Victory at Ostagar

Chapter 24: A Rock and a Hard Place

There are spoilers for the DLC "Leliana's Song" in this chapter. The DLC is not at all consistent with the story Leliana tells the Warden in game. Here she is a bit more honest.

"This is the plan," Bronwyn told her companions. "The dwarven army will move out in two weeks, and go by the Deep Roads to an exit east of Lake Calenhad where they will resupply. They will go south to the sealed exit just east of Lake Belennas. Bhelen is rallying surface dwarves to set up supply depots in both places. Some contingents will march on the surface to become acclimated."

She produced a map drawn on parchment scraped thin to transparency. It proved to be a map of southwestern Thedas: Orlais and Ferelden. It was to exactly the same scale as a heavy vellum map of the Deep Roads. The map of Thedas could be superimposed over the Deep Roads. The sight intrigued the surfacers, and was of some interest to Oghren. Brosca, to whom both maps and writing were unplumbed mysteries, palmed another piece of some surface fruit that was bright red on the outside and then white and sweet when she bit into it. Wardens ate well. If for nothing else, she'd join for the food.

Alistair measured distance by stretching out his fingers. "So the Anvil of the Void was under the Dales in the south of Orlais. The same distance, south southeast, takes you to that exit past Lake Belennas."

"But you do not intend to sit here and wait for two weeks, surely," Sten frowned.

"No, indeed!" Bronwyn waved everyone forward to give them the news. "We have received an invitation of sorts that will fill some of that time. A senior Grey Warden from Jader has written to us, offering assistance. Alistair and I have agreed that at the very least, we will go to the border and meet with this Warden Riordan. We hope to hold a Joining ceremony for you, rather than having to wait for the opportunity to return to Denerim, which frankly does not seem likely to happen anytime soon."

"Will we go to Jader?" asked Leliana, tense with excitement. "Jader! It is so close! It is hardly a day away!"

"What's Jader?" Brosca asked, tossing her apple core under the table. Scout sniffed disapprovingly.

Alistair told her, "Jader is a city in Orlais. It's the closest Orlesian city to Orzammar. In fact, it's the closest surface city to Orzammar. The closest Ferelden city is West Hill, and that's a day north of that Hero's Rest inn we stayed at. They say that Jader is the most Fereldan of all the Orlesian cities."

"Well…" Leliana scoffed. "The most Fereldan? Perhaps, but it is really nothing like Ferelden at all. It is a charming place, and many of the public buildings are very handsome and faced with dressed greenstone..."

"Sounds fancy," Oghren nodded. He had moved into the Wardens' hostel with them and seemed to have no desire to leave. He had told Bronwyn and Alistair that he had no future in Orzammar, and no past he cared to remember. He had not exactly expressed a desire to be a Warden, but he wanted to continue to fight at their side.

"Our plan is not to go to Jader," Bronwyn said firmly, giving Alistair a significant look. "I don't see any reason to go that far out of our way. We will travel to the border fortress of Gherlen's Halt. I will cross the border, and give a letter to the commander of the Orlesian fortress of Roc du Chevalier. Warden Riordan says that a courier there can bring my letter him within a day. I hope that this Riordan will come and that we can arrange for a proper Joining for those of you who wish it. And there are other matters that Alistair and I need to discuss with him as well."

"Roc du Chevalier," Cullen murmured. "I've heard of that place. Though people just call it the Rock. Back during the Occupation, a lot of Fereldans disappeared into its dungeons, and were never seen again."

Some would have to ride double. There were no more horses to be had, and no time to acclimate the dwarves to the concepts of horsemanship.

"Cullen, look after Brosca. Zevran, Oghren will be with you."

"You are a hard mistress, bellissima," sighed the elf. "It is, perhaps, a just punishment, but a stern one, nonetheless."

Oghren was not particularly pleased, either. "Say, Boss, you couldn't see your way clear to putting me behind Red, could you? Huh. Thought not."

There was another party member to provide for. On their way up to the surface, Bronwyn was waylaid by a warrior of the Legion of the Dead, who quietly asked for a word with her before she left.

Wondering if Kardol had a final message for her, Bronwyn allowed herself to be drawn into the shadows. The warrior removed the heavy helmet, and Bronwyn recognized the woman who had accompanied them to the city.

"I hear you are recruiting Grey Wardens. I wish to volunteer."

She was a handsome woman, with strong, regular features, unmarked by duster tattoos. Bronwyn sensed an air of someone accustomed to respect—even command. She was a sound fighter, from all reports, but Bronwyn did not want to antagonize Kardol, and said so.

"Here is his permission," the woman said, passing her a parchment. "He gives leave for me to accompany the Grey Wardens, as he thinks it will help to have one of our number accustomed to the surface when we march out. That is perfectly sensible, of course, but in truth, I would want to leave, whether the dwarves mobilized or no."

Bronwyn considered her. "There is little to choose between the Legion and Wardens, as far as I can see. We are both pledged to fight darkspawn until death."

"That is true," the woman granted, "but at least I will not die in service to King Bhelen. My belly roils at the very thought of it."

"You are a partisan of Lord Harrowmont?" Bronwyn asked. There were plenty of those about Orzammar, and very discontented they were.

"No. My name is—or was—Gytha Aeducan. I am King Bhelen's sister, whom he killed."

"So she's technically dead?" Alistair whispered loudly. Bronwyn hushed him. Much of their conversation could be covered by the sound of him honing his beautiful new sword. They had found it in the Deep Roads, long abandoned, and it was a beauty: a dragonbone longsword, richly enchanted with runes. It was a sword fit for a King...or a Warden. They had done a bit of research, and believed they knew who it had once belonged to-a Warden who had come, centuries ago, to the Deep Roads to fight his last battle.

