Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 17: On the Road to The Hero's Rest
"Darkspawn!" Bronwyn shouted. "Kill them all!"
The loathsome little warband rushed to meet them, fangs exposed in murderous grins. Hurlocks, genlocks, a powerful Hurlock alpha a little way back, an emissary already firing a poisonous green mist at them.
To her new recruits' credit, they moved into action with surprisingly little hesitation. There was the grimace of horror and disgust on each face, but no one was running away or even stopping to gawk. They remembered their training, and were doing just as they should.
Anders had positioned himself in the rear, as instructed. He could cast ice and lightning early on, targeting any magic user, but was needed to stay safe and heal the front-line fighters. Leliana was near him, nocking arrow after arrow with lethal speed. She was far and away their best archer, and had just brought down a genlock. It squealed and thrashed on the ground, dust rising up, and Sten finished it off. The Qunari was a rock that the darkspawn cast themselves against in vain. Any downed darkspawn was prey for Scout, worrying at them with powerful jaws.
Cullen was not bad with that big sword of his, and he was quick enough to evade the alpha's massive blows, while getting in his own. There was quite a lot of shouting and screaming, much of it from the Wardens, but Bronwyn was yelling herself, and as long as they could hear her orders, they could do whatever they needed to get the job done.
Tara was learning how to kill darkspawn very quickly. Her cold spells were powerful, perhaps even more powerful than Morrigan's. She shrieked with triumph when she hit a frozen genlock with a concussive spell and it shattered to pieces. Bronwyn stopped to blink, just for a fraction of a second. That was impressive.
And she found she was getting better at killing darkspawn herself. They really weren't so hard, if you went in fast and knocked them silly—her sword's pommel against a bony skull—and then when they were stunned and groggy, jamming her dagger into an exposed throat to the hilt—twisting through the veins and arteries until the blood spurted in throbbing jets.
They took more killing than a human target, but nothing survives when its throat is cut through to the spine, or you can see daylight on the other side of its gut, or its head is flying off into a patch of deathroot…
The Hurlock alpha was weakened, but still fighting: its blows slowing painfully. It would not run to fight another day, or change its tactics, or beg for mercy. Darkspawn didn't, she had found.
She rushed in to backstab the creature, thrusting through where its kidneys ought to be. It was collapsing to its knees, its reek rising up into her nostrils like a blow to the skull. She must have hit something vital. Did anyone know if darkspawn were made the same inside as humans?
She glanced around. Her people were up, and the enemy was down, and all was as it should be.
Tara was ten yards away, jumping up and down, running over to a dead genlock, kicking its head. It bounced a little, and she kicked it again. She screamed a wordless war cry, waving her staff. Morrigan rolled her eyes. Cullen backed away, glancing uneasily at Alistair. Scout approved of Tara's celebration, prancing around and barking joyously.
Anders trotted up, grinning. "Calm down, elfkins," he called out. "We won. Yay!" He stopped by Bronwyn and pointed at her thigh. "I need to see to that."
She was bleeding where a blade had slipped through a gap in her armor. And then, in a flash of blue light, she wasn't. "Let me bandage you up," Anders said, moving in, professional and cheerful. "One of the shorties nicked you as he went down."
She did not even have to remove the armor for him to bandage the wound. It was rubbish, and left too many vital areas unprotected. She did not feel they could spare coin for new armor now, but someday... She scowled, thinking of her situation. At least her weapons were first-rate.
Leliana walked among the dead, looking for valuables. She grabbed Tara by the arm, and showed her what she was doing.
Tara glanced behind at Bronwyn, and whispered to Leliana, "Is this all right? Can we really take things, or will we get in trouble?"
"It's fine," Leliana soothed her. "These are spoils of war. We're supposed to take them, especially from darkspawn. If we find anything particularly valuable, we'll show it to the company, and that way everyone gets a fair share."
"Well, if it really is our duty…"
Alistair talked for a minute to Cullen in a low voice, and then came over to Bronwyn, grinning broadly.
"Pretty awesome, I'd say! How's the leg?"
Anders considered. "Gorgeous. One of the finest I've ever—"
"Oh, hahaha. Very funny," Alistair loomed over the busy mage, looking threatening. Or he would have looked threatening, if Anders had paid him the slightest attention.
Bronwyn smirked. "I'm fine, Alistair. I thought that went well, don't you?"
They were all getting good at killing darkspawn, but Tara's spirit and skill had surprised her. And the girl seemed to actually enjoy combat. She was quite the little battlemage.
Of course, that was just what they needed, but Bronwyn had not really expected much of her: she was an elf, and she was small, and she had not made a very impressive showing on her departure from the Circle. Above all, she had seemed to Bronwyn to be a mere victim of the more powerful; a victim in need of rescue.
However unpleasant it was to consider, Bronwyn realized that she herself might not have been very fearsome had she been locked up naked by armed men—by Howe's men for example. Or by Howe himself, a thought that made her shiver, even now in the warm sun.
