplies to garden effectively, and their clothes were falling to rags.

Loghain felt it was no concern of his, but if Anders wanted to help them and would pay for the supplies, there was no reason not to indulge him. Keeping their best Healer happy was fairly important.

"We can spare them some flour and salt," he said grudgingly. "Perhaps some cider—"

"Cider!" cried a girl mage, ecstatic.

Loghain grunted. It was years ago, but he remembered what life on the run was like. "Maybe some sailcloth..."

"Might we," Petra said beseechingly, "have a needle and thread? And scissors? We never thought of taking them when we ran. We never had to make our own clothes. We did remember a cooking pot and a big spoon."

"And a hatchet," Kinnon added, pleased with himself. "Anything like a weapon was easy to pick up. We've got lots of weapons."

Anders took Morrigan aside for a quiet, intense conversation. She sighed theatrically, and came back, saying, "Very well. At least they are attempting to be free. I shall speak to Maude."

"Make a list," Loghain ordered Petra. "We'll see what we can do. And Anders...it is coming out of your pay."

They were admitted to the little crumbling Chantry. The broken windows were covered with crudely hewn boards, and the sacred brazier kept the interior pleasantly warm. Loghain looked around, surprised that hothouse flowers like Circle mages could contrive even this well for themselves. He snorted at the sight of the bookshelves. They might not have needle and thread, but trust the mages to have books. A soft, gurgling wail rose from a corner. Loghain stepped closer, while the mages bristled anxiously.

It was a baby, perhaps six months old, wriggling in a crate turned makeshift cradle. A pair of young mages hovered, frightened and defiant.

"We're not going back," the pale-faced young mother said hoarsely. "They'd take our baby and raise her as a Chantry stooge. They'd teach her to hate us. We really would rather die."

If Maude saw these people, she would heap them with presents. When she heard about them, she would be nearly as bad. And Loghain was not entirely without sympathy toward people who loved their freedom. It was quite obvious that he would not be able to press Petra into going to Denerim to care for Anora and Rhoswyn. It would be impossible to conceal her presence. The Templars would be after her instantly, and either send her back to the Circle, now commanded by an Orlesian martinet, or they would simply execute her as an apostate. Better to leave these Ferelden citizens as they were. The thought of contravening Ser Berengar de Mal...what was that stupid Orlesian name?...Maleficar...Malfunction...what have you...was oddly satisfying.

"Do any of you actually know anything about gardening?"

"I used to help in the herb garden sometimes," Petra said, looking up from her scrap of parchment. "Obviously in the middle of the month of Guardian..."

"We could stop by on our return and leave some seeds and equipment."

Anders was positively incandescent with delight. Morrigan smirked knowingly at Loghain. She took the completed list from Petra.

"Very well," she said carelessly, swaggering out the door. "I shall speak to Maude, whilst you men row back. By the time they reach the ship, we will have put together what we can."

Petra was puzzled at Morrigan's words, and walked outside with them. The refugees were awed beyond words at the sight of the hawk soaring out over the sea to the waiting ship, a piece of parchment in her beak.

"That's my Morrigan," Anders declared smugly. "She's amazing!"

While sensible enough not to short their own people, Maude was predictably generous. Morrigan must have told her about the baby, for in addition to the food and drink, there was a soft little blanket and a ridiculous little infant dress, embroidered with dragons, along with a pile with nappies and some bolts of sailcloth. She had put together a sewing basket with what she could spare, and included a pair of knitting needles and a huge ball of yarn.

"I doubt any of them know how to knit," Loghain pointed out.

"Well, they had better learn," Maude replied briskly. "Or I can show them when we come back. Warm socks always make me feel much more optimistic about life in general this time of year."

Morrigan was also a sensible woman, and had not openly said that the refugees were mages—simply that Anders knew them. Fergus Cousland was always sympathetic to Blight refugees, and would not hear of Anders bearing the cost, instead donating his own coin as an act of charity.

