Chapter 49
"As students of culture, it is important to always recognize your biases. I wear my Chantry perspective openly, for if my readers do not understand the lens through which I view the world, they cannot account for how these biases may color my writing.
Gathering accurate information is challenging in a place as vast and fragmented as Thedas. One man may go on at length about lurid dealings with a king, then refuse to provide his name or some proof of the account. Other sources may conflict wildly. Fixing travel to some of the more remote areas of the continent is nothing compared to the difficulty I've had finding contacts I can trust. I cannot tell you how many times 'reputable people' have tried to deceive me, sometimes for personal notoriety, more often in the interest of a pet cause. Trustworthy Qunari, Dalish, and Tevinter contacts are especially scarce, and I prize those I have kept friendly. Often it is I who must earn their trust.
Texts too can be unreliable. From extensive readings, I have determined that Andraste was a Fereldan Orlesian who was born in every town from here to Hossberg. What little remains of elven history has been told and retold, shifted and skewed, until the tales are unrecognizable. I have particular respect for the dwarves, for there is no other people so obsessed with recording an accurate and complete history. If only the Shapers were as open as the skies they fear.
If I can be honest, the long reign of the Chantry has made the recording of reality at times a trial. Most common histories have been rewritten through the filter of my religion. Everything has meaning as it pertains to the Maker. And while this is unavoidable, it sometimes leads to conflicts between what is officially taught by the Chantry and what I have seen with my own eyes.
While my belief in the Maker is absolute, only a fool would ignore the lessons to be learned from other societies and religions.
Take the Fade. Was it the kingdom of the Maker, as common knowledge dictates, or the realm of the Tevinter Old Gods? Few people would contest its existence, but beyond that, there is little agreement among scholars. Though there are many who would disagree with me, I have come to believe nothing is for certain. I've met too many people and encountered too many perspectives not to keep an open mind about these things."
—excerpt from a lecture by Brother Genitivi at the University of Orlais, delivered shortly after the release of his seminal work, In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of a Chantry Scholar
Malcolm
With everyone seated around the dining table at the Amell estate, it was Cullen who did not flinch from asking the most necessary and immediate question:
"What do we do with the mages?"
Cullen had placed himself close Hildur, who'd taken a seat at the head of the table, journal out and ready. Sometimes, whenever Malcolm took note of how meticulous Hildur was about keeping records, he wondered if she should've been a Shaper. Not that he'd ask her, because that would mean a week straight of being assigned tasks so boring and mind-numbing that he would've preferred a direct punch to the face. Or the gut. Or anywhere, really, because it was over quicker that way.
Alistair sat on Hildur's right, directly across from Cullen and the surprisingly quiet Gratian. The bulk of the decision-making rested on those four, with the opinions of the others maybe being taken into account. Morrigan was still gone with Merrill and the Dalish hunters, doing whatever was required to secure an eluvian for travel. Nuala and Kennard had herded the children to the estate's garden when the group from the Gallows had trooped inside, expressions both weary and dark shared between Hildur, Alistair, Cullen, and Gratian.
The rest of the group presented more varied expressions. Fergus still looked irritated, Carver bored, Sebastian miffed as if he'd expected to be included in the leadership, Marian alternating between whispering with Bethany and poking fun at their brother. Malcolm had no idea what other people would see on his face since it felt like every one of his emotions were in conflict. Honestly, he wasn't even sure he should be here, but Hildur had insisted.
Líadan sat next to Malcolm, alternately slumping and then straightening whenever she realized she'd started to slump. On the surface, it resembled fidgeting, and Malcolm certainly found the behaviors familiar, but he knew it was more a reflection of whatever she wrested with inside. The glares occasionally sent Alistair's way did a lot to clarify the primary emotion she was restraining.
Meanwhile, Cullen had continued, banging on the table with his fist a few times for special emphasis. "We must figure out where the mages can go, because they do not want to stay here."
Gratian shook his head slowly, as if remorseful. "We really can't remain, not with how thin the Veil is. However, we also don't want to become apostates. Nor do we want to remain because we've no alternative, and then end up abominations."
"Are you're sure letting them go won't be a mistake?" Sebastian pointedly asked Cullen, even though it'd been Gratian who'd last spoken.
Marian glared at him. She wasn't the only person who did, but hers was the only one Sebastian acknowledged.
"It was an honest request for an assessment from the Knight-Commander," said Sebastian. "Nothing more. I was going to ask the same of the First Enchanter, afterward."
"You are so full of shit," Carver muttered under his breath, but not loudly enough for Sebastian to hear. Bethany, however, did hear, and fought to keep the mirth off her face.
"It's the kindest mercy I could grant them," said Cullen. "They kept their heads and resisted temptations, even when giving into said temptations might have been understandable, given the events. So, no. It would be no mistake to allow them to leave in order to remain themselves. As a wise Senior Enchanter once told me, mercy is never a mistake. This is mercy; it is not a mistake."
Alistair shifted his gaze from his fingers drumming silently on the table to Cullen. "That was something Wynne said."
"I know," said Cullen.
The response did nothing to assuage the trouble brewing in Alistair's eyes, the reality of Wynne's death only now hitting him fully. Unwilling to address the reality of Wynne being gone, especially whatever reaction the loss was generating in his brother, Malcolm hunted for a compromise. "They could go to Orzammar, where the mages left from the White Spire ended up. And they're still keeping a Circle-type of order to things. If the mages of the Gallows don't want to help from a Circle in Orzammar, I wouldn't be surprised if Kinloch Hold would take them in."
Gratian brightened having two prospects, unexpected delights compared to the lack of options he'd had prior their meeting. Cullen, on the other hand, became plagued by uncertainty. It was a fair reaction, given Cullen's memories of Kinloch Hold.
"They rebuilt the bridge," Malcolm offered.
That raised an eyebrow. "Did they?"
Malcolm nodded. "Nice one, too. Had the dwarves do it up all right and proper."
When Cullen didn't voice any other objections, Gratian said, "I'll present the remaining mages of the Circle with our options. Then I will let you know what we decide." After everyone acknowledged his words, he started for the door.
"Just make it soon, if you need to catch any rides on Fereldan or Warden ships. I imagine it'd be cheaper than walking or paying for passage aboard a commercial vessel," said Hildur.
"We'll have an answer by tomorrow morning."
Cullen stood up as the door closed behind Gratian. "I should go back with him to the Gallows. Everyone's still a little jumpy from all that's happened, and it's better to keep them busy. Otherwise, the mind wanders."
"You aren't unaffected, yourself," said Marian.
He blushed a little. "No, I am not, yet I have much to do. I thank you for the ale, but I must be on my way."