Bronwyn admired the blade, and whispered, on a thread of breath, "Yes. She was put out in the Deep Roads without armor or weapons; without an opportunity to defend herself before the lords of the Assembly. She found the Legion and joined them, but in doing so, lost all right to challenge her brother for the crown of Orzammar. She is legally dead, and that, by ancient law, cannot be reversed. She has no future here."

Alistair grinned. "It's true. Being a Grey Warden is totally better than being dead. You're going to bring her along, aren't you? Gossip says that she's quite a warrior—she even fought in her own Honor Proving and defeated all comers!"

"Frankly, I'm worried about how well our dwarves will adjust to the surface, but yes, I won't refuse her. If it's all right with Kardol, I see no reason to object. I'm glad she's kept her helmet on, though. Someone might recognize her, and the King would certainly get the wrong impression, if he heard she was in our company. She wishes to use the name Astrid, which was the name of the warrior who last wore the armor she bears now. It was her name in the Legion. I'll have Leliana ride double with her. If we're attacked, the dwarves are to dismount immediately and fight on foot."

"And then we hope that Riordan will put together some sort of Joining for our recruits."

"I don't see why he couldn't," Bronwyn said, pulling a flask out of a bag. "While I didn't have everyone gather a vial of their own, I collected this. Anders put a preservation charm on it for me. There should be enough here, don't you think?

Oghren dealt with the surface the best of the three dwarves. He swayed, his eyes rolling a bit, and took deep breaths.

"Remember what I told you," Tara said anxiously. "Don't look at the sky. Look at the ground. Focus on that. I know what it's like to see the sun and the sky for the first time!"

Brosca stared at the sun in awe. "It's so bright. It's like a thousand torches! It hurts to look at it."

Anders grabbed her head and pushed it down. "Don't stare at the sun! You can go blind!"

Astrid—the former Gytha Aeducan—said nothing at all, but clutched the stone of the doors of Orzammar, looking sick. She glanced briefly at Bronwyn, saw her sympathetic look, and snarled softly. She shook her head, fixed her eyes of the ground, and walked forward into the sunlight.

"This is weird," Brosca complained, clinging to Cullen. "It's like being on the outside of the world!"

"We are on the outside of the world," Cullen pointed out.

"Yeah. That's just wrong." She hid her face behind his broad back.

It took a day or two before the dwarves could deal with simply walking back and forth from the inn to the stable and back. None of them had ever seen a horse, and it seemed a good idea to accustom them to the idea that they would be sitting on those tall, powerful, four-legged creatures.

"Like brontos," considered Oghren, "but skinnier."

"How smart are they?" wondered Brosca. "Are they smart like Scout or stupid like nugs? Do they eat what we do, or do they hunt their own prey? Are they always big like that?"

Tara told her, "There are short horses called ponies. We don't have any, though. Bronwyn likes big horses."

Brosca nodded, and looked closer. "Is that horse-?" She looked again and burst out laughing. "Somebody cut his balls off! Did he get in a fight?"

"Horses are cut to keep them docile," explained the better-read Astrid, gritting her teeth. "And quiet."

"I can be quiet," Oghren assured them all. "And I'm going to sleep in my armor, just in case anybody's wondering…"

Anders urged his horse forward, and muttered in Bronwyn's ear. "They're not happy. Not happy at all."

Bronwyn looked back at the dwarves, uncomfortably riding pillion behind her other companions. "I don't blame them, but it can't be helped. We'll be at Gherlen's Halt by nightfall, and they'll be indoors then. Of course it's very unpleasant and disorienting for them. Do you think it could actually make them sick?"

"Possibly. It's good that they'll have a rest under a stone roof tonight. I'll keep an eye on them. So will Tara. She understands what they're feeling."

Sure enough, Tara was chatting earnestly with a sullen Astrid, who was riding behind Leliana. Leliana, too, put in some cheerful words. Oghren took frequent swigs from the leather flask at his side. Brosca was completely hidden by Cullen, except for her arms, which were wrapped tightly around him. The ex-Templar looked bemused. He sensed Bronwyn's gaze and turned red. Bronwyn hid her smile at the sight.

They stopped for a meal when the sun was directly above them, and Zevran surpassed himself with a tasty stew. The dwarves did not eat a great deal, but Bronwyn and Alistair certainly enjoyed it, unabashed about consuming what their new companions did not. Astrid sat a little apart, not speaking with her fellow dwarves. Bronwyn hoped that her high birth was not going to prove a problem, because in real terms it was worth less than nothing. Oghren and Brosca grunted agreement that the sun was unnecessarily bright, and that the blue sky was a pretty color, but very flimsy-looking.

It was chilly as they moved into the Pass proper, and Bronwyn began thinking that a warm fire inside stout walls would be the best possible thing for her, too. She was about to tell Alistair so, when Morrigan, in hawk form, screed out an alarm. Scout barked once, and lowered his head to charge.

A rustle of leaves, a muted whistle, and arrows began thudding into saddles and armor. Trampler reared and screamed an arrow hanging loosely from his powerful neck. Sten ripped the arrow out, and looked about furiously.

The ambush was above them, the assailants sheltered behind a rockfall. Lightning spat at them.

"A mage!" Bronwyn shouted, spurring her horse forward. "Morrigan! Target him!"