He pursed his lips, thinking. "The island could easily support some sheep or goats. We could pick up a few in Gwaren and drop them off on the voyage home."

They rowed back to the little mage hideaway on Mourne, the boat riding low in the water with its burdens. The mages met them at the shore, grateful and excited.

"How can we ever thank you?" cried Petra.

Loghain had given some thought to that.

"See that no pirates or invaders gain a foothold here, as far as you can. You're powerful mages. There are enough of you to deal with anything other than an Orlesian or Qunari warship. I was hoping to persuade the King and Queen to station a garrison here, but perhaps you would do as well."

In fact, he was already considering further possibilities. Why not leave these harmless mages in their little hideaway? He would mention the "refugees" to Anora. A bit of coin, and the Glavonaks could repair the tower; the mages could receive regular supplies in exchange for one of the inhabitants performing the duties as lighthouse keeper. Refugees supported in return for useful service—what could be more proper? It would not be expensive, and it would be another layer of protection between Denerim and the hostile world beyond.

Gwaren was happy to see him. Really.

Loghain could understand why Gwaren was happy to see Maude: beautiful, happy, magnificently gowned, and enormously pregnant. She was a symbol of the new order, which is always, always supposed to be better than the old. And Gwaren, certainly, greeted Maude with cheers and enthusiasm, even if no one among Gwaren's gruff citizens seemed to have washed since Loghain last saw them.

But Gwaren was happy to see him, too. Rather surprising, all things considered, but not disagreeable. He refused to smile for them, but he permitted himself a few grave nods.

Word of their arrival spread very quickly. Quite a few people hurried to the docks to see them disembark. Quite a few nobles, too. Loghain acknowledged some men and women he recognized. Had they been in town waiting for the Regent? It seemed that perhaps they had.

It was curious, but Loghain was also rather glad to see Gwaren. He had spent years here, before Rowan died and it became his duty to support Maric in Denerim. They had not been unhappy years.

Besides, Gwaren was the one city in Ferelden that was not much changed by the Blight. There had been some rioting during the civil war, but not a great deal of damage. The Keep, squat and old-fashioned, was still intact, as well as the narrow, filthy streets with the rows and rows of half-timbered buildings and the occasional heavy log structure. Gwaren was famed for its dense old forests, and wood was cheap and plentiful. There was also no dearth of skilled woodworkers. Even the ancient image of Andraste in Gwaren Chantry was of wood: good hard whitewood, now blackened with centuries of soot from candles and braziers.

The Chantry was their first stop, of course: a public blessing of Maude's pregnant belly; a public thank-you for her condescension in coming to Gwaren to bear the new teyrn; a public welcome to Loghain, whom the Revered Mother Corianta knew not to refer to as "Teyrn." Nonetheless, she waxed lyrical over his deeds in saving Ferelden from the Blight and his victory over the Archdemon. He was Hero, Savior, Dragonslayer: their gratitude knew no bounds. Loghain glanced at Maude from the corner of his eye, but she remained unruffled and smiling, glittering with jewels and glowing with new life.

Fergus, too, enjoyed his share of notice. A Teyrn of Highever was Somebody, and there was some fairly loud and frank discussion going on about his good looks and manly bearing. The news of his son's birth had penetrated even to the southern forests. In fact, the people of Gwaren felt no hesitation in making their opinions known about any of them. Some whispered and muttered, and others shared their views freely with their neighbors. After the final blessing, the last vestiges of repression vanished, and the chatter became a din of excited gossip. There was nothing to be done but run the gauntlet—at a dignified, unhurried pace, of course.

"—Fine looking man, that. I wouldn't mind if…"

"—Good breeders, those Couslands," one old hag boomed. "Good blood and good looks. So I've always heard…"

"—A fine thing for our Loghain…"

"—Looking well, ain't he?"

"—They shouldn't make her walk so fast. She looks ready to pop."