"You're invited to the Hanged Man tonight, if you want. You and Gratian and whoever else, mage or templar." Marian paused and thought her invitation over for a moment. "Well, whoever you and Gratian believe can handle it. And by 'it,' I mean the drink. And probably the smell."
"I make no promises for myself or the others, but I will pass along the invitation." Before Marian could say anything else, Cullen darted out the door.
Once he was gone, hurrying to catch up to Gratian, Marian posed a question to Alistair that Malcolm had wanted to ask for a while.
"So, is Ferelden going to declare war on the Chantry? On Orlais? Both? You know what they say about waging a war on two fronts." Humor masked the gravity of her questions, but rendered them no less grave once examined.
Alistair laughed, which startled Malcolm. The prospect of war, even if they weren't directly headed for one, wasn't pleasant. To Malcolm's frustration, Alistair's explanation did make sense. What was also made clear was that Hildur had given Alistair all the details before Malcolm and Líadan had returned from the Dalish. "Orlais is busy killing itself," Alistair said as his chuckles faded. "If Ferelden declared war on them, it would unite them against us, meaning they'd stop killing each other in favor of killing us. So, no." He shook his head for emphasis. "We're quite happy to let them keep doing what they're doing since they're pretty much doing our work for us. As for the Chantry, I'm not even sure how we could wage war against them, not when all chantries and monarchs were notified by the Lord Seeker that the Seekers of Truth and the Templar Order have declared the Nevarran Accord to be null and void. Which leaves us to ask, do we fight a war against the clergy? Bring battle to priests? Lay brothers and sisters? That wouldn't garner us any favors with the rest of the nations of Thedas, it wouldn't be popular back home, and I personally wouldn't feel comfortable with it. Since that isn't an option, do we then declare war on the Seekers and templars? We could, except they've got their own problems with dissension in the ranks if the desertion rate is any indication. In the end, I think it's best we be content to sit back and gleefully watch them all tear themselves apart."
It made sense. It made a lot of sense and reeked of quite good statesmanship, and yet it bothered Malcolm. He wanted a chance to fight back, fight back harder than merely trying to delay an angry Lord Seeker from hurting more escaping mages. He wanted to strike out at the people who'd hurt his family, kidnapped his children, made his wife Tranquil. Maker, he just wanted to fight. His fingers twitched with the want of a weapon, his legs craved the footwork of a skirmish, and Alistair had officially plucked those options out of his hands. Now if he tried to wage his own little war, he'd be acting against the best interests of his country and, more importantly, his family. Alistair had effectively leashed him without the decency of asking his opinion first.
It only helped a little when Malcolm noticed that Fergus was gritting his teeth the same way he was. Fergus wanted to fight, too. He'd made that blatantly clear.
Hildur tapped her index finger on the table as her eyes flicked between Alistair, Malcolm, and Fergus. She glanced down and counted to five under her breath before she addressed them. "Speaking of tearing themselves apart, Kirkwall's going to need a new viscount. Since we ended up killing most or all of the nominal leaders left here, it's only polite that we appoint another one."
"If we're going to discuss that," said Marian, "someone has to fetch Varric, first."
As it turned out, Varric had ensconced himself in the main room of Marian's estate, reclining in an overstuffed chair, boots propped up on a low table, pilfered ale in hand. A rapt audience, consisting of three young children and a mabari, surrounded him as he spun tales. At least, that was what Marian conveyed in rather flowery language when she returned with him in tow. Continued disappointed grumbles from the children kept floating into the dining room, giving credence to Marian's claim.
"I hear you're trying to name a new viscount," Varric said as he settled into a new chair. "Good luck with that."
"Guard-Captain Aveline seems like a good candidate," said Hildur. "I'm not sure we could come up with much for objections."
"Aveline would," said Bethany. "She'd have several."
Marian was more direct. "Do you want her to kill you?" she asked Hildur. "Because she'd kill you. I'm not even kidding."
Hildur sighed wearily. "Fine. Then you get to be viscount. Congratulations."
Marian paled.
Much as he wanted to playfully see Marian suffer the consequences of not being any help whatsoever, Malcolm knew she wasn't a viable option. "She can't," he said out loud, ignoring Marian's mouthed words of thanks. "She's off to be a princess in Starkhaven, remember?"
Hildur sat back and steepled her fingers. "Does anyone have any other suggestions? It can't be a Warden. And appointing someone directly from Ferelden would be a punishment for all parties involved."
"Knight-Captain Cullen?" asked Carver, who then frowned at himself. "Knight-Commander. Whatever he is now. I'm not sure even he knows."
"I think the additional stress would kill him," said Malcolm.
Hildur nodded. "After spending no small amount of time with him over the past few days, I'm inclined to agree. Any other possibilities?"
"I'd say Bran, but he hates Fereldans," said Varric. "Which would make appointing him counterproductive."
"That isn't even getting into what an arse Bran is," said Marian.
"Really, don't hold back or anything," said Malcolm.
"I am," said Marian. "I have to. We don't have the time, otherwise."
"That bad?" asked Líadan.
Marian nodded, but any further disqualifying information about Bran was cut off by Hildur moving their discussion along. She was remarkably good at herding cats. "Which brings us back to Aveline," she said to everyone.
"She'll hate it," said Marian. Then she elongated the word to be very, very clear. "Hate."
"That aside. Would the city accept her?" Hildur pointedly directed her question at Varric and very much not Marian.
Marian glared.
Hildur ignored it.
After seeing the brewing argument fizzle out before it even got going, Varric answered, "Aveline gets shit done and keeps shit in order, along with being Hawke's friend, so I'm inclined to think the nobility would deal with her appointment like they would any other appointee who doesn't happen to be them personally—grudgingly."
"I'll take it," said Hildur.
"I'm not telling her," said Marian.
"Have Alistair tell her," Malcolm said. "Him being the King of Ferelden and all, she wouldn't hit him." Not hard, anyway. Not as hard as she'd hit someone else.
Alistair made a show of grumbling, but agreed. "Appointing a viscount was half my idea anyway, so I might as well help with the actual appointing part."
"Your pyre," Marian said with a shrug. "My advice? Be ready to dodge, even if you are a king."
"She's not kidding," said Varric.
Before Alistair could really get to wondering about the consequences of asking Aveline to take an actual political office, Malcolm asked Alistair, "If we're naming the new viscount, does this mean we've annexed part of the Free Marches? Is Kirkwall part of Ferelden now?" He thought about the ramifications for a moment before adding, "Please say no."
"Oh, Maker, no. No." Alistair waved his hands about as if to ward off the hidden dangers that tended to accompany any takeover of the Marcher city. "Bad things've happened to every country that's decided Kirkwall belongs to them. No. Kirkwall can keep to itself. Aveline can appoint whoever she wants to succeed her, even if it's a goat. I don't care."
