Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 7: Farewell to Ostagar
Fergus was well enough to sit at the table and sup with them that evening. The servants had arranged it for four: The Teyrn, his sister, Alistair, and Morrigan. Wynne would have a few hours rest, and see that the Teyrn was well before he retired for the night. What Dariel served them showed due concern for the Teyrn's need for wholesome, digestible food, but it was tasty and plentiful for all that.
It was a quiet meal: Bronwyn gave Alistair a hard look when he attempted to bandy words with Morrigan, and a frown for the young witch herself. They subsided, seeing that she was serious. Morrigan still found plenty to say about the stupidity of the world outside their tent. Some of it was funny, and all, alas, was too, too, true. Bronwyn had little to say, herself, for her head was still spinning with the afternoon's conversations.
If only Father were here! He would know how to manage all these people, and he would understand and explain all the little undercurrents in their conversations. She had learned much from him, but not all she needed.
After Cousin Leonas and Arl Urien, there had been Arl Wulffe, and a host of banns and knights and captains—most especially their own knights and captains of Highever, none of whom Fergus could bear to refuse to see.
There had been others, too. She had now met the brother of Alistair's former guardian.
Bann Teagan seemed a very pleasant and sensible man, and was certainly a handsome one, and he had given her his condolences very kindly. Had he been something other than a younger son, with only a small bannorn of his own, she thought her parents might have considered him as a match for her. But he was a younger son, and no doubt had not been considered exalted enough for the daughter of the premier noble of Ferelden. Ironic, really, for now it was Bronwyn who had been removed from the marriage market as ineligible. Sometimes it was hard not to wish that Thomas Howe were something other than a drunken sot. Perhaps if she had married him, his father would never betrayed them.
Or maybe Howe would have still betrayed them, and claimed the teyrnir for his son in Bronwyn's name, and she would have been bound, for the rest of her life, to the family of her parents' murderer. That was an idea that she tasted briefly and resolved never to taste again.
Why hadn't Arl Howe made Nathaniel his heir, rather than Thomas? That was a mystery. Father and Mother had been shocked and disappointed. Their families had been so close, and Amaranthine was next door to Highever. Mother always said there was no point in having grandchildren unless she could see them. But no one had seen Nathaniel in years. The last the Couslands had heard, he was visiting family in the Free Marches. Of course, Nathaniel was too strong and assertive to accept his father's actions without any questions. If Nathaniel had known what his father planned, there would have been trouble, Bronwyn was certain. And that, perhaps, was the answer. Arl Howe must have been deep in his treachery for some time, and had sent Nathaniel away until the deed was done.
Bann Teagan was not there to court her, of course, but to pay his respects to her brother. They chatted, and she could see that Fergus liked him, and that Alistair was very fond of him. Bann Teagan was worried about his own brother, the Arl of Redcliffe. Bronwyn did not know the Arl well, since he and her father had never been political allies and Redcliffe was so far away from Highever. The Arl had joined with Teyrn Loghain in opposing her father's election as King five years ago. Theirs was certainly an alliance of convenience, since Teyrn Loghain could not have approved of Arlessa Isolde, who was an Orlesian, and said to be very haughty and exacting. Nonetheless, the Arl was sick, and little hope was held out for his recovery.
Of course, of greatest interest to her among all the people she had seen today were Teyrn Loghain and King Cailan. Despite the fact that the Teyrn was the King's father-in-law and the great friend of King Maric, it seemed to Bronwyn that the two men did not actually like one another. She understood enough about families to know that it was not always necessary for family members to like one another: in a crisis they would stand together against the world. Still, she had a constant feeling that there was another conversation going on underneath the one that was spoken aloud—a tacit, ongoing struggle for power and control. Cailan clearly thought himself the equal of his commander in military wisdom. More than equal, in fact: his superior, both in birth and in natural gifts.
As for Loghain: he may have loved King Maric as a brother, but the son was clearly no King Maric. And perhaps that disappointment was at the root of the problem.
Cailan clearly expected to have a special relationship with the Grey Wardens of Ferelden. With Alistair, there were sound reasons, she granted. She granted none for herself. From what Alistair told her, the king had been close to the Wardens: visiting them, drinking with them, sharing stories. She knew she was a poor substitute for someone like Duncan, but she could not bring herself to care. She had never wanted to be a Warden anyway, but she would do her duty.
