Victory at Ostagar

Notes: Major spoilers for The Calling below…

Chapter 25: Hands Across the Border

Wind whipped along the highest parapet of Gherlen's Halt. It was the perfect spot to see everything that moved across the border. As such, Bronwyn had assigned a rota of her companions to keep an eye on the road that led to Roc du Chevalier, and monitor any activity there.

"The Commander is of noble birth, then?" Astrid asked Tara, squinting against the strange, cold rush of air and the unnatural brightness of the surface.

"Very noble," Tara told her. "The Couslands are the most important family in Ferelden after the King. In fact, I heard that her father was nearly elected King himself. They say it doesn't matter, now that she's a Grey Warden, but I've noticed that often people treat us better because of her name. She knows lots of influential people. Of course, there was that time that some assassins tried to kill us because of a family feud, but we cut them down to size." She smothered her laughter with a hand. "But don't talk about that in front of Zevran. He led the assassins. It might hurt his feelings to remind him about his failure."

"Zevran attempted to assassinate her, and yet lives?" Astrid said coolly. "He must have exchanged a great deal of useful information to buy his life."

"That, too," agreed Tara, "but I don't think Bronwyn likes to kill people in cold blood. Once he surrendered, she felt she either had to let him go or take him along, and he asked to be taken along. Alistair told Cullen that she thought it was better to keep an eye on him than to let him sneak up behind us."

Astrid snorted. "Cutting his throat would have been the simplest option of all."

Tara disliked any criticism of the woman who had saved her. "Well, Bronwyn isn't simple."

Hours passed, and the day wore on. The sun dropped from the heights of noon. All the dwarves took their turn on the windy parapet. It was another way to acclimatize them to surface life, and not the most unpleasant. If the empty sky became unbearable, one could admire the engineering of the Rock or turn one's eyes to the stony cliff faces supporting Gherlen's Halt. You could also, like Oghren, learn not to spit into the wind.

And further below, in a corner of the room the Wardens shared, Bronwyn and Alistair bickered over their plans.

"You will lead the second party, Alistair, and I know you'll do well. I can't be in two places at once, and I must track down this woman in Denerim. Now look," she said, thumping the map. "We will proceed together to the Gherlen Docks, here, and if there is a ship available, sail across Lake Calenhad. The ship will drop me off here, and I will make a dash for Denerim through the Bannorn. If no ship is available, we will take the Imperial Highway north to the village by the Lake Calenhad docks. Our party will separate there. You will go to the Deep Roads entrance here, and camp, awaiting the dwarven army. Once the underground forces have arrived and resupplied, you will continue south with the surface contingents above ground on the Lake Road down to Lake Belennas, where you will once again reunite with the balance of King Bhelen's army. They will ascend to the surface, and march overland to Ostagar. I will meet you between there—" she pointed to the source of the River Dane "—and there" her finger traveled south to the other side of Lake Belennas. "We can ford the Narrows and take the Imperial Highway to the Hinterland Road, which will cut two days off your journey to Ostagar. We will access the Imperial Highway there, and then, if the army is still at Ostagar, we will join them."

"What if the army isn't there?" Alistair asked sullenly. "What if the King's retreated?"

"Well, I'll keep my ears open in Denerim. You do likewise as you go south. There may be news at the Spoiled Princess and all along the Lake Road. Send a rider to Lothering for news. We can't take the whole dwarven army through there—they would trample it flat—but we can get some supplies there and plenty of intelligence."

"I don't like it."

"I know."

A soldier popped his head through the door. "Warden! You've got visitors!"

Bronwyn stared at Alistair, who stared back. None of their lookouts had reported anyone crossing the border this morning.

Wondering if it might be a courier from King Bhelen, Bronwyn rose, and called back. "Who is it?"

"A man and an elf woman. Wouldn't give their names. They say you've got a 'mutual friend.'" The soldier snorted at the term. "Should we send them about their business?"

"No. I'll talk to them." She and Alistair looked at each other. If they were more assassins, they had picked the wrong killing ground.

Down the endless stairs, through the noisy sparring room, more stairs and then skirting the edge of the Great Hall. Quiet voices echoed off the lofty beamed ceiling. They walked out the wide doors. Down in the courtyard were their visitors, wrapped in anonymous grey cloaks.

Bronwyn's senses suddenly prickled. She stopped, and threw a wild look at Alistair. He was grinning enormously.

"Wardens!" he whispered eagerly. "Come on!"

She had not seen another Warden in months. These beings seemed as implausible as griffons. Striding swiftly toward them, she looked them over. The man was tall and dark-bearded, in his middle years but brimming with vigor. He looked back at her with a roguish gleam in his eye.

The elven woman's hair was streaked with white and cropped short. She was carrying a staff. A mage? She was not smiling, but seemed instead anxious and strained. She had eyes for no one but Alistair.

Bronwyn extended her hand to the man. "Brother!" she said softly, "—and sister! You are most welcome!"

The man took her hand, and bowed over it. "Riordan of Jader, and this," he gestured to his companion, "is Senior Mage Warden Fiona. We are delighted to meet you."

"I am Bronwyn, of course," she said, feeling a bit awkward.

"—and I'm Alistair."

"We've been watching for you all day," Bronwyn told them, "but you seem to have eluded our scrutiny."