"Three goats and a sheaf of wheat will likely do it," Marian said over Varric's chuckle.
Alistair stared at her. "What?"
She shrugged. "You can figure that one out on your own, Your Majesty. That said, you really can't believe she'll just accept the appointment because you ask."
"I'll order her to, if need be." Alistair paused and thought it over, hopefully rethinking how he'd word the request to the Guard-Captain. "Or, even better, I'll tell her that you'll bother her to the end of her days if she doesn't take the job."
"Hawke," said Varric, "you have to admit that it's an effective threat."
She crossed her arms and sat back, giving both men dirty looks. "Suit yourself. Just don't forget the ducking thing."
A mere hour later, after Alistair finished asking his question of Aveline, he did not duck. Because he did not duck, Aveline's unsurprising and immediately thrown punch connected with Alistair's jaw.
Malcolm did not complain in the slightest. Only Hildur's look of warning directed at him prevented him from dancing with glee, because not only had she hit him, but she'd sent him straight to the floor.
Alistair had yet to rise, his hand held against his jaw as he looked up at Aveline with a strange sort of wonder. "With a right hook like that, it's a wonder we didn't win at Ostagar."
"Personally," Malcolm said quietly to Varric, "I think Ferelden's best army would be Aveline and Teyrn Cauthrien."
"You mean in charge?" asked Varric.
"No, I mean just the two of them."
Varric stroked his shaved chin as he considered it. "You might be right."
Aveline, on the other hand, looked mortified about what she'd done. "I apologize, Your Majesty," she said as she offered him a hand up from the ground and he accepted the help. "I blindly reacted and that is no excuse for striking you. If there's anything I can do—"
"You could accept the appointment to viscount." After letting go of Aveline's hand, Alistair brushed nonexistent dust from his doublet. "That would make us even."
Aveline folded her arms over her chest, every nuance of apology gone. "This reeks of a trap."
Alistair halted in his played-up dusting to give her a bewildered look. "If it was, it was a rather inadvertent one. Which, now that I think about it, makes it more an accident than it does a trap."
"This wasn't on purpose?" While Aveline seemed inclined to believe Alistair—likely, Malcolm thought grumpily, due to him being a king—the look she shot Varric said she was not inclined to think the same of him.
"The asking? That was, yes." Alistair stepped between her and Varric. "Not so much the punching. I didn't think Hawke was serious when she said you'd hit the messenger."
"Hawke is serious about a few things," said Varric, "and Aveline is one of them. I thought I told you, Your Majesty?"
"Not using language that clear, you didn't. You very much didn't." After a quick shake of his head, Alistair turned to Malcolm. "Did you arrange this? You did say I needed to be punched in the face."
"I didn't arrange it. Guard-Captain Aveline isn't a weapon waiting to be used—"
Varric let out a short burst of derisive laughter. "You only say that because you haven't seen her fight."
Malcolm spared a moment to glare down at Varric. "You know what I mean." Then he resumed giving his brother an indignant look that quickly brightened. "Happy coincidence, though. Today is a good day."
"For you, maybe," Aveline muttered as she stood behind her desk and paged through several papers scattered on it. "Not so much the rest of us. I don't want to be viscount."
"Which makes you the perfect person for the job, Ser Aveline," said Alistair.
"Nor," she said, sparing a moment to glare yet again at Alistair, "am I a knight, so you can dispense with referring to me as 'ser,' if you would, Your Majesty."
Alistair's hand went to his sword hilt. "Well, that can be fixed, easy. I can knight you right here! One of the better benefits of being a king—you can knight practically anyone you want."
For some reason, the threat of knighthood put more horror on Aveline's face than the offer of the viscount's seat. She actually took a step back in retreat. "Please, no. I'm not a knight, nor do I wish to be one."
Disappointment washed over Alistair's face. "But I like knighting people, especially people who deserve it."
"Let me think about it, all right?"
"But you'll accept the viscount's office immediately?"
She sighed. "It isn't like I have a choice."
"You don't," Hildur said from the corner where she stood. "The asking was an illusion. You're the best candidate we could come up with, and we had to come up with one. We considered Knight-Captain Cullen, but we're in agreement that it would break him. It won't break you, so there you go. Congratulations."
"If you want to call it that," Aveline said more to her desk than Hildur.
"Drinks later?" asked Varric. "My tab."
His invitation were the only words spoken thus far that managed to bring a smile to Aveline's face. "Absolutely, once I'm off-duty. The Hanged Man?"
Varric grinned. "Never have 'em anywhere else."
Malcolm left with Varric, the two of them content to leave the others to figure out the details. After all, Malcolm had only gone along in the first place to see if Aveline would hit Alistair, and he hadn't been disappointed in the result. While they'd been at the Keep, Líadan and the rest had remained behind at the Amell estate, to do… Malcolm wasn't exactly sure what they were doing. Probably some sort of catching up, likely Fergus and Líadan doing nothing to discourage each other from planning some sort of revenge on Alistair, and Cáel and Ava begging their uncle for stories. Fergus had always been good at telling tales. The problem was that he was good at telling scary stories, and Malcolm's overactive imagination combined with them made for a trying childhood at times, especially when he'd been really little. But maybe hearing their uncle's frightening, yet fictional—he was mostly sure they were fictional, but the one about going into the woods still had him wondering—tales would help them put aside their own true fears for a time. It had to be worth something.
Dust-covered city guardsmen alongside equally as dust-covered workers from the Alienage waved or nodded at Varric as they strode by. An incredible amount of work had been done in the clearing of wreckage while Malcolm and Líadan and the others had been gone. After only a few days, the city almost seemed acceptably habitable instead of just barely so. Most of the workers had started for Lowtown or the Keep, knocking off for the day with the sun touching the horizon. Kirkwall looked almost pretty at sunset. Malcolm bet Kirkwall would look stunningly beautiful at sunset while watching it from a boat on the way out of the city's harbor forever.
Not that he held grudges or anything.
"Copper for your thoughts, Princeling? Not like you to be this quiet. It makes me nervous."
"I asked Líadan that the other day. No deal."
"Really? Huh." After a couple steps, Varric asked, "You try a different currency?"
"Of course I did."
"And it didn't work? I thought better of you. Well, if you need any pointers, you know where to find Rivaini."
"Varric! No! Don't you join forces with them. I need someone to be nice to me."
"Princeling, believe me, they're trying to be very nice to you."
