Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 26: A Typical Night in Denerim
"So you all return," Morrigan drawled. "I confess to a certain surprise."
"Yes, we're all here and all Wardens and all fine." Bronwyn assured her, a bit shortly. There was a great deal to do, and not much time to do it in.
Anders smirked. "You missed a terrific party, Morrigan. And presents."
Morrigan glanced at the griffon tunics and rolled her eyes.
In truth, the new Wardens had taken the bad news far better than Bropnwyn had hoped. The increased appetite, the nightmares, even the infertility did not seem to particularly distress them. Bronwyn was surprised, as the last was the aspect of being a Grey Warden that she found most troubling. Perhaps because there were now eight of them, and more would presumably be recruited, the fact that one of them must die to kill the Archdemon did not seem so immediate and terrifying. Cullen, in fact, almost...brightened...at the news, speaking reverently of a such a noble sacrifice. Leliana, too, had seemed very touched.
"It's like Andraste," she breathed, "giving her life for the whole world."
"We're only here for tonight," Bronwyn told her party. "We'll move out early tomorrow. I'll finish my letters, and the Commander has promised to send out a courier immediately. If anyone here has a letter for anyone in the army at Ostagar, get it to me immediately, and I'll include it with my own."
There followed visits to the quartermaster, to the farrier, to the smith, to the leather worker. Bronwyn's armor was in deplorable condition, and she had the armorer do what he could to repair it.
When she returned from her errands, Morrigan met her, obviously wanting a quiet word.
"Our party will divide, I understand. You are going to Denerim."
"I am, but I will not be gone long."
"That is perhaps wise of you. Were you planning to take a mage with you on your adventure?"
Bronwyn looked at her searchingly. "I was planning to take you."
"I do not wish to go," Morrigan informed her. "I am instructing Anders in shape-shifting, and his training ought not to be interrupted. In his impatience, he may attempt a hazardous change, and without supervision, that could be fatal." She raised a black and perfect brow.
"I…see." Bronwyn thought she did. Morrigan and Anders were engaged in some sort of flirtation. If it included magical instruction, this was the first Bronwyn had heard of it. She had no power to command this woman to do something she obviously did not want to do, and her usefulness would be compromised if she went unwillingly.
She shrugged. "Very well, then. I shall take Tara with me, instead. You and Anders will be under Alistair's command." She smiled faintly at the witch's grimace, and turned away. In fact, she decided, her mind sorting through the changed scenario, Tara might actually be better for her purposes...
Their supplies had cost quite a bit. Riordan had been generous with his time and information-even with the new tunics-but Bronwyn would have appreciated an infusion of gold. However, that was another reason to go to Denerim. Trying to access the Warden Compound would not be prudent, if she wanted her mission to remain secret. However, there was the cache in the Market District, and Riordan had told her that there was some coin to be had there.
She sat down at the rough table and scratched out a cover note for her enormous letter to Fergus.
Dear brother—
I am well and safe. The massive amount of parchment enclosed is as much a journal of my daily adventures as it is a letter to you. Nonetheless, I offer it for what it is worth. No, I have not told you everything, for the Wardens will have their secrets, as winter will have snow, and the dwarves their ale. I have tasted dwarven ale, by the way, and do not recommend it.
The King will be pleased to know that the Grey Wardens of Ferelden are now eight in number…or nine if one includes Scout, who is probably the best of us! The dwarves had agreed to honor their treaty, and are moving south to join with our own army.
Orzammar was in absolute chaos when I arrived, with the factions cutting throats in the very streets. You will no doubt be horrified to know that it was left to your little sister to sort out the muddle. It involved falsified documents, cleaning out the sprawling lair of a criminal organization, and penetrating far into the Deep Roads to find a madwoman. I learned a great deal—more, I think, than I wanted to. At any rate, I returned with a crown made by a Paragon, with which I crowned the King of my choice before the assembled deshyrs. It was an astonishing scene, but I have written of it in greater detail in my journal. Bhelen may not be the best king for the dwarves, but he is the best ally for Ferelden.
I also saw the Archdemon. I will not say more of that now. That, too, is in that bundle of parchment.
I think of you often, and pray that you, too, are well. I am doing all I can to raise Ferelden's allies against the Blight, and there is yet more to be done.
She decided to let him know a little of what concerned her, and wrote her next paragraphs in their private code.