"And that of others," Riordan said easily. "We wished to make an somewhat less—how shall I say?—conspicuous entrance than the commander of the Rock had planned. There are many paths through the Frostbacks."

"Well—" Bronwyn had rarely been so relieved. "Come and join us! Our accommodations are not the grandest, but you are welcome to all we have!"

"No," Fiona said, very sharp and quiet. Her eyes left Alistair long enough to give Bronwyn an odd, raking glance, her mouth pursed. She was beautiful, as elves generally were, and was possibly in her late thirties or early forties, but hers was a spare, ascetic beauty: to look at, and not to touch. Bronwyn sensed that for some reason the elf disapproved of her. She frowned in response, and Alistair hesitated, unsure of himself.

Riordan smiled at their expressions. "What my wise sister means to say is that the Commander here would not wish to admit two unknown Orlesians to his keep. And we do not wish to give our names, as Monseigneur de Guesclin is impatiently awaiting us at the Rock. His courier is resting quietly, with a most atrocious hangover, at the Compound in Jader, and will return with a message that both I and Warden Fiona were away. When we do arrive at the Rock in a few days, you will already, alas, have departed. Such a misfortune."

"Besides," Fiona added, her eyes still on Alistair, "you wish to hold a Joining, do you not? We cannot hold it in a castle, since there may be bodies to dispose of."

"I see," Bronwyn said slowly. Clearly these Wardens had expected trouble of some sort. "What do you propose?"

"There is an abandoned hunting lodge off the road, not far from here." He very quietly gave directions, while Bronwyn nodded, listening for the meaning beneath the words. "Meet us there. We shall have a long talk, and your friends shall have their Joining."

"Bring only those who have cast aside all doubt," Fiona added, her dark eyes burning.

"We're going to meet them and confer. Those of you who wish to become Wardens must come with us."

A rustle among the companions at the table. Oghren scratched his scalp.

"You don't think this is a trap or something, do you?" wondered Cullen.

Alistair huffed with annoyance. "No, it's not a trap. These are Wardens."

"I think it's clear that someone was planning something," Bronwyn temporized, "but Riordan and Fiona have evaded it, and wish us to evade it as well. We must go immediately, and we'll be gone all night. Pack up now if you're coming." She paused, and words of Duncan's, half-forgotten, came to her lips. "I will not lie. The Joining is dangerous. If you come with us, you cannot change your mind later on."

A silence. Then Tara got up, shoving her belongings into her backpack. "Well," she said, "I was conscripted, so I have to join. See you all later."

"Tara—" Bronwyn began.

"No," the elf insisted. "I have to join. If I don't, I might as well go back to the Circle and let them do whatever they like to me, because I wouldn't deserve any better." She managed a bleak little smile. "Maybe someday I'll be a Senior Mage Warden, like that Fiona. I can't wait to meet her."

Morrigan said briskly, "Well, I am not going with you, and will instead spend a pleasant day reading while the rest of you risk your lives." To emphasize her words, she lifted the book in her hands until it covered her face.

"Really?" Anders murmured, as he buckled his pack. "Not going?"

"Absolutely not. If you do not return in three days, I shall send a message to that Circle of yours, telling them that the whole Grey Warden business was perhaps not your best move."

"Suit yourself."

"I am not going either," Zevran said, flashing white teeth at Morrigan, "I shall instead endeavor to amuse the fair Wilder mage."

"Climb to the topmost parapet and let us see how well you fly," Morrigan shrugged. "I should find that most amusing."

Oghren stared at the table. "Is this a one-time offer, or can I think about it?"

Bronwyn looked over and smiled briefly. "Of course you can think about it. If you decide you want to be a Warden someday, then you would be welcome. Take all the time you like. But for today," she said, "we need to get moving."

So there were Tara and Anders, and Cullen, silently preparing himself, whispering a prayer. There was eager Brosca and further off, aloof Astrid. Leliana was hesitating… then made up her mind to it, and came to Bronwyn's side.

Sten stood at the window, frowning. "I have wrestled with this decision. The Qunari people have no treaty with the Grey Wardens, and thus your conscription has no force with me. I am under orders from the Arishok, and it seems to me that someday your orders and his might conflict. I will gladly serve you while here in this land, but some day I must return to my people and give my report. Therefore, I cannot join your Order. Do you wish me to leave your company?"

She was a little disappointed, but could see the logic of his position. "No. You are right. If your Arishok has a prior claim, it is proper that you do your duty. I welcome you as a companion, even if not as a Warden."

"It is well," he nodded. He sat down again, and took out his whetstone. By the time their party left, he was absorbed in sharpening his eating knife.

Up a rocky, winding path and into the trees. The horses picked their way carefully as the light dimmed. The riders brooded over what was to come. Bronwyn thought of the jar of darkspawn blood, cushioned in her backpack by her linen shirts. She hoped it would be enough.

The vertical shapes of the trees yielded to strange angles. A high-pitched roof and heavy beams appeared, and then, slowly, the lodge as whole, as if it were reluctant to admit to its identity.

"That must be the place," Alistair said quietly. Scout trotted ahead, sniffing. It was old and on the verge of crumbling: the ground floor of stone and the rest of dark timber. Smoke puffed from the chimney. There appeared to be another, smaller building in back that Bronwyn hoped was a stable.