Malcolm was set on yelling at Varric further, mostly because he was afraid he wouldn't have anyone's help if Varric sided with Isabela, but he was silenced by the pack of Wardens tumbling out of the Amell estate and into the Hightown courtyard, Líadan right in the middle of them all. Oghren wasn't just there, but present, which meant drinking and mischief were on the table for the evening. Well, maybe not mischief, given recent events, but taking into account those same recent events, drinking was likely to cover the entire proverbial table.
Oghren grinned when he saw Malcolm and raised a hand in greeting. "There you are! We're taking the elf for a bit of necessary drinking at the Hanged Man."
Sigrun elbowed him solidly in the side.
"Right! I meant—what's the word?—revelry. Mostly consisting of drinking. Want in?"
Malcolm glanced over at Líadan, and her eyes were all invitation. But he hadn't gotten a chance to speak with Fergus, and with the normally cool-headed Fergus still holding onto this much anger, Malcolm really needed to get more details from him. It wasn't like Fergus to cling to outrage. Instead, once he reached the end of his rather extensive patience, he'd flare into a fit of temper intense enough to blind the sun, yet then would quickly burn itself out. This Fergus was one Malcolm wasn't very familiar with, and he'd known Fergus for his entire life. "I have to take care of some things," he said to the waiting Oghren and Líadan. "Then I'll catch up."
Oghren grunted. "You better."
Líadan barely had time to exchange a small smile with him before Sigrun whisked her away. Malcolm sighed.
"I believe I'll be heading down there, myself," said Varric. He clapped Malcolm on the arm. "See you down there, Princeling."
Malcolm sighed again before heading into the estate, where he was met with the scene of Sandal standing on the railing of the open second floor hallway, readying to leap over to the chandelier. From the first floor, Cáel, Ava, and Cianán shouted encouragement. Even both mabari—Marian's as well as Líadan's—were in on it. Malcolm felt conflicted. He knew he was supposed to be the adult in this situation, that he was supposed to use his grown-up voice to put a stop to the antics, but he was also incredibly curious as to whether Sandal could make the jump. Since Sandal had survived skirmishes with merely him versus large numbers of Qunari or darkspawn, Malcolm didn't think a mere fall could kill the dwarf. He wasn't convinced Sandal could die at all, really.
He settled on a token effort. "That might not be the best idea," he said without raising his voice.
"Enchantment!" Sandal called from above.
"Oh, you made an enchantment to jump? That's cheating, you know. Either you make that leap yourself or not, but no enchantments except for ones to make sure you aren't hurt if you fall."
Sandal's shoulders drooped in disappointment. "No enchantment."
Before Malcolm could do something to help Sandal feel better, Fergus' voice rang out from behind them. "Get down from that balcony this instant."
Fergus sounded so much like Father that Malcolm immediately fell silent and stood up straight. Sandal, as well as all three children and the two dogs, did the same.
Then Fergus pointed at Sandal, followed by pointing at the floor. "Get down. Your father would have sodding kittens if he knew you were up there!"
Sandal brightened. "Enchantment!" Then he ran further into the house without additional explanation.
"Where's he off to?" asked Fergus.
"He can probably make an enchantment to make kittens appear," said Malcolm. "Or you just gave him an idea to try."
Fergus scowled at the railing. "Still has to be safer than trying to jump onto the chandelier or wherever he was readying to jump to." Then he rounded on Malcolm. "And you! You're an adult and yet you're here spectating just like the children! And don't tell me you can't be stern with them. You can. I've heard you more than once."
Malcolm didn't bother trying to talk his way out of it. Fergus would see through him, anyway. "I wanted to see if he could make it."
"Oh, he made that jump before you even got here," said Cáel, as if it were perfectly normal.
Cianán swept his hand in an arc to illustrate, in case any of the adults had gotten any ideas about pretending the jump hadn't really happened. "He almost went straight over the chandelier. It was amazing, really."
Fergus' eyes widened. "Don't let Bodahn hear you say that!"
"I don't know," said Ava. "Bodahn's nice. If he had kittens, he'd probably give them away. I think I'd like a kitten."
"No," said Malcolm. "No kittens. Mabari, yes. Cats, no."
"You like Ser Pounce-a-Lot," said Cáel.
"He's different."
He rolled his eyes. "That isn't even an answer. Not a real one, anyway."
Fergus laughed and elbowed Malcolm in the side. "He's got you there, little brother."
"Oh, shut up." Malcolm returned Fergus' elbow with a little more force, nudging him aside enough where he could walk past him and toward the kitchen. If he was going to be drinking with Oghren and the Wardens tonight, he needed food if he wanted to keep a respectable pace. Or maybe he wouldn't drink at all and would be the lone sober one to navigate through Kirkwall and back to Hightown without encountering too many would-be miscreants. Either way, he was hungry and there was food to be eaten.
He didn't bother checking to see if anyone followed. If any of the children had, they would've spoken by now. Well, maybe not Cianán, but he would've at least heard the boy's footsteps. Ava and Cáel were the likelier to follow, especially since neither of them had yet to pose any of the hard questions about the Dalish that Malcolm knew lurked in the minds. But instead of being followed and quizzed, the children stayed behind. Malcolm entered the kitchen to find Bodahn speaking with Nuala and Kennard, with the cook, Orana, occasionally participating in her hesitant way.
"Just so you know," he said as the rest of the room's occupants looked up as he walked in, "the children and Sandal were nearly swinging from Marian's chandelier. Fergus had to use his adult voice and everything to get them to stop before someone jumped."
Bodahn was the first out of the room, bustling by Malcolm as he muttered under his breath that he'd spoken to Sandal about it before and why the boy couldn't remember he'd never know. Nuala followed, her complaints louder. "For Maker's sake, it isn't like they need to prove that they're your children," she said, directing it at Malcolm. "Sometimes, I think they got the worst qualities from you and Líadan both, and they think they need to express them at every worst possible moment."
"That's probably what makes those moments the worst," Malcolm said quietly as Nuala walked by. He couldn't deny the truth of her words, however.
Kennard sighed and started making his slower trip toward the front room. "I'm charged with protecting them. I think I need to have my contract changed. I can be charged with protecting them from external threats, but I can't sodding protect them from themselves."
Malcolm couldn't argue that one, either. "If it makes you feel better, they weren't the ones about to do the jumping."
"You know as well as I that they would've been next."
"But they've got you to stop them! Well, it was Fergus that time."
"I did as I was asked." Fergus stepped past a grumbling Kennard, giving the guard a clap on the shoulder as he did. "He and Nuala needed to eat since dinner's been a mess of schedules. I volunteered. 'How hard could it be?' I asked myself. 'I can keep them alive, surely.'" He stopped directly across from Malcolm, on the other side of the large wooden table in the middle of the room. "The answer there was 'barely,' not 'surely.'"