"—Not for a week or two, I'd judge. She's still carrying the lad high…"

"—It might be another little maid like our Anora…"

"—No, it's not! I can tell..."

It was quite a procession from the Chantry to the Keep: the Wardens dressed in their pristine tunics, and the Gwaren guardS lining the way. They looked less rustic than Loghain's memory of them: Maude had probably given them all new tunics, too: colorful tunics blazoned with the Gwaren wyvern.

"Nice to see home again," Darrow rumbled to Kain, from the ranks behind Loghain. "At least they haven't burned the place down, unlike most of Ferelden."

The gates of the Keep swung open, and Allonby greeted them, bowing low; a beaming, almost excited Allonby. It was actually rather touching. Loghain had to quietly remind him that it was Maude who Was the Regent of Gwaren, and not Loghain; but nothing seemed to quench the man's enthusiasm.

"I'll send out word to the banns and all the noble families," the man declared. "Would it please you to hold Court tomorrow, or the day after?"

"The day after, if you please," Maude told him pleasantly. "We need to settle in a bit. And besides, we'll want to hold a feast, and surely the kitchens need a bit of notice to start roasting and baking."

"Of course, Your Grace!"

Loghain merely grunted, signaling his assent to Allonby, who knew how to interpret Loghainese. It had been years since Loghain had been here, and he did indeed want to explore and find his feet after so long. He felt like one of the dogs, sniffing here and there.

Immediately on coming into the Great Hall, he began to comprehend what Maude had been up to during her first visit here.

"It looks different," he said. He frowned. The white-painted wood ceiling was gone. It had always been impossible to keep it from looking grubby. Celia had to have it washed every spring. With the boards taken down and gone, complicated vaulting was revealed, and it was all very…colorful.

"Yes," Maude said primly. "When I had the place thoroughly cleaned and got rid of some ugly old wainscoting, I found out that there was that wonderful groin vaulting and a decorative border along the wall. The tops the pillars are carved and painted, too. You see? Who knew? I didn't tell you because I wanted to surprise you. Some of the images needed touching up, but it was worth the effort. I like it, even the naughty bits."

Loghain stopped and stared. Behind him, the older Wardens sniggered. The younger were entranced.

"That lady's naked," whispered a young archer from White River. "A naked picture! I heard of them! Gwaren is really sophisticated, innit? "

"Shut up, you lot" barked Darrow. "That's not a naked picture! It's Art. You can tell by the urn next to her. Urns mean it's Art."

"Oh."

Well, not all of it was naughty. It was actually very interesting, and Loghain promised himself a good long look at it later. It must date from the Black Age or earlier—probably from the days when Gwaren was an independent teyrnir. There were hunting scenes in which fabulous beasts were being made bloodily extinct; and yes, domestic scenes in which extraordinarily endowed men and women were expressing affection in energetic ways; there were scenes of chivalry in which noblemen were lopping off sundry heads; and scenes of rosy-cheeked maidens picking flowers while their suitors languished on the painted verdure nearby, looking up their skirts. There were lots of Symbols, and heraldic animals, and many, many urns. Yes, it was certainly Art.

Fergus was grinning. "It's fantastic! I predict that scholars and travelers will come from the four corners of Thedas to see it."

Loghain snorted, rather amused. "What other discoveries have you made?"

"Not many," Maude shrugged. "This was the big one. Oh—there was the sweetest little room hidden away behind a cupboard. I might use it as the nursery. I think it was used to lock somebody important away once, but then they put the cupboard in front the door and everyone forgot about it. Watch your head, Fergus. Gwaren Keep is full of low arched doors. I don't know how you missed cracking your skull open, Loghain!"

"I did, a few times," Loghain confessed.

"Ha! The Voric family must have been as short as dwarves, at least in the old days."