Riordan came out to greet them, arms wide in exuberant welcome. Bronwyn returned his infectious smile. He seemed all right. The elf, Fiona, emerged from the lodge, looking far more grave. Bronwyn was unsure what she thought of the woman. Not that it mattered very much. After tomorrow, it was likely that they would never meet again.

"Well met, brothers and sisters!" called Riordan. "There is room in the stable for your horses, and we left hot cider there to warm you. If the rest of you would be good enough to care for the animals, Fiona and I must speak to Alistair and Bronwyn inside."

Bronwyn jumped down and slung her backpack over one shoulder, the vital darkspawn blood concealed inside like poison festering in a wound. Alistair raised his brows, and followed her and the Orlesians up the sagging steps and into the house.

As a shelter, it was not bad. Bronwyn resolved to note this place on her map. It would do well in foul weather, and there was plenty of room for everyone to spread out their blankets at night. A door led to a lean-to, where Fiona had laid out ingredients for the Joining potion on a small table. An ornate silver cup was pushed to the side, absurdly out of place in the rustic shelter.

"A dog?" The elf regarded Scout with no great surprise. "We are truly in Ferelden, aren't we?" She gestured at her work. "We brought Archdemon blood, and some darkspawn blood, though you should actually have brought your own. No one should undergo the Joining who has not slain darkspawn."

Bronwyn, stiffened at the woman's condescending tone. She found her intensely irritating, though it would be impolitic to say so at the moment. Swiftly, she unwrapped the heavy crockery jar and thumped it onto the work table. "Every one of my companions has killed darkspawn," Bronwyn replied. "Lots of darkspawn. We spent weeks in the Deep Roads. I collected this darkspawn blood at various battles, and one of our mages put a preservation spell on it for me."

"This should suffice," Riordan agreed, examining it, "though in future you will want to have each recruit collect a separate vial. It's tradition."

Bronwyn only nodded, not bothering to point out that they had had absolutely no idea when they were going to be able to initiate the Wardens. It would have been very peculiar to order each recruit to carry a vial of darkspawn blood in their packs for weeks or possibly months. In a perfect world, she would have had her recruits collect their own Joining blood.

"A drop of Archdemon blood, like so. And then the lyrium is added," said Fiona, showing her the procedure. "We brought a Joining chalice with us, as you see."

"Thank you," Bronwyn said, thinking of the handsome cup she had packed for the purpose. It was pointless to argue, and the Orlesians' goblet was bigger and grander, unsurprisingly. She struggled to tamp down a surge of resentment.

"Have you ever attended a Joining other than your own?" asked Fiona, as she worked.

"No," said Bronwyn.

"-Yes," said Alistair.

"Then Alistair should say the words of the Joining," Fiona decided. Riordan took a breath, but Alistair interrupted.

"I said the words at Bronwyn's Joining! It's her turn this time."

He sounded just like Fergus had, years ago, when they bickered over who would curry the horses or set up the tent. It made Bronwyn smile, and she responded in the way that always drove her brother mad, when she used it in the presence of Mother and Father.

"If you like,' she agreed amiably, with a virtuous air. "I don't mind."

Fiona, however, was not her mother. The elf set the potion aside and fixed her with cold eyes. "I am sure you do not! I am sure you do not mind usurping his authority in this or any other thing!" She took a step closer, unintimidated by Bronwyn's height. "I have heard of you, 'Girl Warden!' Your birth may have been noble, but such things do not matter in the Wardens! It gives you no right to supplant those with more experience!"

Unprepared for such an attack, Bronwyn stared at the elf, only startled at first, then very offended. "I have never usurped anything of Alistair's that he wanted," she answered hotly. "I have never supplanted Alistair! You make it sound like I've plotted against him to seize the title of Warden-Commander… of all two of us! That's absurd!"

"Bronwyn's great!" Alistair objected, bewildered by the elf's anger. "She's a terrific leader, and I hate being in charge. So it's perfect!"

Riordan stepped between them. "Fiona," he murmured, lightly touching the elf mage's shoulder. "They know themselves best. We can help them with the Joining, and give them information, but we cannot order their lives for them."

"Quite so," Bronwyn agreed coldly, and turned away. "If we are done here, I shall fetch the others."

Riordan followed her outside. "Fiona had unpleasant dealings with nobles in her youth," he told Bronwyn. "It has made her suspicious of them. She came today because she truly wishes to help in the struggle against the Blight."

Bronwyn blew out a breath and tried to calm herself. "I lead because Alistair will not. I saw that in him right away. That does not mean I don't like and respect him. He's a splendid warrior and a loyal friend."

"I understand," Riordan said, his voice warm and soothing. "In the end, someone must be in charge, and it is no pleasure, but a burden that cannot be relinquished. I know this well. However, it is not of that I need to talk to you." He looked at her sadly. "Some of your recruits may flinch from the Joining. If that happens…"

"It happened at my Joining. Duncan killed the man. I know what to do, but I trust my people. No one will shirk."

He smiled then, and patted her arm. "May the Maker watch over them. Fetch them. I will deal with Fiona." He paused, and smirked at her. "You do remember the Joining words, do you not?"