Malcolm gave Orana a grateful smile when she pushed a plate of hot food in front of him. Then, as he admired a fresh roll, he said to Fergus, "Next time, you should say those things out loud so someone can correct you. Besides, you should know better. You've watched them before, plus you grew up with me. Can't turn your back for a second." He recalled his manners and gestured toward his plate. "Want some?"
The question also served to throw Fergus from whatever he'd been readying to say. "No. I already ate."
"Good." Hungrier than he realized, Malcolm started in on the food. "I really didn't plan on sharing, anyway."
For that, Fergus swiped his other roll.
Despite his thievery, he had the decency to wait until Malcolm had cleared half his plate before he asked, "How are you, little brother?"
It took Malcolm a few more bites to decide on his answer. Not because he had intentions of lying, not that Fergus wouldn't know if he did, but because he wasn't terribly sure of the actual answer. Certainly, he was off-balance, more than a little confused, and bumbling more than he'd like as he tried to help his wife in whatever way he could, but he didn't feel terrible. Angry at Alistair, but that was a given. Overall, though, he was mostly all right. "Better than you'd think," he said after he'd finished the last of his food. "Or I'd thought. I suppose it's because I was so damn relieved to see Líadan cured and not enduring some sort of living death that everything afterward can't possibly send me into the state I was in when I found out."
"So, it was true? I'd hoped people here were trying to get me more riled up."
Malcolm sighed and glanced briefly in the direction of the Gallows. "I ran in there with Bethany and Merrill. As soon as we saw her, even from across the room, we knew something wasn't right. I'd hoped it wouldn't have come to it, but we all knew, I knew, that it was inevitable. I just wish I could've gotten there sooner. Then she wouldn't have gotten to her breaking point being trapped there, she wouldn't have that week of locked up emotions battering her now, and for Maker's sake, Wynne would be alive. And the children… Cáel and Ava wouldn't have been subjected to seeing her like that."
Fergus nodded absently, eyes seemingly lost in thought, and then gave Malcolm a pointed look. "And you wouldn't have, either."
He pushed his plate away and rested his elbows on the table. "I think my own short time spent in the Void is less important than whatever they went through. I wasn't imprisoned. They were. I didn't have to witness that fight they had in Lowtown, when the templars took them in. A fight that they not only had to witness, but had to participate in, too."
The solemnity in Fergus' eyes was of the sort Malcolm both loved and feared. It meant Fergus had something meaningful to say, and that something would likely help. The problem was that, more often than not, Fergus' help was hard to hear and painful to acknowledge. "Not in person, no," said Fergus. "But you imagined it. How many times did you imagine it in your head? How many different scenarios did you go through, each one worse than the one before? How hard was it not to be there, to know that by the time you could, everything would have already happened?" The questions brought out Fergus' hurt as much as it did Malcolm's, the sudden stranglehold Fergus had on his cup evidence of it. As old as the hurt was, Fergus still felt the pain of losing his wife and child at the start of the Blight. The majority of the time, most couldn't really tell. Then there were moments like these, with his usually lively blue eyes dulled with the old pain, his face settling into something harder and with more lines left from the passage of time, that served as reminder to the life he'd had before the Blight and the life that had been taken from him before he'd even known.
Not that he wasn't happy now, in his life years after the Blight, because he was. He and Meghan got on wonderfully, each well suited to the other and uniquely understanding of the pain of losses they'd each suffered before they'd become friends. It'd taken a few years, but eventually they'd come around to something more, and that something more had finally—finally, as Anora had often repeated—turned into a fine marriage. And now they were having a child, and that thought alone had Malcolm brightening. He and Líadan and their children could stay at Highever at least until Fergus and Meghan's child was born and maybe some time after, too. That thought was far preferable to the thoughts Fergus' questions had dredged up from Malcolm's pit of things he'd rather forget forever.
"More times than I could count," he said to his brother. "And yet I still hadn't been able to prepare myself for when I saw her actually…" And he found he still couldn't say it.
Fergus could, able to speak the truth as well as any other member of the Landsmeet. "Tranquil."
He couldn't meet his brother's eyes. "The Circle had done exactly what we'd most feared, and they'd done it when she'd been trying to escape that fate for Ava."
"Well," Fergus said as he abruptly stood, drawing Malcolm's attention, "no need for that anymore. King 'I Didn't Stand Up for My Family When I Should Have' decided he'd stand up for his boys once he found out they were in the same sort of danger as his niece and nephew. Queen 'I Pay Far Too Much Attention to the Most Prudent Political Stance' wasn't any help either, not until she experienced the same revelation as the King." He snatched his cup off the table. Then he changed his mind and slammed it back down. "I don't care if he wasn't raised with a family; he's been part of a family for years now and he should've known what you do when someone or something threatens them. Oh, no, he had to hold back on the hasty actions before, when it was only his niece and nephew, because of politics. Sodding politics." Fergus grabbed the empty cup again, his hands needing something to strangle since he couldn't hurt the king in question.
Malcolm remained silent and seated, because Fergus was the calm one, and while the entire situation was disturbing, it was incredibly disturbing to see Fergus this upset. Granted, the two of them were likely to be oversensitive when it came to these sorts of situations, given their family's past.
Fergus spun and faced him again. "If you had been right there, when Howe's men were about to kill Oren, what would you have done?"
"Gotten between him and the blade."
"Even if you were unarmed and unarmored?"
"I wouldn't even have thought if I was or wasn't. I just would have done it. I wish I could have, even with what…" Malcolm scrubbed a hand over his face, not having the same anger as Fergus seemed to have to chase the sadness from the memory. "Why bring it up?"
"Because that's why I'm so mad at him and no one else quite seems to understand it. You'd have taken a blade for Oren, no thought required. You'd take a blade for your niece or nephew who isn't yet born. You'd take one for Dane and Callum. So would I. I'd take a blade for Cáel or Ava and probably even Cianán since he's Cáel's brother, which also makes him family. Standing up to the sodding Chantry or to the fucking Templar Order isn't near the life-ending decision taking a blade would be, and Alistair couldn't do it. Not for them. Because he's the King. And I know I should understand, because it isn't like Mother and Father didn't educate us about the shit decisions teyrns and teyrnas and kings and queens have to make. But he didn't just hesitate. He went completely in the other direction, only to change his mind when it came to his own sons."
When Fergus fell silent for more than a few of his pacing footsteps, Malcolm managed to speak. "Maybe it's because he wasn't raised like we were. Anora wasn't either, for that matter. You know how pragmatic Loghain was, and Anora is her father's daughter, through and through. Not that it really changes things."