More arrows hissed at them. Whoever had attacked them was very professional. There were muttered orders, but no curses or threats, no posturing at all: just a steady stream of arrows and spells.

Tara shrieked an incantation, waving her staff. Brosca slid off the back of Cullen's horse, and began clambering up the slope, dodging behind rocks and shrubs. Oghren and Astrid were with her.

Charging up on horseback, while tempting, just made her a bigger, easier target. Bronwyn leaped from her horse and ran, crouched low, blocking one arrow, and ignoring another that thunked into the ground beside her. Scout was by her side, as she pressed herself flat against the rocks, and caught her breath. Leliana had found a good spot and was returning arrows at the attackers when they stood up to shoot.

"Ha! Got you!" she shrieked.

Astrid called out to Alistair and the two of them locked their shields together. Bronwyn darted out to shelter behind them, Scout running ahead. In a flash, Zevran and Brosca had joined them and they ran as one up the slope. They glimpsed the enemy mage, struggling against a glyph of paralysis, and then they gave a shout, falling on the ambushers, peeling off as each chose a target.

Tara ruthlessly pressed her attack against the mage: another young woman, another elf. Within moment, the unknown mage was fading to the ground, sapped of magic and life.

"Get the little redhead!" ordered a big man further up the slope. "Get her! She's the one we want!"

Bronwyn slashed at a hard-faced man in leather armor, feinting with her sword and stabbing with her dagger. He tried to bash at her with his shield, but she side-stepped him, and stabbed again, where his armor joined at the side. A howl of pain, and he froze just long enough for Astrid to hew his legs out from under him. Scout grabbed his shoulder in massive jaws, and shook him like a rat.

A tingle of rejuvenation: Anders was looking out for her. Further up, Sten had engaged two of the ambushers, and was using his blade to demolish the stunted tree they were trying to use as cover. Leliana got one with an arrow through the temple. The man's look of horror made Bronwyn queasy for a moment.

A crash of armor: Cullen had been knocked flat on his back by a big qunari mercenary. Brosca lunged in, cutting the man's hamstrings as he brought up his sword for a killing blow. He sagged, and Cullen was up and ramming Yusaris through him. Brosca squealed in blood-thirsty delight.

How many ambushers were there? A few more archers up on the rocks, and that leader who had rallied them against Leliana.

"I want that man alive to answer questions!" Bronwyn shouted pointing at him. The man was tough, no doubt about it: he shrugged off a cold spell, fighting desperately as Zevran and Alistair attacked him from either side.

The twang of a bowstring came only from their side now. One of the enemy archers had fallen from the rocks, sliding down in a rush of gravel and a heedless clatter of arrows. The leader, bleeding heavily, was trying pull back, possibly to make a run for it. Brosca caught him across the face with a well-thrown rock, and Zevran tripped him.

He crawled away crab-wise, as if he imagine that he could escape the Wardens. He had good armor. A well-paid mercenary? Bronwyn strode after him remorselessly, a deadly rhythm to her stride.

"Don't hurry away, " she said calmly, "We haven't had a proper chat. You're going to tell me everything, or the next few minutes are going to be thoroughly nasty, especially for you."

Anders came up to join them, healing a cut above Cullen's brow. He gave Bronwyn an uncharacteristically stern look at her words. She gazed back blandly. Scout growled at their captive.

The mercenary looked up at the faces around him. His hand moved for a dagger, and was stilled, as Oghren stamped on it with a metal-shod boot.

Bronwyn asked abruptly, "Who sent you?" The mercenary spat on the ground in defiance.

"Ah, my friend," Zevran sighed. "Do not be foolish. I speak as one who has been in exactly your position. You are bleeding, and will not survive long without the favor of this noble Grey Warden. You do not look surprised to hear the name. So you did know that your target was traveling in the company of Grey Wardens. That was very bold of you. I salute your courage."

Leliana spoke up, her pretty voice hard. "It was Marjolaine, wasn't it? Is she still in Denerim?"

The mercenary sneered at her. "You're as good as dead!"

"Well," Bronwyn said mildly, "You would know. You must be feeling quite light-headed by now. I have an excellent healer with me, but I see no point on wasting his ability on someone who prefers to die."

"I'll talk," the man growled, "but only to her." He jabbed a gauntleted finger at Leliana. He grinned horribly, blood frothing over yellow teeth, and beckoned. "Come a little closer, and I'll give you the message she sent..."

"Unacceptable," Bronwyn refused briskly. "Speak up."

"Bronwyn," Anders murmured, "if I'm going to do anything, it needs to be now!"

A small sliver of metal spun from the man's left hand, almost too fast to see. Leliana jerked back, and it struck Morrigan, standing just behind her. The witch shrieked, startled and hurt.

"Die, bitch!" the mercenary grunted, and then groaned, impaled on Sten's sword. Oghren kicked his hand away, and he rattled out his last breath.

Morrigan sat down abruptly, eyes wide. The dagger was lodged just under her collar-bone. Anders was with her in an instant, lowering her back gingerly on the stony ground. Scout whined.

"You're all right," he said, voice warm and soothing. "You're fine. I can fix this right away." The tiny dagger was meticulously removed, sniffed, and then cast aside. "Nothing that I can't deal with. Zevran, get the blue flask out of my bag while I work on the bleeding."

The antidote was smeared on the open wound, and then Anders' fingertips shivered with healing magic, running delicately over Morrigan's skin. "See?" he murmured. "Not even a scar."

Morrigan, lips pale and thinned with anxiety, shuddered under his touch. "I had rather not been stabbed at all!"

