Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 19: In the Halls of the Dwarven Kings
The only challenge they faced in the foothills of the Frostback Mountains was the land itself. In between the rocky outcrops, the soil was thin and poor, the grass thinner. The few fields were unsuited for any grains other than oats and barley. The people kept sheep and goats mostly, and a few cattle. The only horses were shaggy hill ponies. Luckily she had done her serious horse-trading down in the flats, and had laid hands on a smallish Frostback Traveler, and most fortunately, another mule.
Bronwyn felt a little guilty about the mule, knowing that the man had only given in and agreed to the sale out of fear of Bronwyn's well-armed party. They had gathered about, watching the haggling, hands on their swords. She had not actually threatened the man, but she knew that he had felt threatened.
While the land might be unprofitable for farming, no one could complain of the scenery. The Frostbacks, serene and snow-capped, grew closer every day. The sky was a delirious, burning blue as they gained elevation. In such a landscape, it was possible to think of their lives as a great adventure.
Zevran was a decent rider, and got on well enough with his new mount. He did not seem to be able to stop talking, but that was a failing he shared with Leliana, Anders, and Tara. And Alistair, too, all too often.
They stayed at farmholds when they could, and camped when there were none nearby. Most farms had a barn large enough to bed down in, and straw was warmer and more comfortable to sleep on than the bare ground.
Bronwyn continued to write to Fergus, nearly every night, her bundle of parchment grower thicker and thicker. At times she thought about finding a bookbinder, and sending her epic letter to Fergus in codex format.
One night, Alistair came to sit by her as she wrote. There was whispering among the mages. Leliana and Zevran were trading witticisms, and Sten was polishing his armor. Scout came over to see what Bronwyn was up to, and if it involved food.
"So…" Alistair began, his brown eyes alight with mischief. "I think it's time you told me your real opinion of our companions!"
Bronwyn raised her brows, and set down her quill. "Time for the juicy gossip, I take it? Well, since you ask, I like and esteem all our wonderful companions equally!"
He poked her, grinning. "Always the diplomat! No, really, I want to know!"
"Alistair, I don't think dishing the dirt on everyone is exactly—"
"Morrigan, for example," he went on, "You're always talking to her. Do you really trust her?"
As it happened, Bronwyn did not, entirely, but did not think it a good idea to voice that openly. "She's been very brave, Alistair, and she's stood beside us all the way from Ostagar. Have you ever seen her shirk a duty?"
"No, but that doesn't mean...Oh, all right, her mother is horrible, anyway. I know we can agree about that!"
"Flemeth? Yes." If there was anyone who Bronwyn did distrust, it was Flemeth.
"And what about Sten? The way he's so silent. Creepy."
"It's the custom of his country to speak only when he has something to say, Alistair."
"Is that a rebuke? Should my heart be broken because you are implying that I talk too much?
She laughed. "This is about them, I thought. Not about you."
"All right, then. Leliana. She's crazy, right? I mean, you don't believe she really had a vision from the Maker?"
"I think it's possible that she believes it. If she does, and it comforts her, what harm does it do?"
"You are no fun at all to gossip with, you know. Isn't there anybody you don't like?"
Bronwyn thought instantly of Rendon Howe, the murderer of her family, and decided not to mention him. Alistair was just having fun, and did not deserve to be slapped down by a reminder of her own disasters. She answered, "Among our companions? No, not really. Everyone is different, Alistair. I can't expect all the world to be like my home in Highever. People have their own way of looking at things, and their own dreams and goals. Sometimes they won't be the same as mine. As we travel farther, we're going to meet even stranger people, and we're going to have to find a way to deal with them. I don't think waving a Grey Warden treaty at them and demanding they do as we say is necessarily going to work."
His face fell. "I'm worried about Orzammar, too. I wish I knew more about it."
"So do I," she confessed. "It's going to be a different world."
"Anyway," he said, leaning closer, "back to our gossip session. Who is your absolute favorite of everyone in camp?"
"You really want to know?"
"Absolutely."