But no one in her party was a victim anymore. They were working well together, and everyone was learning how to kill darkspawn, which was a primary mission. She herself was learning new ways to kill them all the time, in fact.
Learning to camp was something else, however. To reduce the weight on the horses, it was necessary to share tents to some degree. Morrigan tried to camp apart, with her own fire, but Tara would hang about, talking, sharing spells, asking questions about woodcraft, and the camp boundaries seemed to stretch a little, including Morrigan whether she willed it or not.
It was important to learn to live off the land, so Bronwyn encouraged Tara to go with Morrigan on her gathering expeditions. And Anders, too. Morrigan would huff and grimace, but Bronwyn wondered if Morrigan did not like Anders, just a little. He was a handsome and powerful mage, and he paid Morrigan extravagant compliments non-stop.
Bronwyn thought more about their little magical team-within-a-team. It seemed to her that Tara was encouraging Anders in his pursuit of Morrigan. It was something of a mystery to her. Tara had told her that the Circle was a world of its own, with its own rules, and that Bronwyn would not understand.
The road curved up against the lake again, and they stopped to camp. The horses were hobbled and unloaded and Cullen and Leliana led them to water. Anders showed Tara how to search for firewood, while Morrigan and Sten began setting up camp. Bronwyn walked along the lake shore, and found a stretch where the lake bottom was covered with round pebbles. The clear water revealed the silvery forms of big lake sturgeon and bluefins. Bronwyn wondered if she could still catch them the way an old woodsman had showed her. She went back to her gear and pulled a long, fine-tipped arrow from her quiver. Scout trotted up, eager to help if anything involving food was involved.
"What are you doing?" Alistair asked, seeing her shedding her greaves and boots.
"Going fishing," she told him. "Want to come along?"
He stared. "Don't you need a stick-pole-thingy with a line and a hook? You know...things?"
"That's one way, but I haven't any fishing tackle. Take an arrow. If you're quick, you can spear them. No, a longer one..."
She led the way into the shallows, beckoning to Alistair. "Come on!"
"Ow!" He complained. "It's cold. That is really, really cold water!"
"Shh!" Bronwyn hushed him, pointing at some dim, misty shapes below. "You'll frighten them away, and then we'll be wet and cold for nothing!"
In the end they were very silly over the fish, laughing and splashing. Scout swam around them, knocking Alistair off his feet. If there hadn't been so many, they would have been dismal failures at spear-fishing. A sluggish, unwary sturgeon was messily skewered, and then dragged out of the water.
"That's a sturgeon?" Alistair asked. "Aren't they supposed to be delicacies? They look weird."
Tara came up, her arm full of sticks. "Are you using that creature for potions?"
Bronwyn shook her head, unable to stop laughing. "No, we're going to eat it." Scout barked a proud affirmation.
"Eww."
"I don't suppose you've ever seen a live fish—or a recently live fish. Take the wood to Morrigan and bring me back that long pan from the pack and some parchment. I'll show you how to clean a fish."
"Just me, or doesn't Anders have to come too?"
"Yes, Anders has to come too. If he runs away again, he needs to know how to feed himself."
Tara dashed off on her errands, digging through the packs for the needed parchment. Morrigan asked her what she wanted it for, and Tara told her, pointing down the water's edge to Bronwyn. Leliana overheard, and put up her hand up to her eyes to see what was going on.
"Ooo! Sturgeon!" Leliana called, very pleased. "How delicious! Will we be preparing it en papillote?"
Bronwyn paused, mentally translating the Orlesian. "That's the plan," she called back.
Getting the mages to help turned out to be more difficult that she anticipated. Tara, especially, was disgusted by the smell, by the idea of scraping off the scales, by the idea of gutting the fish. Her pretty piquant face was screwed into a grimace of disgust.
Bronwyn urged her on impatiently. "I saw you killing darkspawn. This isn't nearly so bad."
"Yes, but..." Anders pointed out. "We don't kill darkspawn with sharp, pointy things that make their insides fall out. We just wave our hands while remaining unsoiled by gory bits. Mostly."
"Do you have a spell to clean fish while remaining unsoiled by gory bits?" Bronwyn asked, a little sharply. Alistair was grinning. She glared at him. "Because if you do, I'd really like it if you performed it right about now!"
"Sorry," Anders apologized meekly. He and Tara scraped half-heartedly at the fish, and it was all Bronwyn could do not to shove them aside and do it herself. She thought, oddly, of her mother's patience with her when teaching her sewing.
But this was more important. A warrior had to know how to find and prepare food. Bronwyn was not about to be their kitchen maid for the duration of their quest. And Alistair was having far too good a time, so she made him draw his knife and take a turn. It transpired that he had never cleaned fish, either. Thus, it all took much longer than it should have. By the time they were cutting the fillets into portions, Leliana was coming over, armed with salt, and Morrigan had brought some herbs, shaking her head at the helplessness before her.