"No doubt, but it's nothing," Anders assured her. "Absolutely nothing in the world. Have a swallow of this, and don't move for a few minutes." He sat down beside her, holding her hand, and she did not reject him. He waved the others away. Tara and Brosca grinned at each other. Bronwyn stood back, watching the scene, once again congratulating herself for conscripting Anders.

She raised her voice in command. "I want you to search the bodies of all these men!" she ordered. "Search their pockets, their clothes, their boots. Search everything! Lay everything out beside each man, so I know who had what. I have a lot of questions that need answering."

She turned to Leliana. "Come with me," she said quietly, taking the girl by the arm. It was clearly not a request. "Scout! Stay with Morrigan and Anders!" They walked together in silence, until Bronwyn reached a crag overlooking a turn in the road. "Let step a bit out of sight, shall we? I hope it's not necessary for everyone to see how angry I am."

Leliana flicked a guilty look her way. Bronwyn let go of her arm, leaned back against the rock, and wasted no time.

"Now we are going to talk—frankly. And I don't want it to be about what the Maker told you or about what Andraste said or about anything other than the questions I am going to ask. You are going to tell me why someone spent a great deal of money tracking you down and wanting you and everyone you travel with dead. You are going to tell me all about this Marjolaine person. Now."

Leliana's large blue eyes were full of tears. "I had put that life behind me—" she looked again at Bronwyn's expression, and stopped. "You are right. I must tell you everything. It all happened so long ago. I thought she had forgotten me, or decided I was of no importance."

Bronwyn stared at her stonily. Leliana twisted her hands together. "The man said 'she.' 'She' can only mean Marjolaine. My bardmaster. I was…a bard…before I entered the Chantry."

"I thought as much," Bronwyn said briefly. "You were no mere minstrel. I do know something of Orlais. I assumed you were a bard who found that life tiresome, for some reason or other. Now that your former associates have tried to kill me, I cannot let you keep secrets. Why does Marjolaine want you dead now?"

"She may still be angry about how we parted…"

"No." Bronwyn cut her off, lips pressed together in controlled fury. "No. She could have killed you any time in the past two years. She obviously knew where you were. What is it about your current situation that drew her interest? Which of us in this party? Or is it the mere fact that you appear to be going to Orlais? Is she afraid you will contact someone?"

"I am not sure. I am no longer current with the Game. You must understand that I am telling you the truth! I will tell you everything, and you must judge for yourself."

So it all came out: how Leliana had been trained by this Marjolaine. How she had loved her, and how Marjolaine had betrayed her, making it appear that Leliana had stolen state documents. It had all been a prank, Leliana thought, a trick to embarrass a great nobleman. When she had actually seen the contents of the documents, she realized that the Game was being played for stakes far higher than she had imagined. Marjolaine had been very kind, and agreed that she should be allowed to put the documents back where she found them. Leliana had thought herself safe, right up until the moment Marjolaine stabbed her, and turned her over to the guards...

Bronwyn wondered about the documents, and let the girl continue her story.

"This all happened at the Arl of Denerim's estate in the city? Not in Orlais?"

"No—no. Marjolaine has worked in Denerim for several years now. When I went for the documents, I thought she was charming an officer away as a diversion, but when I was captured, that officer, I discovered, was her lover. He was a terrible man. His name was Harwen Raleigh."

Brought up short, Bronwyn stared at her. Harwen Raleigh had been a very notable figure in the Rebellion, and commander of a famous company, The Hard Line. He had been dispossessed by the Orlesians, and his hatred was such that he and his men had tortured and killed prisoners in ways so vicious that King Maric had disavowed him. Raleigh's lands had not been restored, and he had taken service as commander of the Arl of Denerim's guard. He had been murdered, under mysterious circumstances—

—Two years ago.

"Did you kill him?" Bronwyn interrupted to ask.

"Yes." Leliana met her eyes with a dark look. "Yes. I mean...the last blow was struck by my friend Silas, who had suffered from him as well, but I was there. Marjolaine escaped, and I was sickened by it all, and did not pursue her. You must understand, when I was captured…He did terrible things to me…"

"I am sure he did. Where is this Silas now?"

"I am not sure. He, too, decided to give his life to serving the Chantry. The last I heard, he had become a Templar, and was serving at the Grand Cathedral in Val Royeauxl."

"Do you think this Marjolaine would pursue him, too?'

"No…no. Silas only aided my escape. I think this is about something else."

"It's about those documents you stole and returned isn't it?"

"I think it must be."

"And you read them."

"Of course."

Bronwyn glared at her. "I'm waiting."

Leliana hesitated. "This is…perilous information. I am afraid that it will endanger you…"

"It has already endangered me. This Marjolaine of yours will proceed on the assumption that I have this information, anyway. Tell me everything."

Leliana took a deep breath, and plunged into her explanation. "Marjolaine is a...conduit of information. She is the eyes and ears of the Empress in Denerim-though I believe the Empress has other eyes and ears as well. Many people wish to communicate with the Empress of Orlais, but of course it would be considered treason to do so though any but official diplomatic channels...You know this, I am sure. Still, there are those who do wish to communicate privately with the Empress, and Marjolaine is their contact."

"Who?"

"The Arl of Denerim is one. The letters I saw mentioned the Arl of Redcliffe as well-the one who is dead now. Marjolaine also...received communications from the Palace. She did not tell me outright, but I believe King Cailan used her to send messages to the Empress that he did not wish his Queen or Teyrn Loghain to know of."