She told him, and laughed at the face he made as he stamped off to play chess with Cullen.
She returned to her letter:
…and I take a great deal of pleasure in observing my little company, seeing how alliances are being formed amongst them. Despite Morrigan's aloofness, the mages get on well together, each finding a niche within the party: Morrigan, the shape-changer, is our formidable scout; Anders is our healer, of course; and Tara the aggressive battle-mage, usually at the vanguard of the attack at my side.
Alistair and Cullen get on very well together, their similar background and training creating a bond, despite Alistair's avowed dislike of his Templar days. Cullen also gets on surprisingly well with Sten, perhaps due to their use of a greatsword and the same fighting style.
Leliana and Zevran chat a great deal, though much of that is Zevran attempting to flatter and beguile her, as indeed he does all the companions, men as well as women. Leliana is full of lively talk about her youth in Orlais, when she was the ward of a wealthy noblewoman who left Ferelden in the wake of King Maric's victory. She has made no move to establish any outside contacts, which is somewhat reassuring. She is certainly a pleasant companion, and quite a good camp cook.
Alistair just had the impudence to ask me to name my favorite companion! I told him that it was Scout, of course! You should have seen his face…
The great monolithic statues were the first indication that they had reached their destination. The admirable stonework was alien in style, the figures mere impressions rather than lifelike representations. Perhaps they were meant to symbolize the strength of the dwarven people as a whole. They crossed a long stone bridge and before them was the Frostback Fair. Beyond the colorful tents and the tables of the traders loomed the Gates of Orzammar.
There were humans and dwarves, in a fairly even ratio. Some of the dwarves' faces were heavily tattooed. Bronwyn wished she knew more of dwarven culture, for she had no idea at all what the tattoos represented. Was it a sign of high status or maturity, as it was among the Dalish? Her father had visited Orzammar once, but had said nothing of the people being tattooed. She was becoming more and more aware that she would be entering an unknown world when she entered Orzammar. She wished she had a guide—or even a book—to advise her.
Down the valley to the other side were a few log buildings. One thing she had heard about dwarves was that often, when a dwarf left Orzammar to live on the surface, he was not welcome again below. Apparently the buildings were lodgings for surfacers, warmer and more permanent than the tents of the fair.
Their horses were attracting a great deal of interest. There was something in the distance that looked like it might be a stable, and Bronwyn headed toward it, hoping to find a place to board the horses. They did find so, and the cost was startling.
"That's robbery!" Alistair nearly shouted, as they walked away.
"Stabling and feed for eleven beasts," Cullen sighed. "It was bound to be expensive."
"We have to pay them enough to keep them honest," Bronwyn said grimly, "and I think one or two of us should visit from time to time to make sure the horses haven't been traded away!"
"I do not think that will happen," Sten said, surprisingly calm. "I made the proprietors aware that I would fold them in half backwards if anything untoward befell our mounts."
"That would probably hurt," Anders agreed, with a slow smile. "Can we have a look at the fair before we plunge into oblivion, Bronwyn?"
Bronwyn glanced at Alistair, who was looking at her with puppy-dog eyes. "Absolutely. It will do us all good. Besides, I have to look for a trader named Faryn..."
There was much to see. Bronwyn had not visited such an event for several years. There were many weapons-vendors, naturally, but other goods were for sale as well. From the growing delight in nearly every face, it was apparent that most of her companions had never been to a fair at all.
Tara grabbed Morrigan by the hand, and dragged her away, pointing. There was a table laden with pretty flasks—probably of scented oils—and small shining objects. Morrigan pretended to be above it all, but her eyes gleamed. Bronwyn already knew about Morrigan's penchant for jewelry.
Alistair and Cullen were looking at a display of figurines, talking. Bronwyn kept her face grave. Alistair was no doubt sharing his delight in...no, Bronwyn would never say the word...not "dolls." Certainly not. Alistair liked "action figures:" educational models of historical Thedosian warriors, for the most part.