And her duty was to fight the darkspawn. It was not to play the courtier. With only two Grey Wardens left, there was too much to do. The scouting parties reported seeing only darkspawn stragglers. For the most part the darkspawn had retreated. But there was a presence, pressing on the edges of her thoughts, walking her dreams, that warned her that this was only a brief respite. She and Alistair needed to be on their way, as soon as possible.
And that is what she finally said.
"Fergus—I wish I could stay longer, but I'm going to have to leave. The day after tomorrow, I think."
"So soon?" Fergus was disappointed. "I'd hoped you could stay until I was a bit more myself."
"I wish I could. The darkspawn won't wait, though. I have this terrible feeling that I need to get on with my mission as soon as possible. Alistair—Morrigan—do you think you could be ready by then?"
Morrigan shrugged. "'Tis all one to me."
That was not entirely true. She had liked this glimpse of luxury and privilege. Being a lady was not so insipid a thing as her mother had led her to believe. It was pleasant to have others perform the drudgery, to be served and not to serve, to dress elegantly and to be given fine gifts. A great nobleman treated her as an honored guest. His sister treated her as a friend. People looked at her with respect, and did her bidding without delay. All very agreeable. She would take her green gown with her. One never knew when the opportunity to wear it again might present itself.
"I think you're right, Bronwyn," Alistair considered, spearing another slice of mutton. "I know what you mean about this—forboding—or whatever it is." He grinned disarmingly at Fergus. "Creepy Grey Warden sort of thing, sensing danger. Bronwyn picked up on it right away—or maybe she's just naturally paranoid. That works, too."
Fergus chuckled. "You'll want some horses. Pick any three you want, and then I'll give you one of those big Nevarran brutes. It will do well for a pack animal, and you'll be able to move faster than with a baggage wagon."
"We really only need three horses in all—" Bronwyn protested.
"Take the Nevarran," Fergus insisted. "I know you'll need it." He pressed a finger to his brow. "Yes—I can see it—you will meet an Orlesian silk merchant on your journey, buy a whole new wardrobe, and only the largest horse in Thedas could bear the weight!"
"Stop! You'll have them thinking I'm as extravagant as Habren Bryland!" She looked at her empty plate with a touch of disappointment. "Of course, one gown might not be a bad idea. What do female Grey Wardens wear when they're not fighting, Alistair?"
"Don't know." Alistair shook his head, palming the last wedge of cheese. "they're always fighting."
Fergus snorted. "Well, if you've a mind to go, you'd better do it. Get your allies sorted out, and then hie yourself back here—or wherever the army is. If we can finish off these darkspawn, we can move on. Maybe go north." He fell silent, and brooded over his wine goblet.
A brief pause. Bronwyn said, "Please don't think me rude, but Fergus and I really must speak privately for a moment. Could you excuse us?"
Since Fergus was not fit to go much of anywhere, it was obvious that she meant Alistair and Morrigan to leave the tent. Which they did, without comment.
Their absence made the tent larger and curiously empty. Bronwyn waited for Fergus to speak. He did, his voice grim.
"None of us saw any of this coming. How could we have missed it? Father was a clever man."
"Who could predict such malice? Howe dissembled like an Orlesian bard. And ultimately it was stupid," Bronwyn said softly. "He won't get away with it. If he had attacked last summer, when we were all at home, it might have worked. He might have blamed mercenaries, or bandits. Maybe he's gone mad—cunning in the details, but blind to the larger consequences. The last time—" she paused, her eyes widening with realization. "The last time I spoke to Delilah, she said something about her father being different. 'Not himself,' were her words. Maybe it's a kind of Blight sickness. Or madness. But Father didn't see it coming, because it was a self-destructive thing for Howe to do. Howe should have called off the plan when he met Duncan. He was so startled to see a Grey Warden in the castle. He remarked at the time on 'being at a loss.' If he'd been in his right mind, he would have called it all off right then."
"Maybe he couldn't," Fergus considered, grimacing. "Maybe there was no way to contact his men once he was in the castle."
"All the more reason to consider him an idiot." Bronwyn slapped the table lightly. "Father always said anyone could be assassinated, if the assassin cared nothing for his own life. This is sort of the same thing. Howe's plan was flawed, and he will be destroyed by it in the end. "
"I just wish he had been destroyed by it first." Fergus shook his head. "And he may decide to take what he can of his fortune and flee to the Free Marches. I really, really need to kill him. Then we'll have to consider what to do about the rest of the Howes. We'd be justified in asking for attainder and dispossession for all his heirs. When I think of Oren—and Oriana—"
"I know," Bronwyn agreed quietly. "If Delilah or Thomas knew, nothing would be too bad for them. If they didn't—well—maybe with time—I don't know…"
The silence closed in again.