Bronwyn felt a cold trickle of dread at the words, and believed them if only for that reason. Cailan treating in secret with the Empress? That fool! she thought instantly. Playing at diplomacy like a child! What has he told her? What undertakings has he made?

Keeping her voice level, she said, "I need to know exactly what those papers contained."

It could actually have been worse. Leliana recalled no explicit vows of loyalty in the letters, but Arl Urien had given the Empress a great deal of useful information, apparently in exchange for gold and some quiet trade concessions: the numbers and armaments of the Royal Army; details of the fortifications of the walls, the Gate House, and of Fort Drakon; plans for ship-building and new fortifications at Highever and Amaranthine; gossip about the fractures in the relationship between the King and his father-in-law; the state of health of everyone of importance; and the Arl's own opinion that the Queen would never bear a child, not because she was necessarily barren (though that was a useful rumor), but because the King was sterile.

At that last, Bronwyn gasped and leaned against the stones, now warmed by the late afternoon sun. "Maker's Blood!" she groaned. "Do you know where Marjolaine lives in Denerim?" she asked, after a moment.

"I know the house where she lived two years ago. It is in the Market District..."

"Good. I believe we shall have to pay her a call. Very soon."

The pass narrowed up ahead, and was mostly filled by the road. Bronwyn could see why the Orlesians had chosen to invade by sea, rather than squeezing through this difficult mountain route. That the Tevinters of old had succeeded in putting the road through here was a testament to their brilliant engineering and powerful magic.

Bronwyn called all her companions together, and impressed on them the importance of saying absolutely nothing about the ambush. If they were to have revenge, no warning must reach those who had paid for the attack. No one was to speak of it: not to the the soldiers at Gherlen's Halt, not to the maids, the stableboys, or any chance acquaintances.

The papers on the mercenaries were vague-or more likely, made use of code names-but they hinted at things that made Bronwyn very worried about the state of Ferelden. It would not be enough to simply send a note to Fergus, warning him about this woman Marjolaine. She needed to be stopped, and all her correspondence needed to be impounded before she could destroy it.

But did such a mission justify the attention of all the Wardens in Ferelden? Probably not. If Riordan came...if there could be a Joining...if enough of her companions survived...Oh, Maker, protect them!...Then, perhaps, she might consider dividing their force. Alistair could lead the party that would travel with the dwarves on the surface. She could take a few reliable companions and ride for Denerim, as quickly as possible.

A few twists, and they came upon a small fortress, carved out of the living rock. This was Gherlen's Halt. Dwarven work, by the look of it. Not half a mile away, its twin frowned at them, The Orlesian castle, Roc du Chevalier, was more elaborate and much, much larger.

Gherlen's Halt was quite old, and bore the scars of the terrible siege of Blessed 8:85, when it held out for eight months against the Orlesians. It had fallen at last, and the survivors of the garrison had been been slaughtered to the last man, woman, and child. Unsurprisingly, the current garrison regarded their opposite numbers on the other side of the border with inveterate dislike and suspicion.

"I'm not to give passage to parties of Orlesians of over ten," the commander warned them. "Not even if they're Grey Wardens." The man's voice gentled. "Not to be disrespectful. We've received word of the Battle of Ostagar, even in this Maker-forsaken place. We've heard what you did. It's just that I have my orders, you understand."

"Of course. I intend to go to the Rock alone to deliver a message. One of the Orlesian Wardens said he would meet with me if I sent a message to him in Jader. I wasn't a Grey Warden more than a day before the battle, and there's a great deal about the Grey Wardens I simply don't know. Are you sending reports regularly to Teyrn Loghain?" Bronwyn asked, fastening on his earlier remark.

"Every month, my lady. Mind you, I don't always hear back. Queer things happen to the couriers, sometimes."

"No doubt! However, I have news for the teyrn that he will want as soon as possible. Would it be possible for me to send a report to him through you? And a letter to my brother, Teyrn Cousland?"

"Of course, my lady!"

This was plain good news. Equally welcome was the commander's willingness to put up their party, dwarves, elves, qunari, and all.

"I still don't like the idea of you going by yourself, Bronwyn," Alistair complained.

"Alistair," Bronwyn said softly. "You can't cross the border into Orlais. Not half a mile, not a yard, not an inch. It would get about that you "went to Orlais," and you know it would make people suspicious of your motives. You, above all, can't do anything questionable."

"You mean Teyrn Loghain wouldn't like it!" he challenged her.

"Obviously he wouldn't like it, but I'm just as worried that other people will start whispering that you were secretly dealing with the Orlesians. After what happened on the way here we can't take for granted that your secret really is a secret. People are watching us, Alistair: people who have motives and agendas of their own. You think nobody knows that you're the son of the King, but I suspect that one day it is going to come out, and then people will scrutinize your every move very carefully."

Alistair was not the only one who disliked the idea of her riding across the border alone.

"I'll go with you," Cullen volunteered. "Why shouldn't you have a companion? It's appropriate, after all."

"I could go—" Anders spoke up.

"No mages," Bronwyn decided. "No mages at all. We know that the Orlesians are even more strict about Chantry doctrine than we are in Ferelden. You're not officially a Grey Warden yet, and if they knew that, someone might try to make trouble. If you really want to go, Cullen, let's get moving. No, Scout, you stay. Orlesians don't understand about proper dogs."

The towers and battlements of Roc du Chevalier loomed closer as they trotted across the no-man's land between the two castles. Bronwyn felt horribly exposed. They were challenged at the gate house, and Bronwyn called back. "I am the Grey Warden Bronwyn. I have come with a message for the Senior Warden of Jader!"