"No, it really doesn't." Fergus let out a long breath, his limbs relaxing as he did. Then he gently set his cup on the table and left it there. "You can stay at Highever for however long as you want. It'll be nice to have all of you there. And I think Meghan will like it, too. She gets a little sad, sometimes, because she thinks about how her family would be reacting to her having a child, and then remembers that her imagination is all that she'll experience. At least I have Mother and Father's reactions to Oren as memories. Your reaction, too. You didn't know what to do with him!" Fergus grinned, his anger entirely submerged, like the Fergus Malcolm was far more familiar and comfortable with, the calm elder brother who dispensed wise advice, even as he teased you. Mostly good-naturedly. "You kept going on about if you held him too tight or what if he got hungry and Oriana wasn't around and could he hurt himself with just crying?"
Malcolm rolled his eyes. "Fergus, I was a kid. You're lucky I didn't go on about dropping him."
"You dropped him?"
There were times when telling the truth wasn't a choice, and for Malcolm, truth wouldn't grant him that mercy. Nonetheless, he struggled against it. "No! No. Yes, actually. Just once, but not far. Like, a couple inches? This was months later, when he wasn't a newborn anymore, so he was a lot more durable. He wiggled out of my hands while I was picking him up. I'm sorry? I'm sorry. He wasn't hurt! Didn't even cry." Since his brother's expression had yet to change during Malcolm's entire muddled explanation, he added, "Please don't make me cry."
Fergus let out a dramatic sigh. "Well, I suppose that makes us even. I dropped you, after all."
"That explains so much," Nuala said as she walked into the kitchen.
Malcolm decided there was no point in taking offense. If he did, it would only get maudlin. After all, he was alive, and Oren was not. "It does, doesn't it?"
"I'll be telling Líadan that one." Then Nuala pointed at Fergus. "The children are asking for you. Said you promised stories."
Malcolm swung toward Fergus again. "Why would they ask you for stories? You're shit at stories. Wait, no. You're good at stories. You certainly traumatized me enough."
"Is that where your fear of spiders came from?" asked Nuala.
Fergus chuckled. "No. That fear comes from the caves along the northern coast."
"Giant spiders in sodding all of them," said Malcolm. "The Storm Coast especially killed my adventurous spirit as a child and we went there a lot."
"Why would you keep going if you hated it?"
"I didn't hate the Storm Coast. I loved it. I hated the caves. More specifically, I hated the spiders in the caves. Besides, Mother's family was from there and they were who we visited and I couldn't not go."
Fergus laughed again. "Remember that time you refused to?"
"Mother carried me there, herself." Malcolm found himself laughing along with Fergus, despite recalling how embarrassed he'd been when he'd been literally carried into his aunt and uncle's estate on the coast. But being carried there had nothing on when he'd had to admit why he'd refused to go in the first place.
"I thought you were like to die of shame when Father had you tell the assembled gathering of aunts and uncles and cousins exactly what kept you from wanting to visit."
Malcolm smiled, its brightness nearly a match of his brother's. "But once I did, it wasn't so bad!" Brimming with enthusiasm from remembering what the awful situation had led to, he glanced over at Nuala. "Turns out they're all afraid of those spiders, and Auntie even said, 'Why do you think we all became raiders? It wasn't just the Orlesians.' Then I didn't feel so bad, and that's when I started learning how to sail." He briefly frowned. "They left out the raiding part, though."
"I'm sure Isabela wouldn't mind teaching you that," said Nuala.
"No!" He pointed at her, then realized what he was doing and put his hand down. "No. She can't. If I asked her to, she'd want to know why, and if she finds out exactly where I learned to sail, she'll find out more things that she can never know. Captain Isabela is never to know what our mother did during the Rebellion. Ever. Or I will never hear the end of it and she's already bad enough as it is." He knew Isabela knew the chantey. He'd heard her crew sing it more than once aboard her ship.
Nuala quirked an eyebrow, though the rest of her expression was unreadable. "Does Líadan know?"
"Yes. But it means nothing to her because she isn't a pirate or a sailor at all. For her, it's just the reason why I'm afraid of spiders and that's it. For Isabela… Maker. She can't know. Fergus, back me up on this."
"He's right," said Fergus.
Nuala smiled at Malcolm, but it wasn't a reassuring smile. "Well, then you should get down to the Hanged Man since Isabela's down there with everyone else, and you wouldn't want her to start questioning that wife of yours who probably is less than sober right now if Oghren's had anything to do with it. And likely Oghren has had something to do with it. Just be thankful Shianni isn't here, because between the two of them, well. You've seen it. Experienced it, even."
He jumped to his feet and headed out of the room. Fergus remained behind, but his amused voice followed Malcolm. "Glad we had this talk, little brother!"
Malcolm replied with a wave over his shoulder. Fergus would understand. In fact, if had not Fergus made a promise to his niece and nephew, he likely would've accompanied him with just as hurried a step. Malcolm barely made it ten feet from the estate's door when ran into Marian. At first, she seemed not to notice him, but Marian was never not paying attention to her surroundings—growing up an apostate, complete with an apostate father and an apostate sister, had trained her to be vigilant, even while preoccupied.
Then she abruptly halted and spun on her heel. "Where are you going?"
"The Hanged Man?"
"By yourself?"
"You realize I'm an adult?" Honestly, he could get himself to Lowtown and the Hanged Man. You went down the stairs and kept going down until you found it somewhere near the market. If he got to the water, he'd gone too far, which meant he just had to retrace his steps. No problem. "Besides, everyone else is already there."
She raised her eyebrows, already looking forward to possible revelry. "Everyone?"
"Thereabouts. The majority of the Denerim Wardens, and Varric seemed fairly intent on getting most of your Kirkwall crew there." As he'd explained, some of the excitement on Marian's face had been replaced by apprehension, which turned his own into suspicion. "Why?"
"Alistair was heading there."
"Without a chaperone, I take it?"
She rolled her eyes. "As a matter of fact, Aveline made it a point to send one of her guards along to serve as a guide, and that was in addition to his usual complement of guards. So quit your bitching about your brother, because you sound like Carver and it's annoying me."
Malcolm resigned himself to company and fell into step next to Marian as they started down the staircase. The evening was shockingly clear, the foundry activity having been brought to a standstill after the chantry explosion. Teams of surface dwarves trained as engineers were combing the city's infrastructure to determine if anything had been damaged; the foundries couldn't resume operations until given the all-clear. As a result, no noxious mists or clouds hung over Kirkwall, and Malcolm could see clear through to the harbor and the Waking Sea and sky beyond, every constellation crisp. "I thought you missed Carver," he said after they'd gotten past the rest of Hightown.
"I did. Then he came home and I didn't anymore."
"Sounds familiar."
"For you or for Fergus?"