"I don't either," groaned Fergus, wiping furiously at his eyes with the heel of his hand. "I don't want to be some kind of monster. I don't want to hurt innocent people, but I do want revenge. I want Howe dead. I want him terrified, and remorseful, and then dead."
"We may have to settle for just dead."
"And now you're a Grey Warden." He voice drifted off into weariness. "You made the best of it before the King, but I know that it must be a bitter disappointment. You've been so good and so patient, and for it all to come to nothing must be very hard. I'm sorry, Pup."
"So am I, but who can say what would have happened? Father agreed to open negotiations once I was of age-and if I still felt the same, but the answer might well have been 'no.'"
"Do you still feel the same, seeing him again after so long? He seems to think well of you."
"He thinks well of me as a Grey Warden. And it's pointless to dwell on 'might-have-beens.'"
"He's much too old for you anyway. That's what Mother always said."
"What Mother said," Bronwyn corrected, "was that marriage to Loghain Mac Tir would be 'challenging' in ways I was too young to understand.'"
"It comes to the same thing. Time is bound to catch up even with him eventually, and then where would you have been?"
"Or I might have been dead in childbirth within the year, like Jennet Kendells. Or in a hunting accident. Or by falling in the bath. Or he could have been killed in battle. Or we might all be dead in the Blight. You can't live your life waiting for the worst to happen years down the road. But we've had this argument before, and Father gave in, in the end. Much good has it done me. Let's not talk about it anymore. It's time to turn the page."
"I suppose it's better for you to get away for a while. Though—I was wondering about your fellow Warden… Hasn't Alistair been a Grey Warden longer than you? And you gave the funeral address, which makes you appear to be the acting Warden-Commander. Are you just being your usual intolerably bossy self, or are you actually the one in command?"
"Alistair doesn't seem to want to lead. Things need to be done—now—and I can't wait for other people to pull themselves together. He wanted me to give the address. He spent time in the Chantry—he was trained as a Templar, in fact—and you know how peculiar that can make people. He's a bit—I don't know—unwilling to put himself forward. So yes, I am in command, since there isn't anyone else. And there is another thing that I think you need to know." She lowered her voice. "I believe Alistair is King Maric's bastard son."
Fergus stared, and then sputtered out, "You think—well—really? I mean—really? Somebody kept that awfully quiet."
"Yes," she agreed, leaning closer. "He told me he was a bastard, and that the Arl of Redcliffe raised him, but that the Arl was not his father. When I asked who was, he became terribly embarrassed, and wouldn't answer. But look at him and then look at the King, and then look at them when they're together. The King is very interested in Alistair's well-being, and they resemble each other a great deal."
"I'll look. It's not unheard of, after all, but really!" He grinned. "King Maric was an odd sort. Likable, great man and all that, Father always said, but odd. It was as if he didn't really want to be king, and was looking for ways to get out of it. He certainly dumped the worst of the burdens on Loghain. Have you divined who the mother might have been, O Sagacious One?"
"No, but she must not have been very well-born, since he was kept such a secret. One would think King Maric was ashamed of him. But Alistair is a very nice person, and a fine warrior. He's just been taught to be—self-effacing. Yes, that's the word exactly. Teyrn Loghain tends to pay him little notice, as if he doesn't approve of him. That was another clue."
"So a highborn lady turned Grey Warden and a clandestine prince join forces to save Ferelden from the darkspawn?" Fergus shook his head, torn between amusement and concern. "It sounds like a very far-fetched Orlesian-style romance. With a beautiful apostate mage for drama and conflict and a lovable mabari hound thrown in for local color!"
"I suppose it does. My experiences as a Grey Warden have not been very romantic so far. I'm glad you're being practical about it. I appreciate the horses, though I ought to pay you for them. The Grey Wardens are not penniless."
"No." Fergus was not smiling. "No. They are my gift to you. And I'm paying for your gear and supplies as well. It's little enough. Do you know what kind of dowry Father would have had to pay out on your marriage? To anybody? What he would have spent on your wedding clothes and jewels—on a proper celebration alone? When you became a Grey Warden, the Couslands got off cheap. And I can't say I'm pleased about it."
And just before dawn of the following day, Arl Eamon of Redcliffe was dead.