There was an inaudible exchange, and the enormous portcullis was cranked up.

"You may pass, Grey Wardens!"

Bronwyn kept her face completely blank, thinking that nearly all Fereldans who had seen the wide and paved courtyard of the Rock had seen it as prisoners, who were either awaiting execution by beheading or breaking on the wheel, or who had been sentenced to be cast into the notorious oubliettes of the dungeons, where they would never see the light of day again. She glanced up at the heavy stone gate, and saw a murder hole directly above her, where defenders could pour boiling oil or molten lead on an attacker. She gritted her teeth, refusing to shudder in front of the enemies of her blood.

Deferential elven grooms hurried up. They helped Bronwyn and Cullen dismount, and held their horses, eyes cast down.

A tall chevalier in splendid armor emerged from a door at the top of a stone staircase. He came down the steps with dignity and gave them a gracious bow. "You are the Grey Warden Bronwyn Cousland, I presume?" he asked. "Berthold de Guesclin, Commander of the Rock, à votre service."

Bronwyn bowed in her turn, and slipped into Orlesian easily enough. Her parents had insisted that she must know Orlesian, and know it well. Aldous had drummed it into her, sometimes with a whitewood switch. A pillar of her education was the demand that she speak, read, and write this language, and thus avoid the thousand inconveniences, embarrassments, and dangers that befell nobles on a diplomatic mission who did not speak the local tongue.

De Guesclin was impressed by her fluency and charmed by her excellent accent. His brows rose and his smile broadened as he complimented her gallantly.

"You are the daughter of that noble man, le Prince Cousland! I once had the honor to be in company with him, on the occasion of his visit to Val Royaux."

He was courteous to Cullen, too, at first thinking him Alistair. Bronwyn watched these civilities uneasily. De Guesclin was very well informed about her party. Then she relaxed. Of course, the Grey Warden messenger sent by Riordan would know the names of the two actual Grey Wardens.

De Guesclin led them to his luxurious office, offered them wine, and mentioned that the last Grey Warden to visit had been hoping that Bronwyn would have a message for the Senior Warden of Jader.

"I received his invitation, as you see," said Bronwyn lightly, "and I am here. I have a letter to be delivered to him in Jader, if it does not inconvenience you."

"No inconvenience at all," de Guesclin assured her with a laugh. "I was not proposing to deliver it myself. Ogier!" he called.

A young officer appeared.

"The Grey Warden Bronwyn has a message for the Senior Warden of Jader. It is to be delivered to him with all speed." He turned to Bronwyn. "Is the letter already prepared?"

"Yes." Bronwyn passed the sealed parchment to young Ogier. "My thanks!"

"An honor," Ogier assured her. De Guesclin waved him away, and the young man hurried out, boots sounding on the stone of the steps. He called for a horse and within a few minutes was clattering out of the courtyard.

"He will be there by tonight," said de Guesclin. "The road to Jader is excellent. It is entirely possible that Warden Riordan will be here before noon tomorrow. I gathered that he was most anxious to speak to you."

Bronwyn smiled. "I am most anxious to speak to him." She considered the contents of her brief message.

Greetings, Senior Warden Riordan:

Your message gave Alistair and myself no small amount of pleasure. We have arrived at Gherlen's Halt. We bring with us a number of recruits who wish to take the Joining. It would be of great service if you would bring what is necessary. Since some are still undecided, we must plan for a maximum of eight, and a minimum of five.

If you have any books of lore that you think would be of use to new Wardens, it would be a kindness to allow us a look at them.

Your sister,

Bronwyn

Since she had no idea what it was proper to call her herself, she gave only her name. She was about to write "Cousland" after her first name, and then remembered that Grey Wardens were not really supposed to have family names. Teyrn Loghain might regard her as the commander in Ferelden, but to call herself commander when she commanded only one other Warden seemed foolishly arrogant. No doubt this Riordan would regard her as a neophyte, and she had no desire to appear any more green than was completely unavoidable.

And then there was a need to deal with de Guesclin briskly, for the chevalier offered them the hospitality of his castle until the arrival of Riordan. This Bronwyn had expected, and had prepared a polite refusal, and a reference to her companions left at Gherlen's Halt. It was impossible to expect a Fereldan to voluntarily stay at a place so infamous, and perhaps de Guesclin understood that, for he very civilly did not press the matter. Bronwyn and Cullen finished their wine, paid the appropriate compliments, and rode out through the portcullis again with all the dispatch consistent with courtesy. Bronwyn gave a deep sigh of relief when she was out of bowshot.

The accommodations at Gherlen's Halt were not at all up to the standard of the Wardens' Hostel in Orzammar, but Bronwyn did not expect them to be. They were given a big stone room with a fire on the hearth and rough bunk beds lining one of the walls. There was a trestle table with benches in the middle of the floor. The food they were served was plain but plentiful, and Bronwyn kept a close eye on her people, just in case someone should start blabbing about today's adventures when the servants could hear them.

Alistair spoke low, his hand over his mouth. "So we're going to Denerim to track this woman down? Isn't that out of our way?"

"It is out of our way, but Marjolaine has threatened the mission of the Wardens. We can't let that stand. And there is the matter of Howe, too. He may be in Denerim, pleading his case before the Queen. He, too, has tried to thwart us. It all depends on who we're left with after the Joining. I'm praying that they all make it. If there are enough of us, we might split up."

"They might," Alistair consoled her. "They just might! They're a tough bunch, and they've all fought darkspawn now. I've heard of Joinings that everyone survived. It happens. One request: if we split up, don't put me in charge, and don't make me take Morrigan."