"Look!" he was saying, "it's a Tevinter cataphract! You can make out the scales of his armor. You don't see that every day!"
Zevran seemed to be examining the stalls of the leatherworkers—perhaps looking for something practical. Leliana was admiring a silk-dealer's wares.
No one troubled Bronwyn, for she was accompanied by a mabari warhound on one side, and a heavily-armed Qunari on the other. Nevertheless, she learned a great deal as she made the rounds of the vendors. Among other things, she found that the tattoos were hardly the mark of the elite. She had heard that dwarven society was highly stratified and that social mobility was nearly non-existent. One's place in life was determined entirely by one's birth. The tattoos were the mark of the casteless, those on the lowest, most hopeless rung of dwarven society. Those born casteless were doomed to remain there: unemployed, unemployable, and utterly despised. Sten growled his contempt for such foolishness. Bronwyn, accustomed to the privileges her birth gave her, saw the point of social classes, but among the humans of Ferelden, nothing was, so to speak, set in stone.
A common man, like Loghain Mac Tir, could rise to the ranks of the nobility by means of his courage and outstanding merit. The wastrel younger son of a noble might find himself stripped of privilege by base deeds. One could marry above or beneath oneself, and consequences would follow.
And the daughter of the greatest nobleman in all Ferelden might find herself a Grey Warden.
Really, compared, to the dwarves of Orzammar, social status in Ferelden was as fluid as oil over shifting ice. When Bronwyn took vengeance on Rendon Howe, it was likely that an ancient noble family would cease to be represented at the Landsmeet. Such were the whims of Fate. The dwarves behaved as if they had never heard of Fate.
There was talk of the contest for the throne. Most of the dwarves—men and women of the smith and merchant castes—seemed to support the young Prince Bhelen, who had the name of a reformer. Harrowmont, a friend of the late King, was clearly the choice of the traditionalists. Bronwyn simply did not know enough about Orzammar to hazard a guess as to which was better.
When they reached a boldly-striped tent that sold wood carvings, success was theirs at last.
"Faryn? Foxy little bloke that way. You can't use a candlestick, Warden? How about these napkin rings?"
They walked over to said Faryn. Bronwyn stood a good six inches taller, and Sten simply towered over him. The merchant began his pitch, but Bronwyn interrupted him.
"We're looking for a Qunari sword."
Faryn tried looking stupid. "A qun-qun-qunwazzit? Sorry, I don't know—"
"It's mine," Sten snarled. He could see the hilt, half-concealed by spear shafts.
"Oh...that? I had no idea it was stolen! I swear, by Andraste's dirty knickers! Here, I'll make you a deal..."
It could have been worse. Bronwyn made the trader throw in a little portrait miniature she saw Sten eyeing appreciatively, and the bargain was made. Sten clutched his own sword once more, and appeared to be actually smiling. At least it, Bronwyn hoped that expression was a smile.
"Yes! Completion." Sten admired the gigantic blade in quiet content. "I had almost forgotten the feel of it. You say you are a Grey Warden," he said. "but I think you must be an ashkaari, to find a lost sword in a country at war. I call it Asala, the soul. It is my soul, and I cannot offer thanks sufficient for its return."
"It's a beautiful weapon," Bronwyn told him. "I am very glad to have found it." As they walked away, Bronwyn remarked, thinking about the miniature, "I did not know you were interested in the Fereldan Royal Family, Sten."
"I am not. I am interested in the art of the painter. This work was performed with skill and discipline. Observe the fine depiction of the eyes and the reflection of light on the jewels. Splendid craftsmanship. This is a picture of one of your rulers?"
"Yes. Moira, the Rebel Queen, the grandmother of the present King Cailan. She was noted for her courage and inspiring leadership."
"It is well. This will serve admirably as a keepsake of my travel to your land, and a sample of the skill of your artisans."
Everyone was glad to see that Sten had his sword back, but they were also very interested in the wares for sale, and the fact that Sten had got something new. That was a tricky business, for there were many things of wonder and delight to be had at the Frostback Fair, and the companions were short of cash.