Astonishment gave way to mourning. The Arl had been a popular man: much respected by his peers and much revered by his inferiors.
Alistair was given the news at breakfast and was overcome. He stood up and walked out of the tent with a muttered comment about errands and horses. Bronwyn would have chased him down, had Fergus not caught at her hand and shook his head.
"Give him time, Pup."
"He wanted so much to talk to the Arl, Fergus. I gather that there was some sort of disagreement when Alistair was sent off to the Chantry. Apparently it happened around the time the Arl married that Orlesian woman, and Alistair was very young."
"Maybe the Arlessa thought he was the Arl's. Hard on the boy, nonetheless. Maybe Eamon didn't trust her with the secret. If your theory is correct, who do you suppose knows?"
"Obviously the Arl and his brother Teagan. The King...and Teyrn Loghain, surely. Perhaps no one else knew. No...wait." She considered. "Duncan knew. He must have known. He was friends with both the kings, and he was willing to challenge the Grand Cleric herself for Alistair. Maybe she knew, too."
"Maybe the plan was for Alistair to be a Templar, so he would never have children." Fergus nodded to himself, thinking it over. "So there wouldn't be a illegitimate line of Theirins."
"I daresay. It seems very hard and cruel to me, especially since I gather from the way he talks that Alistair hated the Chantry, and found it unsuited to his personality."
"Well, then, Duncan rescued him. Good for him. Alistair seems happy to be a Grey Warden."
Bronwyn grimaced. "That's nice for him."
"Nice for whom?" Morrigan asked, as she emerged from their little sleeping cubicle. As always, she looked very beautiful. "My lord," she said, acknowledging Fergus.
"My lady Morrigan," Fergus answered, his voice softening. "We were speaking of Alistair. His former guardian, the Arl of Redcliffe, died in the night. He is understandably grieved."
Bronwyn said, "I mentioned that Alistair much prefers being a Grey Warden to his life as a Templar."
"And who would not?" Morrigan wondered. "So...no doubt there is to be a notable funeral. If you do not object, I shall gather some herbs this morning. 'Tis unfortunate but certain that we will want healing poultices on our travels."
Cailan could hardly believe that his uncle was gone, and sat by the bier dry-eyed but silent. The pyre was being assembled for the cremation.
"Tragic," summarized Arl Urien. "Simply tragic. Eamon was a fine man."
"Indeed," Loghain agreed. "The King will feel his loss keenly."
"There's a boy, isn't there?" wondered Leonas Bryland. "He's never been brought to a Landsmeet, but I think his name is Connor. He'll have to come now, poor lad, to be confirmed. He's young to come into his title."
"He'll have Teagan to help him," Urien considered. "Good man, Teagan."
Arl Wulffe muttered, "Wouldn't want to be Teagan when he presents Arlessa Isolde with an urn instead of Eamon. That woman has a tongue!"
Loghain pleaded the excuse of his duties, and walked away, grimacing at the thought of Eamon's Orlesian wife. Despite all the gossip about Isolde and Teagan, he saw no way that they would be able to work together effectively enough to exercise the kind of political influence that Eamon had. Eamon had indulged his wife, but was master in his own house. Teagan would have to resort to cajolery and compromise to manage the Orlesian woman's unreasonable demands—if she permitted him any role at all. Redcliffe would no longer be a center of political dissent, and Eamon would no longer urge Cailan to renounce Anora.
Back in the privacy of his tent, he opened his box of correspondence, considering its secrets. It was only a matter of time, of course, before Connor's condition was discovered and he was sent to the Circle of Magi for training. At that point, Loghain supposed that Teagan would be given Redcliffe, but Teagan was a very different man than his older brother—less traditional, less interfering. Arl Teagan of Redcliffe would not be a problem. A sensible man, and a decent warrior.
The apostate mage Jowan had done his duty. Infiltrating the household as the boy's tutor, he had administered a subtle poison to Eamon. An ugly, shabby business, but a necessity. Loghain would find some way to reward him, when the fellow turned up. Rather than returning to the Circle, the mage might consider service in the army, elsewhere, under a new name…
Meanwhile there were the Wardens to consider. Or at least the one who mattered. She was brought to mind when his guard poked his head in to say, with an odd smile, "You have a visitor, my lord."
Loghain, mystified, got up from his camp desk and looked out to see the girl's black mabari politely sitting outside his tent, clearly waiting for him.
"Well—good day to you. Scout, I believe?"
A very civil bark.
The guard couldn't hide his grin. "He walked right up, my lord, and sat down there!"