The Vorics, of course, were extinct, at least in the main line. They had particularly enraged the Orlesians, first by their physical resistance to occupation, and more especially because a Voric had married Queen—then Princess— Moira and fathered Maric. That nobleman had been killed in battle very young, and Maric had never known him. Nonetheless, Maric and Cailan had been in a sense the last of the Vorics. Maric had had the best claim to the teyrnir, a fact that had enabled him to bestow it on Loghain.

Well, Alistair and Rhoswyn had Voric blood, too. They were now the only living direct descendants of Teyrn Cathaoir, the last Voric teyrn of Gwaren. Perhaps that was why Anora had wanted to so much to maintain ties to the teyrnir. Well, she couldn't have both Denerim and Gwaren: that had been made clear to her. Denerim had been her choice, and Loghain still felt she had made the correct one. Denerim was far more useful in establishing a strong central monarchy.

Their Wardens were shown to decent quarters. Anders and Morrigan were given a nearby guest room, and Fergus the King's Chamber. Loghain did not protest. It was not surprising that Maude would want her brother to have the best during his visit.

With some trepidation, he followed her to the Teyrn's quarters, the sprawling apartments that had been his home with Celia for long years.

They were changed. Not shockingly so, but the hand of a new mistress was apparent in the fresh green draperies and the rearranged furnishings. And, of course, in the extra armor and weapon stands, as well. There was a very large dog bed by the fire, with room enough for the entire pack.

Off the bedchamber was a sunny room that Celia had used first as Anora's nursery and later as a private refuge. Here she had sewn and knit and read her romances. The Teyrn's own very large office was on the floor below. It was clear that Maude had made this into her own private study and play-place. In a corner was a stuffed practice dummy that had manifestly lost all its fights with her. And with Ranger, too, from the gnawed bits. The face was painted to resemble a Hurlock. It wore a cheerful knit cap with a red bobble on top.

"That's Mr Growley," Maude remarked. "He's a lot of fun. I'll have to see what Roderick does to him. Let me show you that hidden room. It's neat."

In the sitting room was a huge wardrobe that as far as Loghain knew, had never been moved. Maude had moved it to the wall opposite the window—or had it moved, for moving it would require a number of strong backs. Yet another low arched doorway was revealed in the place where it had stood. The painted stones were vivid, protected as they had been from sunlight and human contact.

"How did you happen to notice it?"

She waved her hand dismissively. "I was just looking around. You know… Sometimes I tap on walls and cupboards, because you never know."

Loghain remembered the secret hiding places in Highever House. It was possible, he realized, that secret hiding places were not particular only to the Cousland family.

"Anyway," she said. "The sound was different…hollow. I knew something was up, even though I couldn't see under the cupboard since it goes all the way to the floor. So I had it moved. Allonby thought I was mad, but then I found this doorway. Come and see. I've had the place cleaned, so it's not entirely shrouded in spider webs anymore."

A little stone stairway led up. Loghain ducked down, avoiding the the stony-hard top of the arched passage. At the top was a fine old painted cupboard. Around a sharp corner and up a few more steps was a small room under a a low, low vaulted ceiling. Maude could just stand up under most it. Loghain had to stoop. Light filtered in through small semicircular windows, which peered out onto the roof like surprised eyebrows. A low bed was made up with an obviously new featherbed and fresh linens. Maude had furnished the room with a small table and chair, a bookcase, and a chest. An old bronze lantern, green with age, hung from the middle of the ceiling, where the points of the vault met.

A child would love this place. It was the perfect hideaway.

"This is no prisoner's room," Loghain said. "I think it more likely that someone lived here—I would guess a woman or a child— and the room was shut up because something unpleasant happened. What sorts of things did you find here?"

"Not much," Maude shrugged. "It had been cleared out pretty thoroughly before they left it to the dust and spiders. The bed was here, though... Isn't it gorgeous?"

"I suppose," Loghain grunted. "All the more reason to believe that someone lived here that the lord of the castle valued. If you use it as a nursery, you'll want a very short nursemaid. That, or you'll need a good Healer on staff."