Father always said that the Orlesians are always up to something, and he was absolutely right. You are not to tell the following to anyone but Teyrn Loghain, for good people would suffer were it to be known: I received a kind invitation from the Senior Warden of Jader to meet him at the border. I was to give my reply to the commander of Roc du Chevalier, which would be forwarded to this Senior Warden Riordan. As Alistair and I were ignorant of so much Warden lore, we could see no sense in rejecting the opportunity. For obvious reasons, I left Alistair behind, and went with one of my recruits across the border, where I was greeted in the grand style by the Chevalier du Guesclin. So I have seen the Rock, and it is very great and terrible, and I was glad to put it behind me within an hour.
The next day, I was surprised by the appearance—in disguise- of the Senior Warden and one of his command. They had come secretly over the border to warn us not to return to the Rock, for plans were afoot to abduct us and take us into Orlais, in order to force King Cailan to admit the Orlesians. Senior Warden Riordan got wind of it, and being Ferelden-born—and a Warden faithful to his principles—disliked being made use of in that way, and forestalled a disaster. I learned from him a great deal of Warden lore—everything, in fact, that I hoped for, and know now what Wardens must do to defeat the Archdemon. Only Wardens can, they always said, and now I know why. It is a dark thing, but it will save us all. There are good reasons to consider Riordan and his companion truthful, but I will disclose those to you in person.
The quill's end was wearing down. She took a fresh one, trimmed the tip a little, and wrote the rest without code.
I hope to see you in three weeks or a little less, as the dwarven army makes it way southeast to Ostagar.
Your loving sister,
Bronwyn
She sat for a moment, deciding if that really was all she had to say. Then she blotted the letter, set it on top of the rest of the parchment, bound the whole together with a wrapping of heavier parchment and string, and marked it for "Teyrn Fergus Cousland."
There were others to apprise of her success. She took a fresh piece of parchment, and wrote carefully.
My lord Teyrn—
Bhelen is King in Orzammar, and the dwarven army is on the march.
She paused, smiling to herself. After a moment, her quill resumed its scratching, giving numbers, dispositions, routes.
-with a contingent of the Legion of the Dead, a thousand in number, led by their Commander Kardol himself. These will travel by the Deep Roads to the Belannas entrance noted on the map enclosed.
We hope to reach Ostagar within three weeks, weather and darkspawn permitting.
My companions and I saw the Archdemon in that portion of the Deep Roads called Bownammar, otherwise known as the Dead Trenches. The creature was at some distance, but there was no doubt as to what it was.
Our neighbors have been very busy. Suffice it to say that I have much to tell you that I cannot entrust to writing.
Bronwyn
Another, even shorter letter was written to the King, praising their dwarven allies, and referring to her letter to Teyrn Loghain for the details.
Tara and Cullen had letters for friends at Ostagar. Even Anders had a note for his friend Niall. Morrigan, of course, laughed out loud at the idea of correspondence.
"You are not suggesting, I hope, that I should write to my mother!"
When everything was signed and sealed, Bronwyn took them to Commander Roark, who sent a courier out with them immediately. That much was done. She must make plans for her private quest.
Leliana, unsurprisingly, was ready and eager to go. When Bronwyn explained her idea to her, Leliana was delighted, and immediately came up with a half-dozen ways to improve the scheme.
"How lucky that I bought a new gown! But it would be best if I used the name of a real person..."
They worked on the details, and then Bronwyn approached Sten and Zevran, who were both willing to take part. And then...
"Tara," Bronwyn asked quietly. "Can you do magic without your staff?"
"Of course," the girl replied. "The staff is only focuses my magic…it makes it stronger, but it doesn't create it."
"Good." Bronwyn thought a moment. "You are going with me to Denerim, and since we are going in disguise, I want you to leave your staff behind."
She saw no way around it. There was no way to hide a five-foot-long pole on horseback—or in one's clothes. Magic was too useful not to include a mage in the party, but the trappings of magic were to be avoided.
Next, she must speak again to Alistair. Naturally, he was not entirely satisfied with the scheme.
"You are leaving me in charge. With Morrigan."