A reluctant laugh burst forth. "I've thought about little else for days! Yes, I remember them, and I went over them with Alistair. I think I should be able to acquit myself without causing us all undue embarrassment!"

"We're going to drink blood? Darkspawn blood?" Cullen stared at Bronwyn in consternation.

Riordan said, "As all Wardens have before you. This is the source of our power…and our victory."

"This is…Blood Magic?" Cullen stammered, completely out of his depth.

Riordan shifted slightly, one hand sliding discreetly to the dagger in his belt. Bronwyn gritted her teeth, and prayed for help to anyone who might be listening.

He must accept the cup. He must.

Anders, surprisingly, spoke up, quick and convincing. "It sounds more like how the Templars use the blood in mages' phylacteries for tracking, only we ingest it. That's right, isn't it?" he appealed to Bronwyn. "It's how Grey Wardens are able to track the darkspawn."

Bronwyn felt unspeakable gratitude to Anders, and gave Cullen an encouraging smile. "Yes, that's it exactly."

The ex-Templar shivered violently, stepped back, and gave a nod to say that he was all right. Bronwyn began again.

"Join us, brothers and sisters: join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant…"

Bronwyn recited the ritual words, looking at each recruit in turn. Young faces glowed with purpose in the last rays of sunset. The shabbiness of their surroundings was softened by the gathering gloom. On a table stood the Joining chalice, brimful of death. and two wax candles in silver candlesticks added a touch of beauty. Soon the room would be lit only by the candles and by the cheerful blaze in the stone fireplace.

"You are called to submit yourself to the Taint for the greater good. Anders, come forward. From this moment you are a Grey Warden."

Bronwyn had decided to take the recruits in alphabetical order, partly because she was so very confident about Anders and Astrid. It was also a way that showed no favoritism.

Anders looked at the contents of the cup, and grimaced. "Yum."

Bronwyn managed a smile, and took back the cup when he was done. His face distorted almost comically, his eyes rolling back in his head. Riordan motioned Alistair over to help him catch the young mage. Together they laid him down gently on the floor on the other side of the room.

"He lives," Fiona declared.

The others shuffled at that. Perhaps they had not fully realized until that very moment that the liquid in the cup was potentially lethal.

So the test of courage was not Anders', but Astrid's. When Bronwyn called her forward, she did not hesitate. She boldly accepted the cup and said, "May the Stone accept it."

And she, too, survived. It was Cullen's turn.

He looked at the cup, and then looked again, uncertainty in his eyes.

"Is there no other way?" he pleaded.

Bronwyn shot a fiery glare at Riordan, and stepped forward, putting the cup firmly in Cullen's big hands. She caught his eyes with her own.

"Trust me."

He bit his lip, and nodded, and then quickly downed his share. His face twisted with disgust, and then he was falling backwards, and not, thank the Maker, coughing.

"He lives," Fiona confirmed.

Bronwyn sucked in a huge gulp of air, and then realized that she had been holding her breath. She gave them all a wry smile, and nodded to Brosca.

"Freydis, come forth. From this moment you are a Grey Warden."

"Freydis!" Brosca scoffed. "Aren't we all formal tonight!" She grinned at the contents of the goblet. "If I can drink lichen ale, I can drink this." And proceeded to do so.

"—She lives."

Four done, and safe. And now she called Leliana forth. This was the Joining she had the greatest reservations about, and she struggled to keep her voice steady.

"—you are a Grey Warden."

"Andraste smile upon me," Leliana whispered. A brief swaying, and Bronwyn dreaded with all her heart that the bard would fall forward, choking…

She did not. Alistair caught her, and carried her to where the others lay unconscious. Riordan's eyes gleamed with growing good cheer. Fiona's expression remained inscrutable.

"Tara…" Bronwyn smiled at the pretty elf. "Come forward. From this moment you are a Grey Warden."

The girl made a joke of it. "I hope you saved the best for last." A swallow. Bronwyn took the cup. A moment of exquisite anxiety…

"She lives."

Riordan caught her, and set her down among her comrades.

"Yes!" Alistair bellowed, punching the air in triumph. "Yes!" He grabbed Bronwyn, hugged her, and dragged her into the first steps of the Remigold. "Yes! We are the best Grey Warden recruiters in all Thedas!"

Scout, who until now had sat as still as a mabari carved on a mantelpiece, began bounding around the room, barking loudly. He rushed over to the recruits, and licked their faces, his tail wagging. Fiona made a face at Riordan, who shrugged, still smiling.

Bronwyn felt like curling up on the floor beside the recruits. Instead she kissed Alistair's cheek and hugged him back. "They're alive! Thank the Maker!"

"It happens, now and then," Riordan confirmed, enjoying their relief.

"Don't expect it to happen again," Fiona snorted.

While the newly-Joined slept off their ordeal, Riordan poured cups of cider, and began telling Bronwyn and Alistair the things they most desperately needed to know. "Ordinarily, as Junior Wardens, no one would share this information with you. You are so new to the Order. We prefer that recruits be given time to adapt to this life. I understand that you, Bronwyn, Joined only a few days before the Battle of Ostagar."

Alistair laughed, "Actually, she Joined the day before!"

Fiona shook her head and rolled her eyes. Bronwyn laughed with Alistair and Riordan, and unrolled the recruits' blankets, covering them up warmly.