It was fairly amusing. Loghain asked the dog, "Were you patrolling the camp, or was there something you wanted?"
Scout barked, got up to leave, and looked over his shoulder at Loghain.
"You want me to come with you. All right, why not?"
It was not far to the Highever tent. Scout, satisfied that the alpha was not a complete imbecile, panted approvingly, and led the way back to his mistress and her littermate.
Loghain could see the girl at work, and her brother resting on his cot. They looked up as he approached.
"Loghain!" Fergus called out. "A sad business! How is the King?"
"Still rather in shock. It's a blow to him, naturally. Do you suppose you'll be fit for the funeral tonight?"
"I'll be there," Fergus assured him. "Even if I have to hobble along, leaning on my stalwart sister!"
The girl smiled at her brother and got up to ruffle his hair. An everyday moment of affection, but Loghain was touched by it. The girl, her long hair loose, was looking rather charming, too, dressed in black leather doublet and breeches. Men's clothes, but he supposed that she felt that wearing a woman's gown might undermine her standing as a Grey Warden. Of course, though she might be dressed in men's clothing, the clothing fit her figure well, and no one could mistake her for a man.
The witch and the bastard were nowhere in sight. Loghain allowed the girl to show him to a seat and serve him some sort of Highever-type tea. Warming and quite pleasant, really. The dog lolled at their feet, looking smug.
"What brings you here, my lord?" Bronwyn asked.
"Your dog, actually," Loghain replied, with a half-smile. "Came to my tent, and requested my company!"
"Scout!" the girl laughed, rubbing the hound's ears. "What impertinence! " She flushed becomingly and smiled up at Loghain. "He must have heard me mention you. I said something about needing to speak to you before I left." Her smile faded. "I am sorry to leave Fergus, and I will stay for the funeral tonight, of course, but I've decided that I must be on my way tomorrow."
Fergus pretended to be interested in his tea. "Strange, though. Mabaris may be smart enough, but they usually don't pick up on human names, other than those of their owners' close relations."
Bronwyn tried to look unconcerned. "Well, Scout is smarter than the ordinary hound, and he knows everybody. Don't you, my clever boy?"
The dog barked his agreement. Loghain chuckled. "I had a mabari myself once. Her name was Adalla…well, never mind that. I am here, and what was it you wanted?"
"I thought if you had any letters for the Circle, I could take them, since I'm headed that way. Unless you already sent a courier?"
"I did, but I meant to give you a letter from the King in support of your recruitment efforts. I'll have it drawn up right away. It might help a bit. And since you are leaving so soon, I'll have the clerk copy some maps of mine for you. I've a good one of the Lothering bannorn, where you're headed first."
"Maps!" Bronwyn's eyes lit at the prospect. "How very kind of you! I love maps anyway, and I always feel more confident with one in hand."
"As do I. That reminds me. Bann Ceorlic is in the north right now, but he gave permission to make use of his manor. You can take a letter of introduction from me to the seneschal, and stay there when you pass through."
"Lovely! Thank you, my lord! Much nicer than a tent. Nicer for the horses, too, of course."
"That's all settled, then, I take it?"
Fergus nodded, "I'm giving Bronwyn four horses: one of them is a big Nevarran brute to serve as pack animal. Alistair's off getting all the tack arranged."
Loghain nodded, sipping his tea.
"—and better for her to have them now. Good horses aren't that easy to come by in this country anyway, and they're bloody expensive. I'm thinking about doing some horse breeding up in Highever, when all this is over."
"Not a bad idea. The army could certainly use a more reliable source than thieving Orlesian horse traders."
Bronwyn smirked as the two men shared tales of the depravity of such filthy foreign cheats. All the stories ended in victory for Ferelden, of course. Fergus saw her smirking, and laughed.
"Look at her," he gestured. "She doesn't believe a word we're saying."
It was hard not to laugh out loud. "I do. I really do. At least I'm working very hard at it. Perhaps by tomorrow, I'll be convinced."
They were nice young people, Loghain thought, feeling more relaxed than usual. At least for ambitious, contentious Fereldan nobles.
Fergus would be a good if not brilliant Teyrn, Loghain considered. He would have to marry again, of course, and his choice of bride would be politically significant. His dead wife had been Antivan, and some relation to the royal family. A lovely young woman. Well, perhaps Fergus would console himself eventually with a proper Fereldan bride. All the noble girls...and their mothers!...would be after him like a pack of she-wolves.