"He doesn't call me 'little brother' for nothing."
"Admitting it is the first step, and Carver won't admit to shit. I'll need to speak with Fergus to find out what he's done differently with you. Bethany's all right, but I went wrong somewhere with Carver."
He wanted to be reassuring, but he'd both heard many stories about Carver and had seen him in action. "I think it's because he's Carver. Lost cause."
She shot him a dirty look before she heaved open the door to the Hanged Man. "You owe me a drink for crushing my hopes and dreams like that."
The sounds of drunken revelry tumbled out as soon as the door was opened, along with a strong odor of spilled ale on the wave of heat from the throng of people inside. Nonetheless, Malcolm followed Marian right in. "Varric mentioned something about everything being on his tab tonight."
"Did he? I love that man. Dwarf. Whatever." Then she paused and searched through the crowd, presumably for Varric, but then she let out a short gasp of disbelief. "Is that… that's First Enchanter Gratian, isn't it? And some of the other mages. You didn't say they'd be here."
"You invited them. You."
She put a finger to her lips as she considered. Then she smiled. "You know, Cullen never got to visit while Meredith was alive. Holy Maker, can you imagine how she'd react to this? Mages and templars getting along, even while drunk? Or because they're drunk. Especially while drunk? Depends on the type of drunk they are, really."
"Meredith before or after the red lyrium? One of those involves way more deaths."
Marian made as if she were weighing the options. "Before. Spectacular rant, but without the casualties. I prefer fewer dead bodies, personally." Then she shoved him through a break in the crowd, toward the corner Varric and his friends tended to favor. "Come on. Time for us to catch up on the drinking. I hate losing races."
"Hawke," Varric said as they stepped up to the table, "you hate losing in all forms."
"This is true," she said before swiping the mug of ale the server had placed in front of Cullen.
"Hey! I paid for that," said Cullen, who didn't sound truly angry.
Marian had downed half of it before she replied, "You shouldn't have. Everything's on Varric's tab tonight."
"You trying to bankrupt me?" asked Varric.
She grinned. "Varric, if the Merchant's Guild hasn't bankrupted you yet, no one can. Not even me. Not even this whole tavern drinking Corff's entire stock of ale, wine, and liquor. Not even then."
"My pockets would appreciate it if you refrained from taking your own challenge, Hawke," he replied.
As Marian and Varric descended into one of their usual verbal jousts, Malcolm searched for Líadan and pointedly did not search for Alistair. He found her only a few seats down the table from Varric, sitting directly across from Oghren. A young woman with dark, curly hair whom Malcolm vaguely recognized sat next to Oghren, leaning slightly away from the dwarf as she leveled questions at Líadan. To Malcolm's surprise, Líadan provided answers. However poor they were, usually she wouldn't entertain questions at all, preferring to ignore them. His eyebrows rose of their own accord as he took a few steps closer and heard the subject, which was one Líadan practically never addressed.
The young woman, an apprentice mage, judging from the robes she wore, leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers wrapped loosely around a forgotten mug of ale. "You think you could've mentioned you were a princess when we were discussing your background?" she asked, more an accusation that genuine question.
"You didn't ask." Líadan had leaned back in her chair, her own fingers tapping along the handle of her mug, presenting the very picture of nonchalance.
The other woman rolled her eyes. "Because that's exactly the sort of thing you ask when talking to any person. Here, I'll ask now: are you a princess?"
Líadan's expression hardened enough to inform Malcolm that her whim of half-answering the other woman's questions had disappeared. But the woman seemed so earnest and pleasant that Malcolm couldn't let her slam abruptly into Líadan's sudden wall of obstinance.
"I'm not," he said to her as he took the chair next to Líadan. "Just in case you wondered."
The young mage stared at him, and he finally recalled her name: Sylvie. He'd met her at the Gallows. She was the nice one who'd taken care of the children.
"He's always like that," Varric called from the head of the table.
Líadan sighed in exasperation, even as she scooted her chair close enough to his that their shoulders touched. Then she said to Sylvie, "Whatever you might think, bonded to him as I am, I'm not a princess, either."
"You just said you're married to a prince," said Sylvie.
Malcolm could honestly see where Sylvie's confusion stemmed from, not that he felt like explaining. He also needed to get ale, but the tavern's servers were both on the other side of the large, overcrowded room. Damn.
"It's complicated," said Líadan.
"But Varric calls you Princess."
The statement earned Varric an unwarranted glare from Líadan, but he shrugged it off. "Varric," Líadan said, returning her annoyed attention to Sylvie, "calls a lot of people a lot of things and a lot of the time they aren't literally true. For instance, Bethany isn't a literal beam of sunshine."
"Fenris really is really broody, though," Malcolm said against his better judgment, and he hadn't even yet partaken of any ale. "And Isabela is Rivaini. And Sebastian once was a choir boy."
"You aren't helping," said Líadan.
"Who's saying I'm trying to help you?"
She elbowed him. Fair enough on that one.
Across from them, Oghren grinned as the server swung by and deposited more mugs on the table, and then he slid one of them to Líadan. That was when Malcolm really picked up on how far ahead she was when it came to consuming Oghren's favorite type of drink. He ducked his head closer to get a better assessment. "You're… you're either drunk or well on your way." Admittedly, he was slightly jealous. Before Líadan could respond, Malcolm shot an accusatory look at Oghren. "This is your doing, isn't it?"
"Pirate helped." Oghren pushed one of the other mugs to Malcolm. "And nobody's complaining, 'cept you. Means you're behind, is all. Don't worry, there's enough for you, too. Stone knows you need it, you and everyone else around this place."
"I'm in." Carousing in a pub with a wide assortment of friends—ignoring the presence of a frustrating, yet beloved brother—seemed so normal that he couldn't possibly turn the opportunity down. Not when Líadan sat next to him, at ease and mostly herself, the camaraderie and friendship of Merrill, Isabela, Sigrun, Bethany, Marian and the others bringing more light to her eyes. And so Malcolm soon found himself sitting back in his own chair, his arm slung around his wife's shoulders, his cheeks beginning to flush but him not quite caring, trading stories with his friends, surrounded by the hum of the other tavern-goers. If it weren't for the Kirkwaller accents, he could almost pretend it was Ferelden.
Cullen, Gratian, and the mages were the first to depart, needing to catch the last ferry to the Gallows. While from Varric's table it brought a chorus of disappointment, it wasn't until the tavern's door had shut behind them that another table let loose their own opinions on the matter.
It was the slurs against the mages that got him, not even muttered or whispered like they'd been at the Orlesian inn, but said loudly, declaratively, as if they expected everyone else to share in their rather dark opinion regarding mages. As it turned out, the outspoken man's opinion was far less popular than he'd believed, and while most of the dissenters—who also happened to be sitting at Varric's table—contented themselves with dark looks, Malcolm did not.