"You can each choose something," Bronwyn said finally. "The price can be no more than fifty silver. One thing."
They all went mad. Sten declined, as he already had Asala and the fine portrait miniature, but the others enjoyed their fairing even more for having something to take away from it. Morrigan found a jeweled bangle, and Anders a gold earring, which he rather horrified everyone by putting through his ear on the spot. It was fortunate that he was a healer, and could stop the bleeding with a word. The effect was not bad. With the earring, Anders looked like a rather posh pirate-mage.
Alistair had a a little warrior carved of onyx, and Leliana a pretty silver amulet. Cullen liked a cleverly-made bootknife, and Tara was in ecstasy over a pair of combs studded with amber.
Zevran did not seem to want anything, instead saying, "If it is all the same to you, I would prefer to have the fifty silver. The Crows did not trust us with money."
Bronwyn paused, but then understood. Money was independence to Zevran. Money represented his new status as a free man.
"Fifty it is, then."
They had to decide what to do with Yusaris, since Sten no longer needed it, but it is indeed an ill-wind that blows nobody good. Sten might have set Yusaris aside for Asala, but Cullen was only too grateful to be gifted with the ancient blade. They sold Cullen's greatsword for a decent price, and added it to their treasury. Sten had regained his "soul," and Cullen now had a better weapon.
"This is superb!" he said, a shy smile on his lips. "I'll use it well, Bronwyn."
"I am sure you will," she said, glad to make someone else happy.
"But what did you get, Bronwyn?" Tara asked. "Didn't you get anything for yourself?"
"I really don't need—"
"You have to get something," the elf insisted. "It's only fair! Aren't I right?" she demanded of the rest. There was some shuffling, and a general admission that Bronwyn, too, ought to have something from the fair.
Rather than make a scene about it, Bronwyn quickly found something suitable. One booth had journals and notebooks for sale: very nice ones-bound in buttery-soft leather. Bronwyn quickly picked out one with a green cover wrought with the image of a dragon in flight.
"A dragon!" Alistair complained. "Isn't that rather...ominous?"
No further delay was possible or appropriate. Orzammar must be faced. They marched up to the Gates. Bronwyn stated her business and, by way of a letter of introduction, presented her treaty.
"This treaty is with the King of Orzammar, Warden," the guard told her. "In the absence of one such, I advise you to find Steward Bandelor at the Assembly. He will know what to do."
Well, that was something. Or at least a starting point. It was enough to open the gates for them. They yawned wide, and the companions stepped forward, into the underground kingdom of the dwarves. They were ushered through elaborate doors to an odd, small room, and had an even odder sensation of going down.
When the doors opened once more, the party found themselves in a new world: stone beneath their feet, stone forming the walls, heavy stone over their heads. Bronwyn took a deep breath, refusing to think about tons of stone crashing down upon her. Dwarves lived under the stone all their lives. Surely she could manage it for a day or two.
There was something to be said for wearing their Grey Warden tunics and helmets. The dwarven guards recognized them at once, and gave them respectful greetings. This was the Hall of Heroes, of which Bronwyn had heard. heated by streams of lava, lined by the statues of the dwarven Paragons: those remarkable individuals whose historic achievements caused them to be revered among the dwarves almost as gods.
Bronwyn looked about. The only other people here were dwarves. She wondered what it would be like to spend days—possibly weeks—among people so much shorter. She must be very careful about implying that anyone else was short. No doubt they regarded her as unnaturally tall!
Another set of heavy doors, and they were in Orzammar proper, and in the midst of the city's unrest.
A man was being mobbed up ahead. Two groups of men were snarling at each other like dogs, and one had gone too far. An axe swung wide and then up and down. Both sides hurried away, looking over their shoulders, but the side that had killed looked smug.
A heavily armed and armored dwarf came upon the scene almost as they did, and they learned he was a guard captain. "Stupid deshyrs," he snarled. "They'll never be happy until they've destroyed the city." He look at Bronwyn and her companion with no attempt to conceal his hostility. "This is not a time to admit strangers among us. No doubt you'll carry tales of the savagery of Orzammar to the surface."