Then there was the sister: the Girl Warden. She had remarkable potential, he thought. Brave, skilled, and clever. She was just the sort of junior officer that he liked to discover and develop. But no—as the daughter of a teyrn she could never have been a junior officer, and certainly never his junior officer. Had she not been a Grey Warden, she would have begun her military career as an aide to her father or brother. Her birth would have put her in command early on, had she gone for a soldier at all. Bryce had no doubt prepared her for that.
Well, she was in command now—of the only other Grey Warden in Ferelden. He suspected there would be more before long.
Teagan spoke the funeral address for his brother. It was quite a good speech, and more truthful than most of that sort. Loghain listened with approval, agreeing with most of the praise, and pleased to be finally done with this dangerous rival.
A goodly number of mourners were gathered, though nothing like the entire army. Loghain cynically wondered if Cailan had desisted from giving the speech himself for fear of unfavorable comparison with Bronwyn Cousland's barn-burning performance. Teagan, of course, had missed that.
Fergus Cousland, true to his word, was present, looking pale but determined. With Alistair on one side and Bronwyn on the other, he bid fair to make it through the evening without falling on his face. The speech was over soon enough, the pyre lit by Teagan and Cailan, and Eamon's earthly remains brightened the valley with a cheerful glow.
"I told you," Cailan hissed to his seneschal, "to bring a folding stool for the Teyrn of Highever, and blast your protocol!"
The stool was hurriedly provided, and Fergus first urged and then commanded to sit.
"I won't hear the word 'no!'" Cailan insisted. "I'm glad of your company, and I don't want anything to happen to you!"
As exasperating as she sometimes found him, Bronwyn admitted to herself that it was very kindly thought of. The King might be daft on the subject of the Grey Wardens, but his heart was in the right place when consideration and generosity were needed.
"My lady..."
Brownyn turned from her brother to see Bann Teagan approaching.
"If it seems to you not too great an imposition," he said, with a gentle smile, "would you consent to be our cup-bearer for the vigil? I fear we are all rather short of female relations to perform the duty."
"I should be honored, Bann Teagan," Bronwyn answered at once.
Again she found herself standing as hostess of a funeral. As she poured wine and handed it to the King and his nobles, it seemed that she was repeating the night of the Wardens' vigil. So many words were said again, in the same tones, by the same men. Subtle differences confused her, and she concentrated on the great difference—her brother sitting on a folding camp stool in the midst of it all—to keep her oriented as to time and place.
"—and it's too bad the tutor up and left, only the day before our departure," Teagan told an interested Loghain. "Isolde had really come to depend on the fellow, it seems. He claimed some sort of family emergency, but perhaps he was simply tired of the position's demands..."
"—and Bronwyn's leaving tomorrow," Fergus sighed to Cousin Leonas. "I'll miss her, but she's really got the bit between her teeth..."
"—and the Wardens must be rebuilt!" Cailan held forth to a quartet of admiring banns. "We've struck a strong blow, but much remains to be done..."
Alistair was standing silently by. Bronwyn brought him a cup of wine, and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.
"Thanks, " he murmured. "It's odd, isn't it? There's Arl Eamon burning, and everyone is talking about their plans and their future. Are they even thinking about him?"
"It's just life moving on, Alistair. As it should. After all, we'll be moving on tomorrow ourselves, and our lives will never be the same."
He tasted the wine, and nodded. He took a deeper draught. It was very good wine, after all. "I suppose," he agreed. He managed a brief smile. "Maybe they'll be better. You never know."
She had to leave him then, and Alistair watched her walk away, his smile lingering.
Not far away, Loghain scowled. He had seen the girl put her hand on Alistair's shoulder, and remembered perfectly well what a dangerous journey undertaken by a young man and a young woman might lead to. He noticed that Fergus Cousland also had seen the girl's gesture, and had beckoned the young bastard over. He shifted his position, wanting to hear the exchange.
Alistair leaned over the Teyrn and reddened at the man's next words.
"Touch my sister," Fergus whispered, smiling kindly, "and you're a dead man!"
Early morning departures sometimes gave Bronwyn that almost-sick feeling. This departure was perhaps the worst of all.
Hungry as Bronwyn was, the odors of campfires and dirty wash water, of latrines and oat porridge and just-about-rancid butter, of unwashed dogs and unwashed people nearly put her off her breakfast. And then there was the very idea of traveling on her own through a country at war, with no Father or Mother or Duncan.