"It can't be helped. Everyone knows we're splitting up. Morrigan came to me and said flatly that she was not going to Denerim, if it meant leaving Anders. She serves voluntarily, and I can't force the issue. I want Anders with you. Ordinarily, Morrigan would be my first choice of mage, but I will take Tara instead. Besides, Tara knows a spell to make the horses go faster and longer, and her own riding is much improved. I cannot take any of the dwarves, for I must ride hard for Denerim. I am going with Tara, Leliana, Zevran, Sten, and Scout. That is all. You will be moving more slowly, marching at the army's pace."
"I still can't believe we're doing this." Alistair looked at her pleadingly. "You could put Cullen in charge."
"No, I cannot. You are in command, and we are all relying on you. Hold fast, and the surfacers will join you in a week. While you are waiting, have the dwarves practice riding, and keep up everyone's archery, just as we agreed." She lowered her voice, and clapped him on the shoulder. "Your mother is very proud of you, Alistair. You know that. If you cannot do this for me, do it for her."
"Now that's just mean," he complained. Then, thinking about it, he smiled shyly, and gave her a little shrug. Bronwyn laughed, and swatted him on the arm.
They left Gherlen's Halt in good spirits. Rather to Alistair's dismay, there was a suitable boat at the Western Docks, which for a reasonable sum would take them across Lake Calenhad.
"It'll be nearly a week before the dwarves arrive at the Deep Roads entrance," he grumbled. "It's all hurry-up-and-wait!"
Bronwyn patiently explained, "That's a warrior's life for you. But it will shave two days off my own little detour to Denerim. I want to get there, find that bard, get back, and join forces with you before you get to Ostagar. Every day matters!"
Their horses were led carefully onto the boat. The dwarves marched as if to their doom: Astrid rigidly stoic, Oghren rumbling curses, and Brosca shooting wild looks over the side.
"First no stone over our heads, and now no stone under our feet!" she muttered rather desperately. "No stone at all!" The three of them huddled by a bulwark, looking as if they were under attack. It had not occurred to Bronwyn until then how alien and unpleasant travel over water would be to them. The rest of the companions sprawled comfortably on deck, free of their duties for the moment. Morrigan and Anders quietly discussed a gull that had alighted on the rigging. Tara and Zevran whispered together. Tara giggled, and then burst out laughing. Cullen watched them, eyes shadowed. Alistair leaned over the rail, brooding.
"Alistair!" Bronwyn approached him, and then beckoned Cullen over. Quickly, she murmured to the two big men, "I've made something of a blunder. I really did not think about how distressing this would be for our dwarven companions. I've got to do some planning with my Denerim party, so could the two of you sit with the dwarves and try to distract them? There's that keg of ale we brought. How about a round of drinks and some talk? They look like cornered rabbits."
Being kindhearted men, they had no trouble doing as they were asked. Brosca looked more cheerful in no time. Cup of ale in her hand, she wriggled nearer to Cullen, sitting as close as she could without actually sitting on his lap. Cullen blushed, but did not push her away.
The ship scudded before the wind, making good time. Bronwyn briefed her chosen companions on their mission. She had already spoken to Leliana about their disguise, and knew that an experienced former bard would have no trouble at all in falling in with her plans.
Leliana said, "I shall take my Chantry robe along. I shall look very inconspicuous in it, just as I did in Lothering!"
Anders overheard that last, and laughed. "Now that's something I just can't see. I can't picture someone like you as a Chantry sister!"
Leliana turned indignant blue eyes on him. "What do you mean—someone like me?"
"Oh, I don't know…" Anders smirked. "Aside from the deadeye archer thing and the daggers, there's the fact that you're a beautiful young woman!"
Leliana came up to him, hands on hips, and stared him in the face. "As a matter of fact, there were many young and beautiful women at the Lothering Chantry!"
Zevran laughed. "It is true, my friend. You cannot win your argument by claiming that the Chantry is home only to the old and ugly. In Antiva, the beauty of Chantry sisters is fabled in song and story."
"What story?" Tara instantly demanded.
Zevran laughed and shrugged expressively, "Well…"
"Ha! Zevran wants to tell a story!" Tara called out, clapping her hands. "Story! Story!"
People were looking around in pleasure and interest.
The handsome elf smiled, flashing white teeth. "Well…if you insist…I do know a story about the Sisters of Antiva."
"I don't like the sound of this…" Alistair muttered.
"Oh, Alistair!" Bronwyn waved a hand. "How bad can it be? Besides, he can claim Minstrel's Privilege. We all need a diversion. Go on, Zevran, tell your tale."