Anders was reasonably confident that Maude would not go into labor for another fifteen days or so. Loghain was anxious to have a look at the Deep Roads and keep his Wardens in training. He decided that after the formalities of Court and feast were held, he would take his people down into the Deep Roads under Gwaren to see what was lurking—or failing to lurk—there. Among his old papers in the office was the crude map he had made from memory thirty years before, when he, Maric, and Rowan and come to Gwaren by way of the Deep Roads, supported by the Legion of the Dead. He matched his fine new maps to that crude old scrawl and was rather pleased with himself to find it fairly accurate.

And Katriel had been there, too, of course. Traveling by way of the Deep Roads had actually been the elven bard's idea. Of course it had worked out well. Sometime between the slaughter of West Hill—largely engineered by the treacherous bitch herself—and the time they met up, escaping the battle, Katriel had finally decided that Maric's charms were worth more than the Orlesians' rewards. Much good it did the dead of West Hill. He snarled softly, as he always did, thinking of Katriel.

She had saved them...or saved Maric, because she didn't give a copper for Loghain or Rowan... but she had ruined Maric, too. Maric had eventually discovered her treason and executed her personally. He had done the sensible thing and made Rowan his queen, but he was never quite right after. He had not wanted to be king, and resisted passively in all sorts of exasperating ways.

If Loghain had it to do over again, would he have forced Maric to be King?

Yes. There had been no one else who could have reunited Ferelden. Maric might have been a figurehead, supported by Loghain and Rowan, but he was a convincing figurehead, with the kind of charisma that wins hearts and minds. So what then? Would Loghain have have forced Rowan to go to Maric and be his Queen?

That was more problematic. If Rowan were not Queen, who could have been? Eleanor Bryland-Pengallon was already married to Bryce Cousland, and Howe had no sisters. There were only minor noblewoman otherwise, and none of them would have had the energy or talent to uphold Maric as King. It was a miserable thing to contemplate, but he could think of no way to keep Rowan for himself.

Of course, he could have kept Maric from killing Katriel, though that was exactly what the bitch deserved. Instead, he could have restrained Maric and persuaded him to banish the woman...though Maker only knew what the slag would have got up to... Or Maric could have had her locked up in Fort Drakon, put to work in the laundry. Perhaps not killing the woman, but allowing her to grow old in captivity would have prevented Maric's descent into guilt and depression. He hated to admit it, but perhaps stage-managing Maric's discovery of Katriel's treason, and then encouraging Maric to kill her had been a mistake.

Maric had met Katriel here in Gwaren, too. There were all sorts of memories here. Celia and young Anora were here, around each and every corner. Loghain decided that some time in the Deep Roads would help him keep focused on the present.

Other than a few blind caverns with isolated pockets of darkspawn, the major passages under Gwaren were clean. That one next- to- last band had been nasty enough to give his new people some needed practice. What they found, in addition, was quite a bit of treasure. Loghain remembered Shale's story about the mage Wilhelm, and how he had explored the Deep Roads for purposes of looting. And then too, wasn't that what the Hawke fellow, Bethany's brother, had been doing in the Deep Roads? It was what they had found for themselves, during their explorations of the Roads under Amaranthine. After a Blight, the Roads were comparatively safe, and Loghain now understood that there were ages of riches down in the tunnels below Thedas. He let his Wardens share out quite a bit of the loot, kept a fifth to add to the Warden's coffers, and chose an amazing necklace of gold and intaglio emeralds to take home to Maude.

Thus enriched, Loghain resealed the Gwaren Deep Roads entrance and marched back to the Keep with his Wardens.

Maude had not yet destroyed Gwaren. Indeed, the town seemed peaceful and even cheerful. The Wardens were cheered and applauded in the streets, though a few old ladies felt not the least hesitation in publicly scolding Loghain.

"My lord! You should be home with your wife and son!" one them shrilled.