"Most of them will sleep through the night," Fiona said. "Those on watch can talk to those who awaken early. They will be hungry. Did you bring provisions?"

"We did."

"We can make a big pot of porridge at dawn," Alistair suggested. "Porridge with sweetening. They'll like that. Even I can make porridge. Actually, now that you mention it…"

Fiona actually laughed. At least it resembled a laugh as much as did a sob or an angry gasp. "I shall make for us some potée de chasse-I suppose you would call it Hunter's Stew-with good Jader sausages," she told Alistair, "and you will help me, and learn."

They all lent a hand, in the end, and Riordan and Fiona continued their lessons while lifting or carrying or chopping or stirring. The recruits on the floor sometimes thrashed or moaned in their sleep.

"Who were you evading, in your overland trip?" Bronwyn asked bluntly.

Riordan did not look at her, but said quietly, "You have attracted a great deal of notice, you and Alistair. I was foolishly naïve to send you my invitation through official channels, and think that others would not seek to use this situation to their advantage. As the only Wardens in Ferelden—the only thing standing between that country and its destruction by the Blight—you are important pieces in something certain people persist in regarding as a Game. You, Bronwyn, are known to be the daughter of Teyrn Cousland, a man who aroused such interest and admiration during his diplomatic missions—a man thought to be only a heartbeat away from the throne of Ferelden. Now that he is dead, his royal claim passes to his children."

"I am a Warden," Bronwyn said quietly. "Nothing 'passes' to me."

"Perhaps not, in ordinary circumstances, but with so few having a claim, exceptions might be made, even for a Warden."

"And Alistair—" whispered Fiona. She shook herself briskly, and said, "There are those in Orlais who do not share the concerns of the Wardens. It is possible that an attempt might be made to use this Blight to benefit one country at another's expense. That, we, as Wardens, cannot allow."

"Some such rumors were passed to us by friends," Riordan told them, with a wry smile. "We discovered that it would have been quite impossible for Monseigneur de Guesclin to have permitted me to cross the border. He would have, instead, graciously invited you to come to the Rock for the Joining. Once there, circumstances beyond your control would have prevented your return."

"They were going to kill us?" Alistair asked, wide-eyed.

"No—no—by no means. No expense would have been spared to make your stay pleasant. Secure, but extremely pleasant. A story would be told to Ferelden of wounds, or sickness, or some such plausible nonsense. Once it became clear that you would not be returning, the King of Ferelden would have no choice but to admit the Wardens of Orlais—on the Empress' terms."

"Which are?" Bronwyn asked, her voice steady.

"Two hundred Wardens, accompanied by four legions of chevaliers, all to be billeted and fed at Ferelden expense for the duration of the emergency—"

"—which will never be over," Bronwyn finished. "I'm sure the chevaliers would make themselves very much at home."

"You see that the Empress wishes to use the Wardens as a political weapon. Fiona and I cannot stomach that. Neither can others, hence the leaked information. No one will know of this meeting. We shall return to Jader, and you will complete your mission."

Bronwyn finished slicing the sausage, wiped her hands, and sat down for a moment to think. "That plot only holds if it is truly a Blight. Does the Empress believe it to be so? Teyrn Loghain—and even the King—were loath to credit it."

"Loghain!" muttered Fiona, with a very Orlesian gesture of disgust.

Riordan glanced at her and then said, "Naturally, the Empress knows it is a Blight. Heads of state are privy to certain Grey Warden secrets. It must be so, or we could not function during the centuries of peace. The Divine in Val Royaux and the Black Divine in Minrathous also know why we are essential to the survival of Thedas."

"That's…good, I suppose," said Alistair, carefully adding more wood to the fire. "I wish we did."

"Yes," Riordan said heavily. "You must be told, or all of this is vain. Duncan did not have time, I suppose, to tell you how an Archdemon is slain."

Bronwyn laughed lightly, "Or slain without the assistance of griffons!"

Riordan did not smile, but told her the truth in brief, pithy terms: how the Taint in the Grey Wardens attracted the essence of the Old God; how the Warden who struck the killing blow drew that essence into himself; how that resulted in the death both of the Old God-turned-Archdemon and of the Warden; how some thought that the very soul of the Warden was consumed by the event. He told them of the horror that would ensue if someone other than a Warden slew an Archdemon, for it would return again, and again, until a Warden put an end to it. Fiona said nothing while he spoke, and looked rather sickened.

Bronwyn's breath was taken away by the grim news. After some time, she pulled herself together, and spoke: "I'm not sure that King Cailan knows this. He's incredibly callous about it if he does. He seemed to think he could take part in killing the Archdemon if it appeared. Do you think Duncan might have tried to spare him? Or are the Kings of Ferelden not privy to Grey Warden secrets?"

Fiona said sharply, "Maric knew everything! What he did not learn for himself, Duncan told him. As to King Cailan, I know that Duncan was fond of him, and considered him young for his age."

Alistair had been quiet since learning about the sacrifice required to kill the Archdemon. Now he smiled up at Fiona from the floor. "You were friends with Duncan?"

Fiona smiled back him. "For many, many years. He once did me a very great service. Pass me that box. No, the other one. It contains dried mushrooms."

"Are there any other secrets?" Bronwyn asked, letting Fiona take charge of the stewpot. The older woman seemed to like ordering Alistair about. "This may be our only chance to talk to Senior Wardens for some time."