"I know that there is a contest for the throne," Bronwyn told him quietly. "Those men were obviously of the warring factions."
The captain laughed grimly. "Those weren't just faction members. Those were the men themselves: Bhelen and Harrowmont. This time I'd say that Bhelen had the better of it."
"I may need to speak to those men," Bronwyn said. "Where can I find them?"
"For the most part they speak only through their seconds: Harrowmont's representative Dulin Forender is usually with his master at Harrowmont's house. Bhelen's man Vartag Gavorn tends to haunt the Assembly."
Bronwyn had no idea where to begin. "Is there a place where I can learn more about your city? Perhaps I should understand more of your ways."
"Yes, perhaps you should," the captain sneered. "Go to the Shaperate. Up through there to the Diamond Quarter. The Assembly, the Palace, the noble houses, the Shaperate are all up there. Take all the time you want, Warden. I don't see this mess being straightened out any time soon."
It would be rude to sneak about Orzammar without paying respect to its leaders. As the city was temporarily under the tenuous control of the Steward, Bronwyn decided they must go first to the Assembly. The setting was exotic, but the nasty quarreling of the deshyrs was not that different than the mutual recriminations one always heard at the Landsmeet. The dwarves were, perhaps, a little more forthright in their death threats. The presence of the Grey Wardens was noted, and very shortly the Steward met with them outside the Assembly Chamber.
Stress lined Steward Bandelor's eyes. "This is a city in crisis," he told them candidly. "Blood runs in the streets, and so it shall be until the contest for the throne is resolved. Nonetheless, Wardens, we can make you welcome. Respect for your role is great. The Grey Warden hostel is at your disposal. I shall instruct a guard to direct you."
Bronwyn and Alistair exchanged quick, interested looks. Grey Warden hostel?
"Let's go there," Bronwyn whispered. "We'll get ourselves in order and have a meal, and then we'll find out where this Shaperate place is and figure out what to do."
It transpired, much to their pleasure, that the Grey Wardens had permanent lodgings in the Diamond Quarter. A fine house, attended to by members of the servant caste, with a sizable hall for gathering and dining, ten bedchambers, and two bathrooms. They were currently the only Grey Wardens in Orzammar, and the house, for the moment, was all theirs. It was the baths that excited Bronwyn the most, and she was not the only one.
"This is brilliant!" cried Tara. "What a use for runes! Look, Morrigan! Come on and look! All you do is touch it to get hot water!"
"I can heat water with magic, and so can you, you foolish child!"
"But now we don't have to heat water for everybody else!"
"Ah, now that is indeed something to celebrate."
They could bathe. They could be clean, and the servants would do their laundry. They could rest, and enjoy the simple fare provided. The hostel was a home-like place. Within these walls, Bronwyn could forget the tons of stone overheard, pressing down on her.
She pushed the unpleasantness of being enclosed by rock aside, and decided to chat with her companions instead.
"You called me an ashkaari, Sten," Bronwyn said, sitting down by him. "I do not understand the word."
Sten pushed his plate aside, and devoted himself to the conversation, steepling his enormous fingers. "An ashkaari is a seeker after truth: a philosopher, some might say, but that is insufficient. An ashkaari sees beyond the surface and moves ever toward the light of knowledge. To understand better, perhaps I should tell my story now, for an ashkaari appears in it."
"That would be wonderful!"
In a few minutes, everyone was gathered at the table, and Sten began his tale:
Sten's story of The Five Wise Words of the Ashkaari
There was once a young soldier of the Qunari, who was declared ready to begin his service. He was ordered to report to the fortress of Qunab, and it came to pass that he met an ashkaari on his way: an enlightened seeker after knowledge. He conversed with this wise one, gaining much insight, and when the time came for them to part, the soldier requested some parting words of advice.
"You are a soldier," said the ashkaari, "and your path lies clearly before you. My words to you are few, but of great worth. If you can remember these five precepts, no evil can befall you."