For a horrible moment, Loghain thought he had 1) missed the birth, and 2) that Maude would absolutely kill him. Then the other old hag put in her oar.

"Been holding it in, waiting for you, like as not. What men put us poor women through!"

Loghain refused to look behind and see the effects these words had on his Wardens. All of them, other than Morrigan, were carefully silent. She allowed herself a rich, malicious chuckle. Loghain scowled, and picked up the pace.

"I'll have a look at her as soon as we're there," Anders promised, a little pale.

"You are both absurd," Morrigan told them. "Maude is perfectly capable of dealing with childbirth. If necessary, she would persuade the child to come quietly!"

And after all, Maude did look fine, if still immensely pregnant, when they burst through the door of the Office of the Teyrn.

So fine that she nearly put a crossbow bolt through Loghain.

"Whoa!" she shouted. "Loghain! I thought you must be an invading army, the way you came thundering up the stairs! Hullo, Anders, did you find any nice stuff in the Deep Roads?"

"Lots," Anders admitted, flashing his wand at her. "How do you feel?"

"I feel fine. Look at how accurate Roderick's getting!"

Loghain turned, On the wall opposite her desk, crossbow bolts spelled out "MAUDE" with admirable precision.

"Yes, very nice," he said. He took another look. "Are you sure you're fine?"

"Am I not supposed to be? Really, I'm fine, considering that I'm two people right now. Fergus is out hunting boar with the bores. That's awfully nice of him. If the nobles entertain him they can't pester me. And we get wild boar out of it, so it's all good. You know," she said, sniffing the air doubtfully. "You both really, really smell like the Deep Roads. That's not good. I propose baths all around."

He could not smell it himself, but come to think of it, the servants had looked rather put off. Baths were therefore ordered, and a much cleaner Loghain returned to the Teyrn's Office to find Maude busily engaged in reading through a pile of parchment. On a side table was a platter of sandwiches and a goblet of wine. Loghain set to, unabashed.

"Today's letters," she told him. "Some of them were forwarded by courier from Soldier's Peak. Pull up a chair. When you finish that sandwich, you may kiss me."

Belatedly aware that he committed a breach of marital manners, Loghain set the sandwich aside, and kissed his wife with particular care.

"I missed you," Maude said frankly. "I'm glad you're back. Now you can eat."

He did. Feeling much better, he looked through the Warden correspondence. Keenan said the Peak was fine. Woolsey said the books were balanced. Hector Pentaghast had written some interesting gossip about trouble brewing in Orlais. Peyrolle, the Warden Commander, was getting on toward his Calling, and there was a great deal of politicking going on, as Wardens positioned themselves to succeed him.

"Bastard," sneered Loghain. "If anyone deserves a Calling, it's Peyrolle."

Maude looked up from her reading. "Peyrolle's on his way out? I wish Leliana would write to me. I beginning to wonder if something has happened to her."

"Apparently there's some unrest among the candidates for Warden-Commander."

"There are over a thousand Orlesian Wardens," Maude said. "A lot of noble younger sons go into the Wardens. It's not surprising that they treat it like any other noble perquisite. I'm sure the Empress has some influence, but in the end the First Warden will make the appointment. He could appoint some Orlesian-born flunkey of his who's spent his whole career in Weisshaupt."

Loghain snorted, "Our current First Warden probably is a big enough fool to do something of the sort." He took another sandwich, and they went on with their reading.

"This is from Varric in Kirkwall," Maude said, delighted. "Ooo! Significant! Some Kirkwall merchants are targeting Amaranthine ships. We'd better pass that on to Delilah. Speaking of whom, I have a letter from Delilah right here...

She cracked the seal, read quietly for a few second before bursting out in a high shriek. Loghain dropped his sandwich.

"What's that?" Maude said, staring in disbelief at the letter. "Nathaniel's getting married?"

Loghain took the parchment away and scanned it quickly.