"Well…" Riordan and Fiona exchanged a glance, and she nodded. "It is a rather long story, but there is something unusual about this Blight…"

Bronwyn ate her excellent Orlesian potée in silence, her head whirling with the Wardens' revelations. King Maric had gone on an expedition to the Deep Roads with the newly readmitted Grey Wardens early in Dragon 9:10. Fiona had been one of the party, and knew all the details. Duncan, a young recruit in those days, had also been there. The Orlesian Warden-Commander, Bregan, had heard the Calling, had departed for the Deep Roads, and had been captured by a talking, thinking darkspawn emissary, who called himself the Architect. His sister, Genevieve, newly-appointed Commander of the Grey in Ferelden, was determined to rescue her brother. Bronwyn frowned over the name. Genevieve. When she had first arrived at Ostagar with Duncan, she had sought out Teyrn Loghain, who had mentioned the woman briefly.

"Don't let anyone tell you don't belong!" he had encouraged her. "The first Warden Maric brought to Ferelden was a woman: the best warrior I've ever seen."

This Architect creature had at least temporarily won the trust of Bregan, who had told him some of the most guarded secrets of the order: among them the various locations of the sleeping Old Gods.

"Oh, no!" Bronwyn groaned, putting her face in her hands. Scout came over to her, whining with concern.

"Oh, yes!" Fiona replied mercilessly. "It is entirely possible that the Architect began the current Blight with a misguided attempted to free the Old God."

While Bronwyn served Scout another bowl from the pot, she was told more: the Architect had proposed melding darkspawn with all other races by forcing the Joining on every human, dwarf, and elf in Thedas. A monstrous proposal, for most would die, and the rest…

Bronwyn shuddered. It might establish a kind of peace, yes, but at what price? It was madness, absolute madness. It was shocking that some of the Wardens in the party had been convinced by the Architect's reasoning, and had joined forces with him. The Circle of Magi had been drawn into the plot, and the then-First Enchanter, the Orlesian Remille, had meant to make use of the Architect to destroy Ferelden. Bregan had shaken off the Architect's hold, and was killed just as Loghain appeared to rescue everyone. It had been for the best, for Bregan's secrets were the Wardens', and must be kept.

"No wonder Teyrn Loghain is so suspicious of Wardens!" Bronwyn finally said. "King Maric was nearly killed. And there was an Orlesian plot at the heart of it!"

"That was thwarted by mostly Orlesian Wardens!" Fiona pointed out tartly. "And by the courage of Maric." Her voice softened at the name.

Bronwyn glanced up at her. Fiona would have been quite a young woman twenty years ago, and beautiful… Queen Rowan would have been dead a few years before… King Maric was known to have a wandering eye, or at least Bronwyn knew it, for there was Alistair…

Who was twenty years old.

Bronwyn looked over at her brother Warden. He was wolfing down the good food, quietly thinking over the story himself. The mage was watching him: very discreetly, but watching every spoonful go into the healthy, handsome young man, with an expression of such tenderness…

Speaking into the quiet, Bronwyn said. "The Orlesians are very interested in Alistair, too, aren't they? In fact, he's the one they're really interested in. He's the one you're here to save."

Riordan blew out a breath.

Alistair looked up, even going so far as to set down his bowl. "Me? Nobody's interested in me." He reddened. "I mean…are you talking about what I think you're talking about?

"That your secret isn't as secret as you might have thought?" Bronwyn said raising her brows. "I think our brother and sister know it. It would be very, very helpful if they would be frank with us."

Riordan cleared his throat. "It is known in some circles that Alistair is King Maric's son, yes. We were not sure that he knew it."

"Did Maric tell you?" Fiona asked, her eyes fixed on the young Warden. "Or Duncan?"

"King Maric?" Alistair asked, incredulous. "I never spoke to the man in my life. I always knew he was my father, though. Arl Eamon told me, and he also told me it didn't matter, because I was a bastard and a commoner."

"The less said about Arl Eamon's treatment of you, the better," Bronwyn muttered. Fiona grew pale. Her lips thinned, and she looked at her hands.

Riordan said, "His wife, the Arlessa Isolde, shared this information in letters to her uncle in Val Chevin. From him, it went to the highest circles. If King Cailan were to die in battle, Alistair would have a strong claim to the throne, Warden or not. The two of you together..."

Alistair was both horrified and amused. "But I'm the bastard son of a serving maid!" he protested. "I never even learned to read until Arl Eamon pledged me to the Chantry and sent me away when I was ten. I mean," he laughed, "You've heard of people who were born in a barn? Well, I was raised in a stable and slept on straw. King's son or not, Arl Eamon thought it was good enough for me, and it was good enough for me. I had some happy times there…"

"That makes no difference to your claim," Fiona said fiercely, "and this Arl Eamon was a heartless fool!"

"He's dead now," Alistair said mildly, "so there's no point in criticizing him. Bronwyn gets angry enough for both of us. There's nothing that can be done about it, and here I am a Warden now. I'm fine. I'd just as soon not be locked away in Orlais when there are darkspawn to fight, though, so I really appreciate all you've done." He laughed, and said to Bronwyn, "We're pretty popular, aren't we?"