Bronwyn laughed out loud at that, shaking her head. If they split up, Alistair would definitely be in charge of his party, and he would have to accept his responsibilities, both as a Warden and as King Maric's son. There would be time to persuade him of the necessity later. "Cullen!" she called down the table. "Thank you for riding with me today. You looked suitably stern and impressive."

The man blushed, and Brosca jabbed him in the ribs, grinning broadly. "Big and healthy! I like that in a man! So," she said, "How about it?"

Cullen looked at her warily out of the corner of his eye, ready to run. "How about what?"

"A story!" Brosca shouted. "You're next! I know you are! Here we are in a nice, safe, stony place, so it's time for you to tell a story."

"I know he's got one," Tara declared. "I've seen him practicing."

Cheers and applause. Now red as a sugar beet, Cullen rose, stood by the fire, and cleared his throat. Several times.

Cullen's story of the King of the Golden Mountain:

There was once a young man named Jack, whose father and mother had died. The farm went to his elder brother, and the brother's wife wanted to get rid of Jack, for she said he was too big and too clumsy, and was eating them out of house and home. So Jack went out into the world to seek his fortune. He took service on a ship bound for the north, but there was a great storm, and the ship broke apart. Jack was very strong, and clung to a piece of wreckage all night, and in the morning found himself on the shores of a strange land.

He roused himself, and looked about, and began walking. Soon he saw a beautiful castle before him, and set out to go to it. But when he entered it, he found that it was cursed. Everywhere were snares and traps. Jack had no weapon but his fists, and fought manfully every step of the way. He went through every room, but all were empty until he reached the last, where a snake lay coiled in a ring. Jack looked for something he could use to kill it, when the snake spoke to him.

Now this snake was an enchanted maiden, who rejoiced at his coming, and she said, "Have you come at last, my deliverer? I have waited so long for you. I and my kingdom, the Golden Mountain, are enslaved by magic, and you must set us free."

"How can I do that?" wondered Jack.

The snake replied, "Tonight will come twelve demon thralls, covered with chains, who will ask what you are doing here; but be silent, give them no answer, and let them do what they will with you. They will torment you, beat you, stab you, but do not speak. At midnight they must go away again. On the second night twelve others will come, on the third, four-and-twenty. These will cut off your head. At midnight, however, their power will be over, and then if you have endured all, and have not spoken the slightest word, I shall be delivered. After they have gone, I will come to you and will have, in a bottle, some of the Water of Life. I will rub you with that, and then you will come to life again, and be as healthy as before."

Then said he, "I will gladly set you free."

And everything happened just as she had said, the demon thralls could not force a single word from him, and on the third night the snake became a beautiful princess, who came with the water of life and brought him back to life again.

So she threw herself into his arms and kissed him, and there was joy and gladness in the whole castle. After this their marriage was celebrated, and he was King of the Golden Mountain.

They lived very happily together, and the queen bore a fine boy. Five years passed, and then the King bethought him of his brother, his heart was moved, and he wished to visit him. The Queen, however, would not let him go away, and said, "I foresee that it will cause us unhappiness."

He would not be denied, and allowed her no rest until she consented. At their parting she gave him a wishing-ring, and said, "Take this ring and put it on your finger, and then you will immediately be transported whithersoever you would be: only you must promise me to return in three days."

That he promised her, put the ring on his finger, and wished himself at home, just outside the farmhouse where his brother lived. Instantly he found himself there, but when he came to the door, his brother's wife did not know him at first, because he wore such strange and yet such rich and magnificent clothing. Then she recognized him, and thought, "Jack has come into some money. It is time he shared his good fortune with his family."

His brother came from the fields, and his wife whispered to him of Jack's great wealth. They made a great show of welcome to him and gave him a good meal, and asked him where had been for the past five years. Then he told them that he was King of the Golden Mountain, that a wise and beautiful Queen was his wife, and that they had a fine son, just turned four years old.

"He has come to take back the farm, certainly," said the brother's wife. The brother agreed, for Jack was bigger and stronger, and in the past five years had become bigger and stronger still.

Then the wife put a certain herb in Jack's ale, which caused him to fall asleep. While he slept, the brother and his wife stripped him of his clothes and jewels and coin. They even took the wishing-ring, but when the brother's wife touched it, it burnt her finger, for it was a thing not right for her to touch. This angered her, and she threw it in the dung-heap. They put Jack in a wheelbarrow, and trundled him, half-naked as he was, out to the forest, and left him there.

When he awoke, he found himself in nothing but his smallclothes, and the ring was gone from his finger. He rushed from the forest in a rage to seek revenge against his treacherous brother. When he came near the farm, however, he saw that a crowd of neighbors were there, for the brother and his wife had sent word that Jack was a mage, and had threatened them. Jack listened from hiding in dismay. He could prove he was not a mage, but he could not prove they had robbed and betrayed him. Sick at heart, he turned away, only snatching some ragged garments from a clothesline to cover himself. Even his fine boots were gone.

He said to himself, "I must be off, and find a ship that can take me back to the Golden Mountain." So he went away in sorrow, and walked far and wide for many months, hungry and alone, but no one he spoke to knew where he might find the Golden Mountain.

He came one day to a glade where some Dalish elves were gathered, disputing with each other because they did not know how to divide their clan's heirlooms.

When they saw him passing by, they called to him and said, "You are a shemlen and have no personal interest in our quarrel, and thus will be able to divide our heirlooms fairly."