"'…to a distinguished and wealthy Marcher lady…'" He frowned. "Nathaniel couldn't find a proper Ferelden girl?"

"Probably not a wealthy one," Maude pointed out. "Teagan got Habren, who was the only rich heiress left in Ferelden! I can't blame Nathaniel. Amaranthine needs coin, and I can see he doesn't much like the idea of borrowing from us ….wait…I know that name from somewhere…"

"Barbarella de Launcet?" Loghain scowled. "An Orlesian?"

"A Kirkwaller!" Maude shouted triumphantly, thumping the desk. "The family came from Orlais, and they've kept up the connections..and the accent. Bethany mentioned them. I'll have to tell her! Her mother wanted Adam to marry this girl…or her sister…or both of them. I forget. She says they're complete cows. This is the one they call Babette."

Loghain sneered, unimpressed with Nathaniel's choice. All the more reason for Delilah to find a husband and produce an heir. If she did not, Amaranthine would someday have an arl whose mother was a complete cow. Ferelden had enough of those already.

"He's getting married in Denerim. During the Landsmeet," Maude read on. "Poor lamb. I've got to write Varric right away and get every detail about her!" She scowled and settled back in her chair. "But maybe not now. I feel very odd. Could you call for some tea, Loghain? I don't feel much like moving."

By the time the tea came, she was fidgeting restlessly. She took a few sips, and then got up to pace ponderously around the room, her hand rubbing her lower back. "This is icky. This isn't right."

Loghain summoned the servant again, but this time to fetch Anders.

By the time Fergus and his hunting party returned, some hours had passed, and the process of bringing Gareth MacTir into the world was well on its way. Following Anders' advice, Maude tried to stay active in her grand bedchamber, walking a little, listening to more letters, trying to dictate one or two. Morrigan kept her entertained with the whole story of looting the Gwaren Deep Roads; and Loghain presented the emerald necklace, which diverted Maude for quite some time, as she analyzed the carved intaglio images.

"Tevinter, I think. Very old. I like it. Thank you, Loghain. Lots of dragons, which is fine. This one's a wyvern. How appropriate. Gwaren heraldry aside, do you think there really were wyverns in Gwaren once?"

She was babbling, but it was his duty to indulge her. "I know there were. The foresters are a determined lot though, and seemed to have axed the last one back in the Steel Age. I'm told there used to be a stuffed wyvern here in the Keep, but when the Orlesians invaded, they stole it."

"Typical. A whole stuffed wyvern. That must have been some trick, fitting a whole stuffed wyvern onto a ship. I'd like to see that. Actually, I'd like to see a real wyvern. They still have them in the Planascene Forest, I'm told. I should have done more exploring there when I was in Kirkwall. Maker knows when I'll ever go back." She paced a little more. "Don't forget that when you declare Gareth you son, you have to let me declare him Teyrn, since I'm the Regent."

"No, Maude, I won't forget," Loghain promised her. Did she think he was an idiot? No, she was just being a woman in labor...

The housekeeper and her maids fussed, arranging more lights on the table by the elaborate birthing stool; laying out extra linen, and bringing in an ancient cradle, lavished with carved wyverns and dragons; with bears and wolves and hawks. Morrigan laughed, pointing out a pair of tiny spiders along the side.

"I found it on one of my hunts around the Keep," Maude said proudly. She winced, desperately uncomfortable. "I like it a lot," she said, after the pain had subsided. "It was a little musty, but it cleaned up very well."

Fergus arrived, thoroughly washed, serious, and kind. The nobility were trickling in: Bann Stronar and his Lady Fionne; Bann Geraint and Lady Lynette; Bann Morwenna all the way from the Southron Hills, with her husband Lord Daltrey. More and more arrived, including the Revered Mother Corianta and her entourage. Loghain could see that Maude had done good, persuasive work there; for the elderly priest did not blink an eye at Anders' presence, nor at that of Morrigan.