The elf looked very amused. He rose, bowed elaborately, and began to speak.
Zevran's Story of Groundskeeper Mahal and the Chantry Sisters:
My friends, there are indeed people foolish enough to believe that, once a girl has assumed the robes of the Chantry, that she is no longer a woman. As though by taking a vow, she has turned to stone! And if those people hear anything contrary to this belief, they rage with fury, as if an unnatural sin had been committed, when indeed nothing could farther from the truth.
There is in Antiva the city of Treviso, famed for its wine, its abundant flowers, and its lovely women. Ah, Treviso! The veiled ladies lean over their balconies and sing to the lute in the twilight! All except, of course, the ladies of a famous Chantry on the outskirts of the city. I shall not tell you its name, lest I detract from its reputation for piety!
Some years ago, there were eight Sisters in this Chantry, ruled by their Revered Mother, and their magnificent garden was kept by an elf named Nuto. He had grown old in their service, so old that he wished to retire to the alienage. His wages were paid, and he returned to his childhood home, where he fell in with his great-nephew, the sturdy and handsome Mahal.
"Where have you been all these years, Great-Uncle?" asked Mahal, as they sat on a bench in the sun, drinking wine.
"Oh, I was groundskeeper for the Chantry outside the walls, and used to tend the fine, big garden there. I would carry water, fetch wood, do odd jobs. But those women drove me crazy! The worst of it was that they were all young and full of mischief—even the Revered Mother, who is not even thirty! Nothing I did suited them. This one would say, 'Plant that rose here!' and another would grab the spade out of my hand, and shout, 'That's no good!' and another would say, 'Why have you not thinned the carrots, you stupid old elf?' By the Maker, I am too old for such tricks! I got sick of it and now I shall live in peace, far from the Maker's Brides."
"You just left them?" asked Mahal. "Left them to manage on their own?"
"That I did!" said Nuto with great satisfaction. "Even though they begged me to stay in the end, and the Revered Mother told me that I was always welcome to come back, or if I would not, to recommend someone else."
Mahal smiled, for a wonderful idea had come to him. He was filled with a tormenting desire to take care of those Sisters and cultivate their garden: to plow it, and water it, and fertilize it as soon as he possibly could.
He was not without experience in such work, and yet he knew he might well be rejected, even with his great-uncle's recommendation, for he was young and handsome. He cudgeled his brains for a way to be accepted and then he hit on it. If he were a poor, mute, simple fellow, unable to speak, surely the Revered Mother would take pity on him and give him the post of groundskeeper.
"Why not?" he thought to himself. "No one knows me there. I shall write a recommendation for myself on my uncle's behalf—and he cannot read, so I can say anything I like!"
No sooner said than done. He wrote the saddest story ever put to parchment for the Revered Mother, and his great-uncle signed it without even asking Mahal to read it to him first, for the afternoon was warm and the wine was heavy. Mahal packed a bag with his linen and his tools, rolled up his recommendation, and went his way to seek his fortune.
He came to the famous Chantry with its walled garden and rang the little bell. The sister on duty came—a dark-eyed beauty with lustrous locks like clusters of grapes—and she asked the young elf his business. He, with a timid dumb-show, made gestures that he could not speak, and gave her the little parchment that sang his praises as a gardener and hard worker, and his virtues as a meek and modest servant. The sister was not sure what to do, but led him to the Revered Mother, who was busily at work in her office. She was a tall and beautiful young woman, of a noble household that had lost its fortune and influence, and she had been sold to the Chantry at the age of twelve to pay the family's debts.
She asked the Sister who he was, and the sister replied, "Your Reverence, this is a poor mute boy, the great-nephew of dear old Nuto. He is an orphan and penniless, and Nuto prays that you will give him the post of groundskeeper here, for otherwise he shall surely starve."
Mahal looked very sad, and he thought so much about what a shame it would be if the Revered Mother did not let him stay, that tears filled his eyes, and the lady's heart was touched.
"Very well," she relented. "Show him the gardening shed with the quarters next door where old Nuto slept." She turned to Mahal, and spoke slowly and loudly, as if he were deaf and stupid as well as mute, saying, "I hope you will work as hard as your dear uncle!"
Mahal grinned and bobbed his head, thinking about how hard he hoped to work. He was shown his quarters and his work, and set to with a will. He thought, "I'll show them gardening like they've never seen!"