Bronwyn told them, her voice smooth, "Alistair is referring to the regular attacks on us from darkspawn, bandits, and hirelings of Arl Rendon Howe, the man who murdered my parents." She looked at Alistair, willing him to say nothing of Marjolaine's mercenaries. That was an altogether different matter, and the Orlesian Wardens had no business interfering with it.

Anders groaned loudly, his head moving from side to side. The Wardens looked over at him.

"He will awaken soon," Riordan said. "Mages seem to be able to escape the Fade more readily than others."

"We have more experience there!" Fiona pointed out. With a touch more courtesy than she had previously shown, she said to Bronwyn, "You seem to have had your share of adventures. Tell us of them."

The story stopped for some time at the sighting of the Archdemon. Both Riordan and Fiona asked endless, minute questions about its appearance, its size, its ability to maneuver, its apparent intelligence.

"No one has seen an Archdemon in four hundred years!" Riordan laughed grimly. "Many thought that one would never be seen again."

Neither of the Orlesians had ever seen a Broodmother, either, though they had read of their existence.

"I wish to look at your eyes in the morning, when the light is good," Fiona said to Bronwyn. "That is an interesting phenomenon, and we need all the information we can get about such creatures."

Riordan shook his head in wonder, "I admit I was surprised that no one had spoken of your eyes before. Such a startling shade of green would ordinarily be reported as your most distinguishing feature!"

"I owe Anders my life, my sight, and my face," Bronwyn said frankly. She walked over to look at the young mage. Fiona had told her not to disturb any of them, but to let them reach consciousness on their own. "But all the recruits are remarkable."

"They must be," Riordan agreed. "I am surprised that the Circle allowed you two mages. Generally they hold to the 'one-at-a-time' rule."

"Bronwyn was very persuasive," Alistair said proudly. "And it wasn't as if the Circle had much use for either of them. Tara was locked up for helping someone escape, and Anders was considered a flight risk. Tara, especially, had been treated very badly. She didn't remember ever seeing the sun before we left the Tower. I don't think that's right."

Fiona's approval shone in her eyes. "I have some spells to teach your mages that they might find helpful."

"They'll appreciate it," Bronwyn said. "Tara had a hard time adjusting at first, but now she's doing very well. She's extremely brave and powerful—a very aggressive fighter."

Anders coughed, struggling to sit up. "Arrrghh." He coughed again, and then said, "What was that? And what is that taste in my mouth? And how can I get rid of it?"

Alistair laughed, and brought him a cup of cider.

After Anders, then Tara, wild-eyed and shocked. Then Cullen, who had understood that he was in the Fade, and Leliana, who waxed poetic about the ghastly visions she had seen. Astrid and Brosca had never visited the Fade before—it was not a place for dwarves—and were struck dumb by it all.

Everyone was ravenous, and more food was prepared. Most went back to sleep after they had something to eat. The four Senior Wardens—for Riordan and Fiona agreed that Bronwyn and Alistair were, by default, Senior Wardens—took turns sleeping and standing watch. The hours of darkness crept by.

Never was a sunrise more welcome. The Wardens stirred and talked softly, scraped the stewpot for the last bits, gnawed on waybread. Cullen and Anders found the abandoned well, and hauled up water for everyone. Fiona showed Alistair the correct way to make porridge. Leliana joined them, and the two Orlesian women civilly debated which spices to use.

Others wandered outside to enjoy the dawn. "I like the pretty colors," said Brosca, pointing to the rosy streaks in the golden sky. "The colors underground are different."

Astrid shrugged. "That's why everyone loves jewels so much. I've heard that some of the surface vegetation is colorful. Flowers are ephemeral, though. Jewels last forever."

"When you can get them," Brosca scoffed. She had never heard the word "ephemeral," but it was easy enough to guess what Her Ladyship was talking about. "Though I have a gorgeous chunk of malachite." She pulled it from a pocket. "See? I like the swirls in the green."

"Nice," Astrid said, hoping there would be enough porridge for a second helping. "You could use that for the pommel of a knife."

Brosca beamed at the brightly colored stone. "That's a great idea."

Alistair and Riordan worked diligently, making Joining amulets for everyone. A bit of hollowed out crystal, the last drops of the Joining potion, some leather cords, and they were passed out to the new recruits.

"Amethyst!" cried Leliana, "How pretty! Are they always like this?"

"It's what we had," Riordan shrugged, smiling at her enthusiasm.

"Mine is clear quartz," Alistair said, pulling his own amulet out to show her.

"Mine is green fluorite," Bronwyn displayed hers.

Riordan's was also fluorite, but yellow. Fiona's, like Alistair's, was clear.

"I shall find a gold chain for mine," Leliana resolved. "And I shall never, ever take it off."

Fiona took the mages aside and they went back behind the stables to practice spells.

Alistair stood by Bronwyn watching everyone happily eating, washing, or playing with their new amulets. "They won't be so happy when we tell them the bad news."

"All the more reason for them to enjoy themselves now. Riordan and Fiona will have to leave soon. We'll call everyone together and have a talk before we ride back."

"Are you going to tell them about the Archdemon now? I mean—it's traditional to wait…"

"Of course I'm going to tell them. What if something happened to both of us? We can't risk disaster a second time. Everybody needs to know everything. And I'd better wheedle some Archdemon blood from Fiona. Maybe we can make more Wardens on our journey south."