Maude smiled on them all, forcing herself into gracious hostess mode. She greeted them, and the gentlemen were led away by Fergus to the old Dragonthorn Parlor, for games and drink and talk, while the ladies settled into comfortable chairs and benches thoughtfully prearranged for the event.

Bann Morwenna was a brilliant chessplayer, and kept Maude engaged in a game until the pains grew too severe. The birthing stool finally beckoned, and Maude was settled on it, looking very doubtful. Loghain sat on one side and Ranger crowded close on the other, whining in sympathy. Maude scratched his ears and seemed soothed by his presence. The other dogs huddled nearby, loving brown eyes fixed on Maude.

"I think things have been arranged very badly for women!" she whispered to Loghain, dark brows knit in displeasure. "This is a thoroughly nasty business! It's times like these that convince me that the Maker really is a man!"

Loghain glanced over at the priests, who were happily distracted by the spiced wine offered by the housekeeper.

"Perhaps so, but by tomorrow you will have a son in that cradle and all this will be over!"

"I hope so!" she muttered. "This hurts almost as badly as the time my hand was stepped on by a genlock." The memory seemed to cheer her up. "That was worse," she admitted. "Also the time that undead corpse stabbed me at Castle Redcliffe. Right through the shoulder. Maker, that hurt. And no decent loot, either."

"Well," Loghain said, seizing on this happy train of thought. "Though you hurt now, you're going to get a baby out of it. That's not quite loot, I suppose, but you can't say you're suffering for nothing."

It worked.

"That's true," Maude agreed, eyes brightening. "That's very true. It's like the time I got my eyebrows burnt off by that dragon in the elven burial temple, but then I found its hoard!"

"Exactly," Loghain said, holding her hand.

In due course, the force of gravity triumphed, and young Gareth dropped from his mother into Anders' sure and waiting hands. Maude bore the last, worst pains most manfully...womanfully?...and though she looked pale and disoriented, she never swooned or collapsed. The afterbirth followed, while cooing ladies and beaming maids washed the tiny, lustily protesting boy and swaddled him warmly. Maude was cleaned up herself, and Loghain carried her off to her soothing bed, just in time for the waiting noblemen to enter and see their new liege-lord—or nephew—for themselves.

Loghain's vision was abruptly filled with a minute pink person in white linen, glaring up at him in comic displeasure. He was hardly aware of lifting him high and saying the ritual words. This was his Gareth, named for his beloved father. How pleased and proud Da would be...

A thousand possibilies flashed through Loghain's imagination. What kind of man would this boy become? A warrior, a scholar, or a diplomat? A trickster, a rascal, or a noble knight beyond reproach? There was so much to teach him—so much lore to share: the weight of Loghain's experience; the power of Maude's keen wit. In a whirl of images a dark-haired boy waved a toy sword, rode a pony, played with the dogs, learned to read, grew tall, kissed a girl for the first time...

Maude had her arms out, eyes blazing in joy and possessive triumph. Loghain gave the baby to her, almost reluctantly. She was nearly exhausted, but managed to rally for the last, crucial effort...

"Behold, nobles of Gwaren, your rightful Teyrn, Gareth MacTir!"

Thank you my reviewers: Coldial, Mike, kdarnell2, Zute, EpitomyofShyness, Phygmalion, tgcgoddess, Shakespira, Shikyo-sama, JackOfBladesX, , MsBarrows, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, Kira Kyuu, Josie Lange, mille libri, Jyggilag, wuoreb, cloud1004, Judy, Enaid Aderyn, karinfan123, Jenna53, and graydevilforever.

Urns as a sign of Art is a shameless rip-off of Terry Pratchett.

I was watching Ivan the Terrible, Part I the other day. The hidden room is based on the charming little nest belonging to Ivan's wife Anastasia.

Happy Holidays to all! The season to be jolly may delay the next chapter of Victory at Ostagar somewhat.