The soldier listened with suitable respect to the ashkaari's five wise words.
"First," said the ashkaari, "always obey without question the commands of your superior officer; second, never speak rudely of anyone, for it is unnecessary; third, never lie to your commander; fourth, never attempt to change the condition in life to which you have been assigned by the Tamrassan; fifth, wherever you go, if you meet those who teach the way of the Qun, stay and listen, even if only for a few minutes, that you may be strengthened in the path of duty."
They parted, and after some days, the young soldier arrived at the fortress of Qunab. He was brave and skillful and willing, and the commander regarded him with satisfaction. They received orders to protect a trade caravan that would be traveling through the dry lands of Abbassir, and the young soldier was chosen to serve in the guard.
They traveled for several days, until they entered a country that was like a sea of sand, where the swirling dust floated in clouds, and men and beasts were half choked by it. They came at length, parched with thirst, to a village of elves, who regretted that they had insufficient water for the caravan.
However, the elves told them that to the north, only a few miles away, was a great well, which the Tevinter lords had made hundreds of years before. It was immense and inexhaustible, covered in heavy stonework, with steps that spiraled down into the very bowels of the earth. They themselves did not go near it, for they believed it to be the habitation of demons, for none that went there ever returned.
"It is said," said the commander, turning to the young soldier, "that no one can be trusted until he has been tried. Go then, and scout for this well."
The young soldier well remembered the first counsel of the ashkaari: Always obey without question the commands of your superior officer.
He struck out for the north and in a short time came to a spot where great trees towered above the barren country, whilst under their shadow lay the dome of an ancient building. The soldier found the opening of the structure, and descended the winding alabaster stairs down into the darkness. All was silent, but for the echo of his boots. Still he went on, until at last he reached a wide pool of sweet water, and saw that the well was indeed as the elves had said.
Suddenly, something moved in the shadows, and he saw a mage standing not ten yards away. His staff was in his right hand, and in his left arm he clasped to himself a dreadful looking mass of bones.
"What thinkest thou, O Qunari," asked the mage, "of my fair and lovely wife?" And he looked lovingly on the bones.
Now it is written that this mage had had a very beautiful wife, but when she died, her husband, not being fortified by the Qun, had refused to believe in her death, and always carried her about long after she had decayed. The soldier of course did not know this, but there came to his mind the second wise saying of the ashkaari, Never speak rudely, so he replied:
"Truly, I am sure you could find nowhere such another."
"Ah! What eyes thou hast!" cried the delighted mage. "I cannot tell thee how often I have slain those who insulted her by saying she was but dried bones. Thou art a fine fellow, and I shall grant thee a boon."
"The favor I would ask," said the soldier, "is that you leave off haunting this well, so that all may come and fetch water."
Perhaps the mage expected some more difficult request, for his face brightened, and he said he would depart at once. As the soldier returned south to his company, the mage strode away north, further into the desert, with the bones of his dead wife in his arms.
Great was the approval in the camp at the soldier's success. No one ever saw the mage again, and all in the caravan drank their fill. The elves of the village, too, offered thanks to the soldier, and listened with respect to the lessons of the Qun.
The commander was much pleased with the soldier's conduct, and as time passed, gave him promotion, for the soldier was mindful of the third wise saying of the ashkaari: Never lie to your commanding officer.
Unfortunately, the magistrate of the district in which they were stationed was not a man of integrity: he sought to use his position for personal enrichment and power. He wished to lay hands on the funds of the fortress of Qunab, and to do this he needed to gain the compliance of the soldier, who was now entrusted with their protection. He was too cunning, of course, to tell the soldier all his wicked plans, but he sought to win the soldier's allegiance, and offered to remove him from the dangers and hardships of army service to a position of comfort and power as his First Secretary.
The soldier, however, would have none of this, remembering the fourth wise saying of the ashkaari: Never attempt to change the condition in life to which you have been assigned by the Tamrassan. Therefore, he respectfully declined the magistrate's offer, and told him he would live and die a soldier of the Qunari people.