No. The adults she had depended upon were gone. She would have to be the grown-up now, whether she was ready or not.
Alistair was a good friend, but he was no older than she. Or if he was, he was older only in body. He looked to her as their leader. So did Morrigan, for all her independent airs.
And whining about it wouldn't help anyone, including herself. She made herself eat, and smile, and chat easily about their packs and the temper of the big Nevarran horse Alistair had discovered was named Trampler.
"What have you done with your hair?" Fergus asked, frowning. "It makes you look like Mother."
"It fits under my helmet better this way," Bronwyn told him. "It was this or cut it all off."
"Don't cut it off!" The exclamation was fervent, and simultaneously Fergus' and Alistair's. Alistair blushed. Fergus sat back and eyed Alistair narrowly until the young Warden hurried from the table.
Bronwyn felt her arrangements were as thorough as she could make them. The moneybelt was already wrapped around her waist underneath the chain mail. Eight-two sovereigns gave her an extra layer of armor. A modest sum was easily accessible in a small leather bag. A cut-purse would not dangerously deplete Grey Wardens funds.
The precious treaties were in a pocket sewn into her shirt. She could not risk losing them by leaving them in a saddlebag. Her maps and other essential papers were close at hand. Stuffed into another bag were the letters she was carrying for the army's mages back to their friends in the Circle. Bronwyn thought that Wynne must have written to every single inhabitant of Kinloch Hold.
Morrigan was looking a little wistful, she thought. They had obtained an extra pack for Morrigan's new finery, and it was piled with the rest of the luggage, ready to be tied securely to Trampler's broad back.
"Surely you won't miss camp life!" Bronwyn remarked.
"I shall miss having others do the cooking!" Morrigan shot back, a little tartly. "And having others build the fires, heat the water, and fetch the kindling!"
"Perhaps your destiny is to be a great lady," Fergus suggested. "I don't much like cooking myself."
"Fergus is an appalling cook," Bronwyn told Morrigan. "He can burn water!"
Morrigan gave Fergus a considering look. "I hardly think that that would disqualify him as Teyrn of Highever! He is good at other—more important—things, is he not?"
"I do try," Fergus agreed gravely.
The packs were arranged, the horses saddled, the travelers equipped. Morrigan and Bronwyn had agreed between them that Morrigan would transform in the privacy of the tent, and then be carried out, to avoid too much talk and conjecture.
But there was talk. Fergus raised his brows, when Bronwyn emerged from the tent with the yellow-eyed sparrowhawk on her shoulder.
He came closer, and whispered, "My lady Morrigan?"
The bird cocked its head and preened its feathers dismissively. Bronwyn tried not to burst out laughing.
"That's absolutely the most astonishing thing I've ever seen," Fergus said. "I'm very glad, sister, that you have made such a powerful and resourceful friend." He added, "And you, my lady, are just as beautiful a bird as you are a woman!"
Bronwyn had not known it was possible for a hawk to look smug. Others came by to farewell them, and to admire Warden Bronwyn's new pet. Luckily, most of the visitors knew better than to try lay hands on a bird of prey. A few—like Arl Urien—received warning nips from a powerful beak. Scout regarded their strangely altered pack member with mild curiosity, and then diverted some of the public attention to himself. Leonas Bryland gave Bronwyn a silver flask of Tevinter brandy. At the moment, she felt she could happily down the entire contents.
Wynne arrived to say goodbye, and eyed the hawk disapprovingly. Ignoring Morrigan, she put a gentle hand on Bronwyn's. "Be safe, my dear child. Be bold, but not too bold."
"Just as in the old story!" Bronwyn laughed, and leaned in to press a kiss to the mage's cheek. The hawk fluttered her wings in protest.
Fergus waggled his brows dramatically, and growled, "Lest your heart's blood should run cold..."
"I don't know that one," Alistair said, adjusting his stirrups. "I promise to pester you until you tell it to me."
More soldiers were arriving to bid them goodbye.
"That's her! That's the Girl Warden!"
Sergeant Darrow arrived with some of Maric's Shield in tow, and passed her a parcel.
"It's a cake, Warden! Tanna here makes 'em. Figure it'll go down well when you're on the road to those foreign places!"
"It's got plums in it, Warden," Tanna said with brusque shyness. "My father taught me how."
"Plumcake?" Bronwyn grinned at the young woman. "If you can make cake in a campfire, I might just have to invoke the Right of Conscription!"
A great commotion bustled their way, and above it all was the familiar, excited voice of the king.