The pieces were wrapped carefully in parchment pouches which were folded tight to seal them, and then laid near the coals of Morrigan's good fire to steam slowly.
"You're going to like this," Bronwyn insisted. "It's a very good way to prepare fish. We need to conserve our supplies as far as we can, and fresh food is always best."
She gave thanks to the Maker when the fish was unwrapped from the many little pouches, and was tasty and succulent enough to please even her finicky mages.
"This is wonderful," said Cullen, mopping up fish juices with a bit of bread.
"It's good," Tara agreed. "I'd rather find smaller fish with smaller guts, though."
"Catching them was the fun part," Alistair said. "Except for the very, very cold water. Can't we just shoot them with a bow and arrow next time?"
Bronwyn shied a ball of crumpled parchment at him, and stretched her legs out with a deep, relaxed sigh. She pulled out her map. Loghain's clerk had copied it hastily, but it was a good general map of Ferelden, with not only the towns and villages marked, but also the principal inns. Not far west of the River Dane, where the Lake Road met the North Road, there was written "The Hero's Rest."
She smiled, thinking of the hero in question. Leliana peeped over her shoulder. "I can guess who stayed there once, yes? Teyrn Loghain after his great victory. I wonder if they hung a placard over the very bed."
Bronwyn was still smiling. "It's entirely possible. We can be there in another day. I'd like to hear the news in these parts."
In a few days they would not be far from the fortress of West Hill, and closer still to the bannorn of Waking Sea. It was all becoming familiar country: not quite home, but the land of known neighbors and friends.
The quality of the road deteriorated as they traveled north. The River Dane had flooded here about ten years ago and washed away much of the old paving. Bann Loren, the husband of her mother's late friend, Lady Landra, ruled the lands here about, and had never troubled himself to spend the money for the necessary road work. It would have been expensive, certainly, but maintaining the roads was a lord's duty.
Not that Bann Loren was a shining exemplar of nobility. His wife and son had spent as little time in his company as possible. Poor Lady Landra had been a sweet, well-meaning woman: not terribly clever, but very good-hearted. She had sought refuge from her unhappy life in constant visits to noble lady friends, and eventually in drink. Bronwyn would never forget the spectacle the poor woman had made of herself at Mother's last spring salon.
Dairren, their son, had been different. He was a sensitive, intelligent young man, frank about his unhappiness at serving as a squire to her father in the upcoming campaign against the darkspawn. He had hinted that he would not refuse a call to serve as a Grey Warden. Lady Landra had longed for a match between Bronwyn and Dairren, but that was never going to happen for a multitude of reasons. If nothing else, Dairren wanted something other than the life of a Fereldan bann, and Bronwyn wanted someone else, and had not ceased to want him.
She wondered if Dairren had escaped the massacre at Highever. Mother had wept over her friend's body, but they had not seen Dairren among the dead.
Had Bann Loren even sought to find out what had happened to his wife and son? She wondered if she should call on him. It would take another day to reach his manor, and then who knew what might happen? It would certainly complicate things, and she really could not spare the time. Orzammar was calling to her, a necessity that could not be denied.
In the mid-afternoon, a young woman appeared from a side road, and ran to them, screaming for help.
"Please, please!" she cried. "They attacked the wagon! Please…this way!"
Bronwyn had no time to see her properly, other than to notice that she was young and pretty and blonde, and possibly an elf from her short stature and delicate features. The long golden hair covered her ears.
Alistair rode over, frowning. "What was that? Isn't she going to tell us what the problem is?"
"Apparently not," Bronwyn said wryly. "Keep your eyes open, everyone. You too," she directed to Morrigan, flying overhead. The hawk creed and soared away, after the running blonde girl.
There was a tangle of brambles and logs, and a very narrow wagon track through them. It all looked perfectly natural, if you didn't look at it carefully.
Morrigan was back, and changed to human shape, landing lightly on the ground.
"A trap," she said laconically. "There are eleven of them. They look well-trained and well-armed. I believe that girl is a mage of sorts. Shall we walk by, or engage them?"
"Oh, engage them, by all means," Bronwyn said. "Why allow them the chance to create an even better trap elsewhere? Besides, I'd like to know why they want to attract our attention, instead of seeking easier prey. Dismount and tie the horses here. If there are traps, I don't want the horses breaking legs. I can spot traps more easily nearer the ground. Morrigan, get behind our new friends. The rest of you, follow me. Wedge formation."
With a grim smile, she led the way, and the group arranged themselves as they had planned, back in front of the fire at the common room of the Spoiled Princess: Scout at her heels; Tara to her right and Alistair to her left; Sten and Cullen on either flank; between them and slightly behind, Leliana with her bow and Anders with his staff.
The falling log was no surprise. Nor was it a surprise that the blonde girl was looking back at them slyly, speaking to another fair-haired enemy—a handsome…elf, it must be. They turned and eyed Bronwyn and her party with anticipation.