There were three items in dispute. The first was a sword, set with fine jewels. This sword had a great power. If anyone took it in his hand, and said, "All heads off but mine," every head would lie on the ground. The second item was a cloak which made anyone who put it on invisible. The third was a pair of boots which could transport the wearer to any place he wished in a moment. Jack agreed to help them, and said, "Give me the three things that I may see if they are still in good condition."

They gave him the cloak, and when he had put it on, he was invisible indeed. Then he said, "The cloak does all you claim. Now give me the sword."

They said, "No, we will not give you that, for if you were to say, 'all heads off but mine,' we would be beheaded straightaway."

Nevertheless they gave it to him on the condition that he was only to try it against a tree. This he did, and the sword cut in two the trunk of a tree as if it had been a blade of straw. Then he wanted to have the boots likewise, but they said, "No, we will not give them, for if you had them on your feet and were to wish yourself at the top of the hill, we should be left down here with nothing."

Jack shook his head, and said, "Oh, no. I would never do that."

So they gave him the boots as well. When he had got all these things, he could not help thinking of his wife and his child, and no sooner had the wish to see them crossed his mind, then he vanished from the sight of the elves, and thus was their inheritance divided. Jack knew he had wronged the elves, but he did not regret it, for before him was the Golden Mountain, and he would soon see the ones he loved again.

As Jack came to the palace, he heard sounds of joy, of lutes and of flutes, and the people told him that the Queen was celebrating her wedding to a great nobleman. Then he fell into a rage, and said, "The wicked woman! She, too, has betrayed and deserted me!"

So he put on his cloak, and unseen by all went into the palace. When he entered the dining-hall a great table was spread with delicious food, and the guests were eating and drinking and laughing and jesting. The Queen sat on a royal seat in the midst of them in splendid apparel, with a crown on her head.

Jack placed himself behind her, and no one saw him. When she put a piece of meat on a plate for herself, he took it away and ate it, and when she poured out a glass of wine for herself, he took it away and drank it. She was always helping herself to something, and yet she never got anything, for plate and glass disappeared immediately. Then she arose and went to her chamber and wept, but he followed her there. She said, "Am I still in the power of the demon? Did my deliverer never come?"

Jack struck her in the face, and said, "'Did your deliverer never come?' I am here, faithless as you are. Did I deserve such treatment from you?" And he removed the cloak, and was visible.

"How dare you strike me!" the Queen cried. "It is you! It is you! You swore to return in three days, and you have been gone a year! I thought you dead, or that you had forgotten me!"

Jack was ashamed, and told her of his brother's wife's treachery.

"Is it not as I said?" the Queen demanded. "Was not your journey a misfortune for us both? And now all the nobles in the land have gathered and demanded that I take one of them as my husband. I have not the power to be rid of them. If I refuse, they will kill me and our son!"

Jack said, "Fear nothing, and stay within these rooms with the door closed."

Then he went into the hall, and cried, "The wedding is at an end. The true king has returned!"

The noblemen who were assembled there laughed him to scorn, but he did not trouble to answer them, and said, "Will you go away, or will you not?"

They rushed at him and tried to seize him, but he drew his sword and shouted, "All heads off but mine!"

Then all their heads fell to the ground, and he was then and forever more King of the Golden Mountain.

"I want that sword," said Brosca, "but only if I'm on my own. It would be really embarrassing to cut off all your friends' heads, too."

"It most certainly would," Bronwyn agreed sternly. "So don't anybody get any ideas about charming weapons that way."

Leliana thought it over. "That is a very good story. So he did make peace with his wife, did he not?"

Morrigan snickered, "As long as she did not become too curious, and open the door!"

Tara and Zevran were not so pleased. "It seems to me," Zevran pointed out, "that while everything worked out so very well for the hero of the tale, the Dalish elves did not exactly benefit by his mediation."

"He was a thieving shem," Tara muttered, glaring at Cullen.

"He didn't mean to be," he admitted sheepishly.

Astrid spoke up, surprising Bronwyn. "He allowed himself to be tricked by his brother. He should have been more cautious."

"Famous last words?" taunted Oghren, setting down his tankard and wiping foam from his mustache.

"Perhaps," Astrid granted sourly. "He underestimated the power of fraternal malice. That is a great mistake. He is fortunate to have survived."

Sten shook his head. "But the brother and his wife were fools. True, they might have obtained some money by the sale of the brother's clothes, but they might have gained more by having a brother who was a king, could they not? They could have asked for an estate in his kingdom and been rich. They were foolish and short-sighted and greedy, and thus, I must say, all too human. An instructive tale."

"It's no joke running through a forest in your smallclothes," Anders observed. He saw Alistair staring, and said, "What? It happens. I stole some clothes off a clothesline, too, once. A mustard-yellow doublet and striped red pants. The Templars arrested me for bad taste within the day."

Notes: Ogre-sized thanks to all my kind reviewers! Happy holidays to Shakespira, khaos974, jen4306, JackOfBladesX, Pirate Ninjas of the Abyss, Sarah1281, Katrina-Irene, Amhran Comhrac, Lehni, demonicnargles, Angurvddel, Gene Dark, mutive, elf fan, Aoi24, JOdel, mille libri, Dante Alighieri1308, Have Socks Will Travel, kwintessa, Piceron, Byron'sQmatchie, almostinsane, Windchime68, Dimensionist, Enaid Aderyn, RandomWittering, Halm Vendrella, Costin, and mieuwings.

The story is adapted from Grimm, but I have altered it quite a bit and added some of the return of Ulysses.