"They've leaving! Look! Loghain! They're leaving!"
Everyone moved aside to make way for King Cailan, who was positively bounding with eagerness. Bronwyn, then Alistair, dropped to one knee in respect. The hawk flapped up lazily to perch on Trampler's back.
"Now there! None of that! Wardens kneel to no one!" Cailan hauled Bronwyn up and squeezed her arm. He shook hands with Alistair very kindly, and slapped a hand on the armored shoulder.
"Maker keep you, brother," he whispered, catching Alistair's eye. He turned to Bronwyn again, speaking for everyone's ears. "You carry our hopes with you, Warden, and I have complete confidence in your success!"
"I thank your Majesty," Bronwyn said, a little dazed at all the ardent good spirits. Her gaze traveled up, irresistibly, to the fierce and wintry eyes of Teyrn Loghain, standing silent before her.
She could think of a thousand things she wished to say, none of which were possible.
Loghain said abruptly, "Luck in battle, Warden."
"My lord," she replied. She was in a fire, burning. Somehow she managed to don her helmet and vault into the saddle. Fergus—pale, dear Fergus—reached up for her hand, and she grasped it, sensing him through the thick leather gauntlet. She leaned out of the saddle to kiss him, hearing the murmurs of sentiment and affirmation around her like the surf against the Cliffs of Conobar.
Then she blew out a deep breath, releasing everything that bound her to this place and her old life. She kicked her horse into motion, and the Wardens were on their way. Morrigan rose up in a flutter of white and brown, flying effortlessly in the morning sun.
Loghain watched them go, wishing the girl well. She was young for such a burden, but no younger than he when he and Maric and Rowan set out to defy an empire.
"But...I thought..." Cailan was looking about in puzzlement. "What about that other girl? I thought she was going with them!"
"Morrigan? She is, Your Majesty," Fergus told him quietly. "She is."
"But...really?" With a sudden realization, Cailan's eyes grew wide, and his smile broadened. "Really? You know, Fergus, real life is often very much like books..."
Loghain rolled his eyes, and with a quick nod to the two young men, strode away to the next unavoidable task.
The crowd dispersed. Already far away, the hoofbeats faded into the ancient stones of the Imperial Highway, echoed by a hawk's plangent cry of farewell.
Thanks to my reviewers: Beriwathwen, Cobar713, kiwibliss, Night Hunter MGS, ByLanternLight, Laura Proudmoore, Amatyultare, Angry Girl, and mille libri. I really love reviews. Please—more!
And now, Bronwyn is off on her adventures. The shape of the quests is profoundly altered. She will not be seeking out the Arl of Redcliffe, as he is dead. There will be a Redcliffe adventure, but it will not be hers. I think the readers will be amused to discover who is called upon to sort out the catastrophe there.
I have had a number of questions about Arl Eamon's death, and perhaps I should go ahead and address them. There are subtle differences in this AU, because canon time frames are often vague and contradictory. There is about a week's lapse between Ostagar and the Warden's awakening. In this story, my Warden has no such lost time. There was no panicky news of the disaster of Ostagar, which I believe is what caused Jowan's carelessness and his discovery as a poisoner. No one found out that Eamon was being poisoned, and thus no one was sent out looking for the Urn. Jowan realized he was in danger of being uncovered at Loghain's agent. He gave Eamon a final dose and fled the castle. This last dose took some time to work, so Eamon was not unconscious and lying at the point of death at home. That is the scenario that caused Connor's despair and the deal with the demon. Instead, Eamon felt unwell, but still forced himself to ride to Ostagar, where the poison finished him off. Since no one realized what was wrong, they did not succeed in even maintaining him in a coma. Connor does not yet know that his father is dead. That shock will cause trouble, too, though trouble of a somewhat different kid.
Mainly, though, I killed him off because I really, really dislike him. Check out my story The Keening Blade for my take on Eamon. And this is AU, and I want to see how it plays out without Eamon as a player.
I don't know if the developers knew they were setting up the game for those like me, who are really invested in the whole "Final Girl Theory." Nonetheless, I find using the Final Girl trope handy in determining the shape of the story. (In brief, in horror/fantasy film, the final girl is the one who confronts the monster at the climax of the film-the one whose POV the audience gradually adopts, even if the viewer is male. Ellen Ripley is a final girl, for example. Buffy Summers seems to be one, but there is debate about that, since some feel that Willow comes closer to the usual attributes. Interesting subject.)