The elf stepped toward them, giving a signal. An elf was in charge? Bronwyn had never seen a elf in charge of much of anything before, and certainly not in charge of a band of warriors. It was interesting, but...strange. Behind him the girl mage smirked with menace, lightning building in her hands. Another two thugs rose up from behind the shattered wagon. Bronwyn's peripheral vision caught two armed men watching the scene from the hill to the right.
"Lady Cousland dies here!" shouted the elf, lunging forward with feral grace.
"Have we met?" Bronwyn muttered. "I feel certain I would have remembered you." She adjusted her grip on her weapons, and moved in to meet him. Scout rushed past to knock a hireling off his feet.
Tara raised her staff, and the mage girl was suddenly still, paralyzed by magic. Two more attackers materialized from behind some barrels to their left. Morrigan froze them in place, and then directed her attention to the surprised archers on the heights above them. A twang of a bowstring, and a man fell back, feathers sprouting from his throat.
Bronwyn crossed blades with the elf in a music of silverite and steel. He was fast, by the Maker: very fast and very smooth, and she needed all her concentration to deal with him. Their weapons locked, and they glared at each other fiercely for a moment before Bronwyn smashed her head against his, her wonderful Grey Warden helmet a lethal weapon. The elf went limp, and Bronwyn leaped over his still body to get at the underlings behind him.
Sten roared in triumph, somewhere to her left. A man rolled in front of her, nearly tripping her up, as Alistair knocked him down with his shield. Cullen was swinging his sword with creditable speed, and there was a horrible noise like a melon being split as he sliced a man nearly in two. Bronwyn cut her way past an attacker, barely noticing that the mage girl was on the ground, eyes empty. Bronwyn had no idea who had done that.
She charged up the twisting slope, Tara and Alistair just behind her. "Watch out!" she yelled, pointing at the trip-lines. There was a quick, nasty struggle with some bowmen who were ready to fight for their lives. A light flared blue as Anders cast a healing spell. Leliana's bow sang again, and it was over.
It could not have lasted more than five minutes.
"The leader's alive!" Cullen called. "Just knocked silly."
"Nifty use of the helmet," Alistair said, grinning. "I'll have to try that one."
"Why thank you, good ser. Don't kill him!" Bronwyn called to Cullen, pointing to the stunned leader. "I really want to ask some questions. Scout!" she shouted. "Go guard the prisoner!" The dog barked once and ran at full tilt, crouching threateningly by the supine elf assassin.
Other than the massive bruise on his forehead, said elf looked comparatively unhurt and even reasonably well-groomed, his golden hair shining, his slim, bronzed body muscular and fit. Bronwyn smiled her amusement at herself for ogling him. She had never really noticed how good-looking a male elf could be before. He was well-armed, and wore well-made light armor. A thorough professional, she would guess. And the identity of his employer was perfectly obvious.
Leliana and Tara began picking their way through the pockets of the fallen. Morrigan glanced over and helped them, watching to see what would happen to the one who had led the attack.
The elf stirred, and groaned. He blinked up at Bronwyn, and was bold enough to smile faintly. Scout growled very softly.
"Ugh."The elf noticed the dog, and remained carefully still. "I rather thought I would wake up dead—or not wake up at all. But I see you haven't killed me yet."
"No. Not yet," Bronwyn agreed, unable to resist a superior smirk. "I have a few questions."
The elf laughed weakly, but seemed resigned. "Ah! So I'm to be interrogated! Let me save you some time. My name is Zevran Aranai...Zev to my friends. I'm a member of the Antivan Crows, brought here to slay Lady Bronwyn Cousland, which I have failed to do, as you see."
Antiva! His accent stirred memories: some sweet, some painful. When Fergus had come home from Antiva, he had brought his new bride, Oriana, with him, and for years her accent had delighted Bronwyn. She had mourned when Oriana, by dint of careful, diligent work, and Mother's endless coaching, had discarded it, wanting to be a true Fereldan for Fergus' sake. Oriana had been full of stories of Antiva: the beauties of its cities, the beaches of fine white sand, the abundant flowers blooming year-round. Oriana had also told stories of the Crows, Antiva's famous guild of assassins, but those had been merely exotic tales. Here was the reality, and memories of Oriana softened Bronwyn's heart a little. She considered speaking to this Zevran in Antivan, but decided against it. It was always good to be able to do something that no one knew you could.
"I do see, Zevran Aranai. I am, in fact, Bronwyn Cousland, and I'm extremely happy you failed."
"So would I be in your place. Not so good for me, of course. Getting captured by a target seems a tad detrimental to one's budding career as an assassin."
Bronwyn nodded sagely. "It could certainly prove fatal to one's reputation."
"Perhaps you would like to know my employer's name?"