He worked very hard indeed, cutting wood, weeding in the garden, fetching water for the sisters: working tirelessly and without complaint. It was clear that he could work twice as hard for twice as long as his old great-uncle. The garden bloomed like never before, and the sisters felt they had done well in trading Nuto for Mahal.
They grew used to him, and then they began to tease him as he worked about the grounds. Sometimes they would address the wickedest little words to him, the way people do with deaf-mutes, confident that they were not understood.
One day, he was chopping wood. It was hot, and he had removed his shirt. Two young sisters stopped to admire his muscular frame, and began talking about him, thinking that he could not hear a word.
"I'll tell you a secret," said one, "if you promise never to breathe a word."
"Oh, I promise," said the other, "I love secrets."
"Well," said the first. "I have heard that there is no greater pleasure than what a woman feels when she lies with a man. I've often thought of that, and I've been thinking recently that there would be no better way to try it out that with Mute Mahal!"
"Oh, Sister!" cried her friend. "What are you saying? Have you forgotten that we have pledged our chastity to the Maker?"
The first girl said, "There are a thousand things promised to him all day long all over Thedas, and He doesn't get a single one. Besides, there are plenty of girls who will keep their word. Think of it! He's perfect! He can't possibly tell on us, and he's so very pretty. What do you say?"
At that hot time of afternoon, many of the other sisters were taking their rest, and Mahal listened to the girls' discussion, trying not to laugh out loud. In the end, they took him by his hands, and led him back to his own little quarters, soothing and cajoling him with many gestures, while he grinned like a zany. Afterward, when the girls talked the matter over, they agreed it was indeed the delight they had heard of, and more!
From then on, they took every available moment to go frolicking with their deaf-mute groundskeeper. It happened one day that another sister spied on them from her narrow cell window, and called it to the attention of two others. They watched for some time, and whispered that it must be reported to the Revered Mother, but then, changing their mind, they came to an understanding with the first girls, and they too enjoyed their share of the groundskeeper's attentions.
As time went on, every sister in the Chantry was in on the secret. The Revered Mother wondered at the happy faces about her, fresh and pink as their climbing roses. At length one day, as she walked in their beautiful garden. Mahal was sleeping under an arbor, for between tending to the garden and tending to the girls he was often tired. He looked so young and handsome that the lonely Revered Mother's heart hurt for all that had been taken from her, and she was tempted beyond her resistance. She awakened him, and swept him away to her cell, and kept him there several days, to the consternation of the other sisters.
Finally she released him, but was not fully satisfied, and she became so demanding that Mahal became exhausted with the efforts of the maintaining the garden and satisfying nine women. So one night, when he was with the Revered Mother, he suddenly spoke.
"My lady, I've heard that one cock is enough for ten hens, but that ten men could hardly toil hard enough to please a single woman. As for me, I have nine women to work for, and it's just too much. I give up. Let me go, for the Maker's sake."
The young woman's jaw dropped. "I thought you were mute!"
"So I was," Mahal assured her. "But no more. It must a miracle, wrought by living here in this holy place!"
The Revered Mother was silent a moment, thinking very fast, for all was now clear to her, and she knew she must be very wise to avoid disaster.
So Mahal was given a goodly sum of gold, and the sisters and their Revered Mother bid him farewell with tears in their eyes. He went home to the alienage, and used his capital wisely, and with some generosity. A fine public fountain was built in the center of the alienage, where all could go to for clean water. Mahal married well, and fathered many pretty children, and everyone agreed that his garden was the finest the alienage had ever seen. He himself attributed this to his useful experiences as a Chantry groundskeeper.
Zevran smirked at the various reactions. Cullen's face was red with rage. "I don't believe any such thing ever happened! You slander the Chantry!"
Brosca caught him by the arm, and was dragged along a few feet. She said, "Well, it's a different country isn't it? Maybe they do things differently there!"
"That's right," Alistair agreed reluctantly, "It is Antiva he's talking about."
Leliana pointed out primly, "In Orlais and Ferelden, the Chantry is always careful to appoint Revered Mothers of mature years. And there are always Templars to protect them. And we all know that there are sometimes people who cannot keep their vows!"
The mages were still laughing. "That was great," sighed Anders, with heart-felt satisfaction.
Sten only grunted, his suspicions of Andrastean hypocrisy confirmed.