"Bronwyn!" Riordan came down the steps, porridge bowl in hand, a harried frown creasing his brow. "I forgot to tell you about the caches…"

While Alistair knew the Warden Compound well, he did not know about the secret cupboard in the cellar. Nor did he know about the hidden room in a warehouse in the Market District in Denerim. Riordan gave them some notes, and Bronwyn studied them, trying to commit the codes to memory.

The Orlesians were in a hurry to leave and ride for Jader, and there was a great bustle as they packed up their gear, with everyone's occasionally conflicting help.

"Fiona!" Bronwyn whispered in the midst of the rush. "Would it be possible for me to have some Archdemon blood—"

"Yes, yes, yes—" Fiona said impatiently, thrusting a vial at her. "This is for you. There is more at the Warden Compound in Denerim. Do you remember the formula?"

And then she forced Bronwyn to recite it back, her nagging reminding Bronwyn of Nan or even Mother at her worst. The memory softened her irritation at being treated like an idiot child, and she indulged the woman. Besides, it would not do to get it wrong…

"And teach it to your mages!" Fiona scolded. "No…I will…"

So she called Anders and Tara again, and went over the formula, and told them how mages could speed the process when they added the lyrium. And they, too, were made to repeat it back.

"And some last presents!" shouted Riordan. From a saddlebag, he pulled out some Warden tunics, and gleefully tossed them to the new recruits. There was laughter and confusion as the recruits tried to find the ones that would fit, more or less. And naturally, everyone had to put them on.

"This is really nice cloth!" enthused Brosca. "It's shiny!"

While everyone was enjoying their new finery, Bronwyn gently pulled Fiona aside for a last word.

"I know you're in a hurry," she murmured, "but will you go without telling Alistair the truth?"

The elf stared up at her warily. "I do not know what you mean."

"Will you really go without telling him that you are his mother?"

She thought for a moment that Fiona might curse her, or at least slap her. The mage said coldly, "You are wrong. Alistair does not have—or need—a mother who is a elf, a mage, an Orlesian, and a Warden."

"It is you who are wrong!" Bronwyn hissed. "Alistair would not care! He is a warm-hearted young man who would open his arms to his mother, no matter who or what she was! I think you should go to him right now, and tell him who you are and how much you care for him, and—if you can—explain where you have been all these years—"

"It is very rare for female Grey Wardens to bear children," Fiona told her, her face taut, "and when we do, we are not permitted to keep them. Maric and I hoped to spare Alistair the kind of life he would have had as a bastard prince."

Bronwyn bit back what she thought of all that. Recriminations and second-guessing would do no good at the moment. She spoke with all the force and conviction in her. "He is a Warden, and happy with it. No one cares who the mother of a Warden is. This might be your only chance in life to speak to him as his mother. It would be wrong to let it pass you by." When Fiona hesitated, Bronwyn ground out, "Believe me when I tell you that I would do anything--anything--to speak to my mother one more time. Someday he may learn who you are and be deeply hurt. Don't do that to him."

And so, while the new recruits celebrated, Alistair and Fiona walked among the trees; and secrets, too long kept, were revealed. Bronwyn saw them emerge a little later, and it seemed that both of them had shed tears.

"Fiona!" Riordan shouted, "We must go!" He shook hands and slapped shoulders, and then grabbed Bronwyn in a bear hug.

"Maker watch over you, Warden-Commander of Ferelden!" He held her at arms-length, smiling at her, and then vaulted into his saddle. "You're a fine lass!"

Alistair, his face glowing, helped Fiona mount her horse. "Thanks for everything," he choked out. His hand lingered on his mother's stirrup. Bronwyn went over to him and put an arm around his shoulders.

The Orlesians waved as they trotted down the path. Fiona looked back, her face illuminated by the the morning sun. "Farewell," she called. "Maker bless you!"

When they were out of sight, Bronwyn drew a deep breath, and readied herself to tell her companions about the darker side of duty.

Notes: Yes, they survived. Most of them have to survive because they are actually Wardens in canon. As for Cullen and Leliana, I tossed a coin. They won. Twice. They look tough enough to me, anyway.

Happy New Year, and thanks to my readers and reviewers: Nithu, Josie Lange, kart87, demonicnargles, Eva Galana, Shakespira, JackOfBladesX, Sarah1281, mille libri, Dante Alighieri1308, almostinsane, Amhran Comhrac, Aoi24, callalili, Lehni, Aaron W, Zute, mutive, Have Socks Will Travel, Windchime68, kwintessa, Amanda Weber, Gene Dark, and Piceron. Reviews are such a fun reward for writing!

On my profile page, I posted a little piece I call "Plots in Ferelden," in which I try to hammer out what I think might be going through the minds of the major players at the beginning of DAO. There's a whole lot of shaking going on, I think, and I found it especially useful in considering Howe's motives. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more understandable his actions are (if nasty and awful). Some of you might not like the idea that Bryce Cousland might have had something of an agenda, too, but there's nothing "magical" about the Couslands. They are a warm and loving family, but it's ridiculous to imagine that the premier noble of Ferelden doesn't have plots of his own. The most interesting involve explaining why his nubile daughter is still unmarried…