"No, no!" Bronwyn put up her hand to stop him. "Let me guess! Tall, thin, greying, with a bit of a beard below his lower lip, and a remarkably well-developed sneer. I see you nodding. It was my old family friend, Arl Rendon Howe, wasn't it?"
"You astonish me," Zevran said gallantly. "This is a long-standing quarrel?"
"Not really," Bronwyn laughed. "I don't know of anyone else in the world who hates me enough to pay good coin to kill me. Where was he when he spoke to you?"
"In his city of Amaranthine. May I sit up while we converse?"
"Very carefully. My friends are a bit on edge, and all their edges are very sharp." Everyone moved back a little, watching the elf narrowly. He sat up, rubbing his brow and wincing. "So you are loyal to Howe, Zevran Aranai?"
"I have no idea what his issues are with you. I imagine they are the usual thing: you threaten his power. No, I am not loyal to him. I was contracted to perform a service: that is all."
"And now that you've failed?"
"Well, that is between Arl Howe and the Crows, and the Crows and myself, unfortunately."
Alistair broke in, demanding, "Why are you telling us all this?"
Zevran laughed. "Why not? I wasn't paid for silence!"
Cullen frowned. "Aren't you even loyal to your employer?"
A lazy smirk, directed at Bronwyn. Zevran said, 'Loyalty is an interesting concept. If you wish, and you're done interrogating me, we can discuss it further."
Bronwyn waved at him to continue.
"Well, you see," declared the assassin, "The Crows do not reward failure. I failed to kill you, so my life is forfeit. Thing is, I like living. And you, obviously, are the sort to give the Crows pause. So..." he paused and went on, "let me serve you instead."
"Ha!" Bronwyn laughed then, genuinely laughed at the elf's daring. A number of other laughed too: Morrigan, in a single, rather high-pitched burst of contempt; Tara, astonished that anyone would ever hope for mercy; Alistair, in angry indignation; Anders, admiring the elf's effrontery. Bronwyn kept smiling, thinking it over. She said, "You must think I'm royally stupid."
Zevran was not deterred, but immediately said, "I think you're royally hard to kill, and utterly gorgeous." Seeing her raised brows, he hurried on suavely, "Not that I think you'll respond to simple flattery. But there are worse things in life than serving the whims of a deadly sex goddess."
Cullen and Alistair flushed red, perhaps dangerously red. Cullen's grip on his sword tightened noticeably.
She laughed even more at that. "And what's to stop you from trying to finish the job if I let you live?"
He blew out a breath, considering his words carefully. "To be completely honest, I was never given much of a choice about joining the Crows. I was bought on the slave market at a young age. Even if I did kill you now, they might just kill me on principle. I'd rather take my chances with you."
It was very tempting. "And what would you want in return?"
His reply was instant. "Being allowed to live would be nice. I'm more useful that way. And somewhere down the line, if you should decide you no longer need me...then...I go my way. Until then, I am yours. Isn't that fair?"
Alistair hissed, "Bronwyn!"
She said to the others, "Watch him! Alistair and I need to talk."
They stepped away from the others. Alistair whispered, "You're not really considering taking the assassin! I mean...I understand not wanting to slaughter him in cold blood now...but to take him along?"
"I think he could be useful," she said, and then added in a lower voice, "Would you want him following us, not knowing what he's up to, or coming with us, where we can keep an eye on him?"
Alistair bit his lip and nodded, thinking it over. "I see your point. You're not thinking of conscripting him, are you?"
Bronwyn glanced at the handsome elf. "I think...not. He's doesn't seem to have liked being conscripted by the Crows. I daresay he wouldn't like being conscripted by the Grey Wardens any better. However... he could be an asset to our party." She slapped him on the shoulder, grinning. "Besides, collecting cast-offs seems to be what we do! Ex-Templars, ex-sisters, ex-nobles, ex-apostates! I think an ex-Crow would fit right in!"
"I suppose," he surrendered. "All right, the assassin stays, but I'll be watching him."
"Good."
They walked back, and Zevran relaxed slightly at the expressions he was seeing.
"Very well," Bronwyn said. "I accept your offer."
He rose to his feet gracefully. Hand on heart, he declared, "I hereby pledge my oath of loyalty to you. I am your man, without reservation. This, I swear." He bowed, and Bronwyn smiled and granted him a nod.
"Lovely," Morrigan sneered. "Let us all examine our food very carefully in future."
"Always a sensible precaution," Zevran agreed cheerfully.
Morrigan was also displeased when the assassin was allowed to ride the horse she considered her own, although she almost never rode herself. Bronwyn soothed her with promises of buying more animals at the first opportunity, even ponies or donkeys if they were all that were to be had. The thought of the assassin riding a long-eared little donkey was amusing to several in the party.
"Ponies?" Tara asked. "You mean, baby horses? Can people ride them?"
Cullen told her quietly, "They're not babies. They're just small horses."