The magistrate was enraged by his refusal, and resolved that the soldier must die.
He sent a message to the guard of a neighboring town, telling them that if someone were to come the next day to inquire when the new granary was to be finished, they should chop off his head and bury his body in secret. The magistrate then went to the commander of the fort, and requested the services of the soldier as courier.
The soldier rode to the neighboring town as ordered the next day, but as he passed the market, he saw that people had gathered around one who was reading from the Qun, and he recalled the ashkaari's fifth saying: If you meet those who teach the way of the Qun, stay and listen, even if only for a few minutes.
So the soldier dismounted, and sat down to listen. He did not mean to stay long, but the sage was very wise, and he became so deeply interested in the lesson that he sat, and sat, and sat, while the sun rose higher and higher.
Meanwhile, the wicked magistrate was waiting to hear of the soldier's execution, and being a greedy fool could not be patient. He rode to the neighboring town and approached the city guard, saying, "Now then, you men, why do you stand idling? Is it done yet?"
The guard, thinking from that question that he was the one they were bid to slay, dragged him from his horse. A sword flashed in the sun, and off flew the wicked magistrate's head. The body and head were immediately and thriftily disposed of by adding them to the foundation of the new granary.
The soldier, who had listened to the lessons of the Qun with great attention, realized that he had tarried too long. He went swiftly to the Master Builder of the town, obtained a detailed report of the progress of the granary, and returned to the fort to give this information to the magistrate.
But the magistrate did not come, and the soldier notified his commander of his absence. At length the magistrate's fate was revealed, and all found enlightening how his stupidity and greed had led to his own undoing.
The soldier continued to be the trusted subordinate of the commander. In time, he rose to become the commander himself, and he imparted to all his young recruits the five wise sayings of the ashkaari.
Approval and applause followed. Bronwyn was pleased, feeling that she had learned something useful about Sten and the Qunari. Alistair rather tactlessly said, "So, not all the Qunari are perfect, after all!"
"I am unaware," Sten replied, gritting his teeth, "that I ever made any such claim for the Qunari people. Better, yes. More efficient, yes. Only a fool would claim perfection."
"Indeed," Morrigan agreed. "I found the story most interesting."
Anders grinned at her. "A tale of discipline and ultimate success. What's not to like? Except for the creepy mage and the bones. Actually, I admit I liked that, too. Devoted mage husband and all that. Love beyond death." Morrigan rolled her eyes, but looked smug, all the same.
Leliana complimented the Qunari. "You are an excellent storyteller, Sten! Is this a common skill among the Qunari? Do you have bards of your own?"
"Naturally, we have those who entertain and teach and tell tales and perform music. Those who have those gifts are assigned those tasks. I was not trained in such, other than the training that comes with learning to give a clear military report. The two skills overlap somewhat, I suppose."
"Yes, I can see that." Bronwyn thought about it. "You really do tell a good story, Sten. Thank you."
She excused herself early, and went to her quiet chamber, almost comfortable in the strange stone bed. The servant told her that the mattress was filled with dwarven hair, of all things. Bronwyn found that faintly disturbing, and mentally listed what she thought a mattress ought to be filled with: straw, feathers, wool. Those things, however, were not readily available to the dwarves. This was a mysterious land of stone and metal, and Bronwyn had better adapt herself to it, before seeking interviews tomorrow with the seconds of the warring lords of Orzammar.
Note: Thank you to my readers and reviewers: jen4306, Gene Dark, Sarah1281, Cobar713, JackofBladesX, Enaid Aderyn, wisecracknmama, khaos974, Amhran Comhrac, Nithu, Aoi24, demonicnargles, roxfox1962, almostinsane, mutive, kirbster676, Piceron, Have Socks Will Travel, maskedpainter, Costin, Windchime68, Eva Galana, Lehni, Shakespira, mille libri, derko5, Lehni, and WellspringCD.
Sten's story is adapted from a Punjabi tale.