This time, Líadan was right next to him, having suffered enough for the crime of merely possessing a middling amount of magic. Her spine straightened when she heard the first slur. She let go of her mug to press her hands flat against the smooth table. Then she did nothing, which was so unlike the Líadan from before the whole mess with Meredith and Tranquility that it sent Malcolm to his feet. The anger accompanying him was as strong as when those men had walked jubilantly into the inn, crowing about killing a child mage. This time, Wynne wasn't there to physically stay his hand to keep him from exacting justice. Guilt flickered through him at doing what would've brought Wynne's disapproval, but the spark was quickly extinguished. He wasn't yet drunk, so there'd be no sloppiness if it came to blows, but he had enough drink in him to not soften his honesty. Not that he wanted to.
Malcolm started for the other table, several calls of encouragement coming from behind him. Halfway there, a heavy hand grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him back. Slightly off-balance from being pulled by a single shoulder, Malcolm turned to yell at whoever had decided to interfere, and found Alistair standing there. His cheeks were as flushed as Malcolm's felt, which meant he was as into his cups as he was. But his look wasn't angry, like it should have been. Instead, his eyes pleaded for Malcolm to not create a scene when he should've been supporting his sodding family.
Malcolm told him so. Loudly. "You're stopping me? You should be coming with me, you great big ass."
"We're here to have fun, right? Just let it go."
"No. You should be helping me. The only reason I don't have a brother at my side is because Fergus is spending time with the niece and nephew he consistently shows that he loves. You know, unlike someone else." Behind him, Malcolm heard chairs scrape the floor, and he assumed that the opposing table, his sodding targets, were getting to their own feet.
Alistair's eyes widened in shock, as if he hadn't known what his actions had shown. "Don't say that! Don't say that I don't love them. I do."
"Really? Prove it. Stick up for your damn family."
"I know we should defend mages, but Wynne wouldn't want—"
"She's dead. She sacrificed herself for someone in our family and she isn't even our blood."
The reality of Wynne's death being thrown in Alistair's face finally darkened his look, yet not because mages were being insulted, but because of some other sort of anger that Malcolm really didn't like. "She—" Whatever Alistair had to say for himself was interrupted by one of the offending tavern patrons jumping Malcolm from behind.
The other man's fist hit Malcolm in the head, and then the guy actually jumped onto Malcolm's back in an attempt to force him to the ground. He made the mistake of trying to push Malcolm forward and down instead of pulling him backward, and the mistake allowed Malcolm to keep his center of gravity despite the pain of additional blows to his ear and his temple. As Malcolm concentrated on throwing the other man off, shouts went up from every person packed into the tavern. By the time Malcolm had managed to sling the other man from his back, the tavern had erupted into a full-on brawl.
"Now this is what I was talking about!" Oghren shouted from somewhere in the melee. "Oghren will take you all! Come and get me, nug-humpers!"
A few people actually took Oghren up on his challenge and found themselves quickly put down. Isabela danced in and out of the throng of brawlers, Sigrun right next to her. Malcolm tried to find Líadan, but was tackled by another patron before he could catch sight of her. At least he could hear her shouting and swearing, mostly in triumph, which meant she was all right. Malcolm, however, was none too pleased with people either trying to or successfully sending him to the floor. It was sticky and smelled more than vaguely of piss and ale. It took all the strength of his legs to kick the offender off, and then the full use of his body to fling the other man far enough away to gain enough room to maneuver.
Then came the yell from the tavern's door for them all to stop, right this second.
It wasn't the sort of yell that allowed for disobedience.
Aveline. Varric had invited her for celebratory drinks, and they'd given her a bar fight instead.
Everyone slowly separated from their opponents as Aveline strode into the common room, Corff whispering his thanks as she passed him by.
"Who?" she asked, but her eyes went straight to Malcolm and Alistair, who hadn't been separated, after all. "You two." She reached out and took each of them by the ear before she proceeded to lead them unceremoniously from the tavern.
Malcolm had never been dragged by the ear, but now he had and it bloody hurt.
Aveline dropped her voice as she scolded them on the way out. "You want to fight and you'll fight, but you'll do it sober." The small glut of guardsmen and women filing inside the Hanged Man to deal with the other offenders parted as Aveline led the King of Ferelden and his brother through the door and into the paved area in front of the tavern. Then she propelled them into a wall, spinning them enough that their backs landed against it. "I should throw you in jail for instigating that brawl."
After a quick study of Aveline's arms, Malcolm said, "You actually could pick me up and throw me, I think. I half want a demonstration. The other half really doesn't want to suffer the pain of it." He thought about it for a moment. "Truly, it's a quandary." All right, maybe he was more than a little buzzed.
"He started it," said Alistair, which confirmed that he was in no better condition than his brother.
"I did not," said Malcolm, because Alistair wasn't going to get away with pinning this shit on him. "The guy who jumped me—he literally jumped on my back, mind—started it and everyone else joined in and you tried to stop me because you're a giant arsehole."
"Because it was—"
"Shut it, both of you," said Aveline. "One more word out of either of you that isn't a direct answer to my questions and I will put you in jail for the night, royalty or no."
Malcolm and Alistair said nothing.
She nodded. "Good. First smart thing you've done tonight. Now, you started a fight, and I don't need to hear the particulars. You'll pay Corff in the morning for any repairs the Hanged Man will need. And if you still feel like you need to fight each other like a pair of schoolboys, then do it in the privacy of Hawke's garden and not in public. The last thing anyone needs is the King of Ferelden and his brother getting into a fistfight where everyone can see them."
Their friends had started to wander out of the tavern, loitering to watch the show, their eager eyes on Aveline and the two Theirins.
"We didn't even get to the fighting with each other part," Malcolm said under his breath.
Aveline looked directly at him. "You have something to say?"
"No, Guard-Captain." Malcolm liked to think he could tell when a person was bluffing, and he was fairly certain that Aveline never bluffed. She meant what she said and said what she meant, and if he opened his big mouth again, he'd be spending an uncomfortable night behind bars and he would never hear the end of it.
In the quiet that followed, Oghren bolted out of the tavern, cackling with glee. "That was a great sodding fight brewing up! Best I've seen outside Orzammar in years!"
"Fergus will be sad that he missed it," said Líadan, walking behind him.
Aveline swung to glare at them, and then Marian and Varric and rest for good measure. "Any additional comments from anyone and they're spending the night in a cell. Understood?"
"Good times!" said Oghren, and that was how the Pride of Orzammar ended up in Kirkwall's jail overnight.