"Well, I think that's a brilliant idea! No offense," she told her own patient mount, "but I would love to have a small horse. I'm a small person. I think we'd get on! Bronwyn," she called. "Can I have a pony?"
The Hero's Rest was a good-sized inn, with other guests. The party stabled the horses, unpacked, and then headed for the ale. They would once again have to share rooms, but that was always better than the bare ground. Bronwyn thought about her dwindling coin, and gave thanks that people were not demanding private quarters. She ordered Zevran to share with Sten, thinking if anyone could deal with the assassin, it was the Qunari.
The innkeeper here was a woman named Tansy, stout and grey-haired, with shrewd eyes, a gruff voice, and a ready smile. She welcomed the Wardens' party, admired Scout even to Bronwyn's satisfaction, and raised her brow at Zevran.
"Not the lot I saw you with before!"
"Ah," Zevran replied. "These people are just so much more fun!"
Tansy gave Bronwyn a raking once-over, and then nodded in approval. "You're the Girl Warden, aren't you? Heard about you. Been hoping to set eyes on you myself. I've served all the great names of Ferelden in my time: King Maric, Queen Rowan...young King Cailan was here not too long ago." She pointed to the portrait over the bar. Loghain Mac Tir glared at her over his drawn bow, much younger than the man she had seen at Ostagar. "He slept here the night after the Battle of River Dane!" She leaned toward Bronwyn, and growled confidentially, "If you like, you can sleep in the very same bed."
Bronwyn laughed, feeling herself flush. "And on the very same sheets?"
The innkeeper burst out laughing herself, and winked. "Well...I had to break down and wash 'em, after a while...but it's the same bed. Seems fitting, you being such friends with him and all."
Bronwyn blinked. Composing herself, she said, "Thank you. It's very...thoughtful of you."
The innkeeper lowered her voice even more. "You should know that that elf was here two nights ago with a gang of sell-swords, and I could tell they were up to no good!"
"I know," Bronwyn assured her. "We dealt with the problem. He's helping us now. I was hoping to hear some news."
"Well!" And the woman was off, with a string of rumors that seemed endless.
They say that the Girl Warden is raising armies for the King...Sent him hundreds of mages, all primed to fight the darkspawn...Word out of Redcliffe is that it's overrun with monsters. Not darkspawn, mind you, but but dead people walking and attacking the living...
"Wait!" Bronwyn protested. "How do you know this? Who told you this?"
"I overheard a fellow not a week ago. Came through to go live with relatives. Said that Redcliffe's lost."
Bronwyn raked a hand through her hair, wondering if she had to do something about this, too. "Has anyone sent word to the King?"
"Oh, I reckon they did. The fellow said they did, anyway, but didn't think it'd make any difference, with the King and Teyrn Loghain busy with those darkspawn."
"All right then, What else have you heard?"
Word is that the dwarven king is dead, and that there's some sort of tussle going on over the succession...you know how those dwarves are!
Bronwyn groaned inwardly, wondering how this would affect her mission to Orzammar. With any luck, the new king would be enthroned and in a very celebratory mood by the time she arrived.
...and that Arl Howe is making trouble all through the north...Not enough he murdered the Couslands, but he's trying to take over Highever for good and all...his men were in the city, killing and looting...They burned the fields of freeholders who wouldn't swear allegiance to him...Some of them got their comeuppance though. They were marching along the coast between Amaranthine and Highever and somewhere they fell afoul of something: maybe darkspawn or maybe ghosts, but folk saw lights in the sky over the Coast Mountains, up at the Lost Peak, and none of those men have been seen since...The young Teyrn of Highever has sworn to kill Howe: scared him so he's hiding in his castle at Vigil's Keep, and only comes out at night...Maybe Arl Howe's possessed... or maybe controlled by blood mages!...That would explain a lot...and the old Teyrn of Highever's daughter became a Grey Warden...
"Oh!" Tansy gasped, turning red. "That's you!"
Zevran had come up, and was listening in fascination.
Bronwyn nodded, with a lop-sided smile, glancing at the elf. "That's me. The Teyrn and Teyrna were my parents, and I am indeed a Grey Warden now. As soon as I finish my mission against the darkspawn, I'll deal with Arl Howe." She raised her brows at Zevran. "And I won't need to hire anyone to do it."
Zevran accepted this without demur, only saying, "But help is often useful, yes? Even when one is the Girl Warden and a great hero."
Bronwyn took a tankard from the embarrassed innkeeper. "Thank you. Yes, help may indeed be useful. The darkspawn are a threat to everyone, but Howe knows that I'll come for him in the end."
"You do that," the innkeeper said feelingly. "You show him what's what!"
There was an explosion of laughter from the end of the bar.
"No more putting it off! It's Leliana's turn now!" Alistair declared. "Time for the ritual humiliation!"
Zevran looked at Bronwyn. She explained, "We have a pact that each of us must tell a story, in the order that we joined our company."
The innkeeper perked up her ears at that, moving closer the the group by the fire.
Applause and hoots from some, from others more dignified approbation. Leliana smiled, coming forward.
"Oh, I love stories!" she told them, flashing her beautiful smile. "I have had so much trouble deciding which to tell you! There is the story of Aveline, Knight of Orlais—the first woman to hold that title among the Orlesians—or I could speak of Alindra and her soldier, and how her tears became a river of stars—or I could tell the tale of Flemeth, the Witch of the Wilds—"
Morrigan looked over at Bronwyn, a very sour expression on her face.
"—or I could tell you of our beloved Prophet Andraste, and how she became the Bride of the Maker—"
Bronwyn politely assumed an encouraging smile, cringing inwardly. She noticed a similarly forced expression on a number of faces, most notably the innkeeper's.
"—but I think there is another story I would rather tell tonight, because it has a combination of merriment and melancholy that speaks to my heart. I shall tell you of the Bard of Val Royeaux and the Flying Lute Case."
Leliana's story of the Bard of Val Royeaux and the Flying Lute Case
There was once a clever bard in the city of Val Royeaux. She was beautiful and witty, with a voice like silk, and she could play any instrument in the world. She could uncover any secret and master any lock. She was skilled with bow and dagger, but also with fan and flirtation. She knew a thousand stories and a thousand songs, and had made a thousand friends and a thousand enemies.
At length she backed the wrong horse, as we say in Orlais, and fell from favor at Court. No one dared to engage her, for the Empress was angry with her. So she grew poor, and began to think it was time to find greener pastures.
Her bard master was angry with her, too, and disappointed that all her training should have been for nothing. When the bard wrote to her old friend for help, the bard master would not give her any coin to help her, but sent only the empty case of a bass lute.
The little note with it said, "You say you will soon no longer have a roof over your head. Sleep in this then, and trouble me no longer!"
The bard was very sad, and sadder still when she read the note. She looked at the case with a sigh, for soon she would indeed be put out of her rooms. She sat down in the case to see if it would fit her, when suddenly the room vanished, and she found herself flying through the air!
The case was a magic one, but no one in ages had unlocked its secrets. The bard was brave, and held tight, praying for the Maker's aid.
At length the flying case stopped, and then floated down onto the topmost tower of a castle in a faraway land. A prince lived in the tower, and he was delighted to meet the bard. His parents did not want him to meet common women, and had locked him away up here.
"It has been so dull," he mourned. "Do you perhaps know any stories?"
Well, of course the bard knew stories. She told the prince stories about his eyes: that they were lovely dark pools. She told him about his thick black hair: that it was like the crashing waves of the sea that swept all before them. She told him about his long, long eyelashes: that they were like the wings of a rare butterfly. She told him about the world outside the tower: about the birds and bees and the ducks and the drakes.
Yes, she told him all sorts of lovely tales. She was so clever that the Prince was convinced that his parents the King and Queen would approve of her, so he rang a little bell, and asked to be admitted to their presence for tea, and he and the bard went downstairs.
"They love stories, too," he said. "My mother likes serious stories with a moral at the end, and my father likes jolly ones, so he can laugh."
The King and Queen were impressed with the bard's cleverness in reaching the top of the tower, for it was very high.
"Perhaps you would be so good as to tell us a story," the Queen said, ' but mind you, it must have a moral."
"But not too serious, I beg you!" cried the King. "I can't bear too much pomp and ceremony!"
The bard thought a minute, and then told her tale:
"There was once a pile of kindling that was very proud of its noble heritage. Its family tree—that is to say—the big fir tree of which each piece of kindling was a tiny stick—had been a huge old tree in the forest. The kindling lay in a box in the kitchen, and went on and on to the iron pots about its youth.
'Yes, when we lived high on the green branch,' the bits of kindling bragged, 'we were really living high. Each morning and evening we had sunshine, and dew for tea, and the birds to tell us stories. We were very rich then, for other trees had their green clothes only in the spring and summer, but we were well-dressed all year 'round! But then came the Great Disaster: the woodcutters came, and the family was split up. That is why we, from a noble family as we are, come to be in a kitchen.'
"They went on and on about their importance, but suddenly the door opened, and it was the kitchen-maid. She took the kindling and straightaway made a fire in the hearth.
"The kindling said, 'How glorious we are! How our nobility shines forth!' And they boasted for several minutes, until they were utterly consumed and nothing more than ash. And that was the end of their pretensions."
The King and Queen were very pleased with the bard's tale, and decided they would like her to be part of their family.
"Our son has been so lonely. This is certain to settle him down, and we should enjoy hearing your stories, too!"
The bard was happy to marry the handsome prince, but remembered that all her possessions were back at her rooms in Val Royeaux. There were her silk dresses, and her satin shoes, and her lute, and her books, and her fine daggers, and she decided that she would fly back there one last time and pack.
She promised to return to the Prince before the day was out. He climbed up to the top of the tower with her, and said he would wait there until she came back.
So the bard sat in her big lute-case once more and was flown away. The wind whistled in her ears, and at last she came back to Val Royeaux. She rushed into her bedroom and began packing as fast as she could.
As she packed, the landlord came in, very angry, wanting his rent. The bard shouted at him from the bedroom, telling him she would pay him in just a moment. She folded her linen quickly, and quickly tossed her special mementos into a little casket, and turned to hurry away.
And there in her sitting room were the landlord and his son, and they had taken an axe to the big lute-case and were chopping it up for firewood!
"At least we will have something for our trouble!" the old man said spitefully.
The prince waited for the bard all day at the top of his tower, and for all I know he is waiting yet.
The Bard of Val Royeaux still wanders the world telling stories, they say, but they are not so merry as the one she told about the kindling.
A brief silence, and then talk and applause.
Tansy declared, "That was some fine story-telling. Well worth a round on the house!" More applause.
Sten nodded sagely. "A wise warning against putting too much value on material possessions."
Bronwyn blew out a breath. This from one who was desperate to find a sword, when he was currently using a weapon that was unquestionably superior. The lesson here, she thought, was that people did not always understand one another, or comprehend why a thing despised by them was precious to another.
Anders, surprisingly, agreed with Sten. "If I hadn't left things behind that I cared about, I never could have escaped from the Circle. I learned that from my mother. She told me about the rebellion in Gwaren. People wouldn't leave their houses or their shops until it was too late, and they were slaughtered. Or they'd try to sneak back and pack up later, and they were hanged for 'looting' their own houses!"
There was solemn agreement at this. Alistair, however, was grinning.
"I like the story-in-a-story, and how the bard made fun of snobbery. Made fun of it right in front of the King and Queen, too! People are always going on about their ancestry, but without money and land it's worth less than zero."
Bronwyn had her own and somewhat different viewpoint about the value of family, but she understood why Alistair might think his own ancestry not worth boasting of.
Tara smirked. "I liked it when the bard told the prince all those stories about how gorgeous he was. I'll have to try that."
"You may start with me, fair one," declared Zevran, hand on heart. Tara giggled.
Cullen glared at the assassin suspiciously. Bronwyn could hardly blame him. She had never met anyone who merited constant suspicious scrutiny more. And that was when he was simply sitting and listening to stories...
Morrigan was sitting back with an air of superior understanding. Clearly, she felt she had learned something about Leliana that the others had not, but Bronwyn thought the two of them had come to the same conclusion.
Supper was served: a good supper, with more talk and more laughter. Bronwyn was quiet, thinking over the news she had heard, and thinking, too, over Leliana's story.
Later, when Bronwyn was alone with Leliana in their comfortable room upstairs, she asked the question that had needed asking since Lothering. "You're a bard, aren't you?"
Leliana did not appear startled, but merely smiled ruefully. "Once I was. I left that behind me in Orlais, with my silk dresses and my beautiful shoes. I am a servant of the Maker now, and I have sworn myself to the Grey Wardens."
"Why did you leave Orlais?" Bronwyn probed. "You could have entered the Chantry there."
"Perhaps someday I shall tell you," Leliana said, one hand resting lightly on Bronwyn's brown hair. "Oh, look, what a tangle is here! Let me brush your hair, Bronwyn. You don't take proper care of it, and it is such pretty hair, too."
"If you must," Bronwyn sighed, secretly pleased not to have to deal with that awful mess herself. She glanced around the room. Sure enough, there was a carved wooden placard above the bed, telling of the distinguished visitor, with the name "Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir" in huge letters, and an arrow pointing down at the bed. She laughed at the sight. She leaned back as Leliana began brushing her hair, and asked, "And would you tell me about Aveline, please? I don't know that one."
"Well," Leliana paused, smiling at the prospect of telling another story, "A long time ago, a girl-child was born to a poor farmer…"
Notes:
Leliana's story is adapted from "The Flying Trunk" by Hans Christian Andersen
Tremendous thanks to my reviewers: Shakespira, Eva Galana, Nithu, Night Hunter MGS, butterfly, Porphyra, Zeeji, Amhran Comhrac, Sarah1281, Piceron, bioncafemme, Costin, kwintessa, mutive, too lazy to login from mobile, White Ivy, Enaid Aderyn, Sati James, Windchime68, fussycat, almostinsane, Aoihand, Leafy8765, mille libri, alice, jen4306, JackOfBladesX, roxfox62, wisecracknmama, derko5, and Cobar713. You have wonderful ideas. Keep them coming!
The portrait over the bar at The Hero's Rest is inspired by a chapter in Amhran Comhrac's Apostates of Amaranthine called "The Secret Heartthrob of Ferelden."
I am considering visiting Denerim and the arling of Amaranthine in the next chapter, so we can have a look-in at the doings of Queen Anora, and of course check out the nefarious plots of Rendon Howe!