The dwarves had been amused by the story too, if only because it was dirty, and made human surfacers look like idiots. Bronwyn hid her own embarrassment, not wanting to appear the sheltered maiden from the backwoods she sometimes felt like. Perhaps she should check out the stories her people told, before they told them to everyone else...
In due course, they arrived at the other side of the lake, and Bronwyn kept their farewells brief and cheerful. Alistair was still very uneasy at the prospect of his first command, and plagued her with his questions and concerns while she readied her own party for departure.
"Well," he sighed, running out of ways to delay the inevitable. "Don't get killed. That would be really disappointing. All right?"
She squeezed his arm. "All right."
They cantered off, and as they had previously agreed, stopped four miles away, near a stream marked on the map, not far from the River Dane Road. There, changes were made. No one in Denerim needed to know that the Wardens were in the city.
The River Dane Road was a green and mossy trail that led through the heart of the Bannorn, and on it they could gallop straight east to Denerim. The road was not a Tevinter masterwork, and so allowances would have to be made for bad weather; but on horseback, with good luck, they could get to Denerim far faster than on the North Road, where they might run afoul of Rendon Howe's forces.
Startled farmers backed away as the mounted party galloped past.
"Nobles," grumbled an old woman. "Always have to make a show of themselves."
"Fine horses, though," a red-haired plowman observed.
His brother grunted, "Too good for them knife ears!"
They were still worth watching, though: the black-haired noblewoman in the costly blue gown, big mabari hound running at her stirrup, her elf maidservant in a better dress than even the freeholder's wife dreamed of owning. An elf manservant, too, and two guards, one of them a giant of a man on a huge warhorse.
"Ought to have him down south in the Army. Looks like he could fight them darkspawn all by himself!"
The riders took the turn at Green Springs Road, and melted into the trees. The farmers went back to work.
"I am Lady Vera Porodolin," the self-assured aristocrat informed the admiring barkeep, "and I require lodging for myself and my retinue."
The Gnawed Noble, quite the finest establishment in Denerim, was completely at the lady's service and that of her plentiful gold coin. A large suite—on the ground floor—was available. The lady was from Ostwick, it transpired, which accounted for her pretty accent, and she had come to Ferelden to see after some private business. Taking the hint, she was promised the well-known discretion of the inn. A pair of servants, a pair of guards, and a fine hound were not too large a party to house. A bath was arranged, food was ordered, the horses were stabled, and life at the Gnawed Noble Tavern went on, in its expensively quiet way.
The dark-haired elf servants were good-looking, of course, but that was nothing remarkable. Neither were the two guards: a warrior in shabby chainmail whose visored leather helmet hid her eyes in a professionally threatening manner, and a big qunari. Qunari guards were becoming quite the fashion in aristocratic circles. Neither of them said much, which was the mark of reliable bodyguards. The dog was a real charmer. The lady liked to keep to herself. Plenty of ladies did.
The trays of food were brought, the door was shut, and the lady's party left to eat in peace.
Bronwyn removed her helmet, blowing out a breath. Nothing much was said while they inhaled their meal. Over the past few days, they had gone over the plans in detail.
"That was the house, all right," Leliana assured them. "I remember it well." She changed into her Chantry robe, and pulled the elaborate braids out of her hair. "No one notices a Chantry sister in the Market District. I will go along the street, apparently on errands of mercy, and watch the house. There is a corner on the opposite side where I can conceal myself."
"Right," Bronwyn rose, and peered out the window at the street. Now, just after blazing noon, the Market District teemed with life. "Zevran, Sten: position yourselves where we agreed. Listen for all the gossip you can. Tara, you're with me. I'll meet the rest of you opposite the house after sunset."
Leliana slipped out of the inn, avoiding the notice of the maids. The rest of the party went about their business, just as a noble lady's servants ought to.
"This way," Bronwyn muttered to Tara, who nearly walked into the wall as she stepped into the street. The elf looked about in eager delight.
"It's enormous!" she whispered, eyes radiant. "I never imagined a city could be so big! Could we go to the alienage? Or is it too far? I'm sure I came from the Denerim alienage, but I don't remember anything about it! Let's go, Bronwyn!"
"Not today," Bronwyn whispered back. "And remember to call me 'Jennet!'" She was not sure she wanted to go there anyway, and deal with Tara's disappointment and horror. Considering what the elf had thought of Dust Town, it was likely that the alienage would seem far worse, since the inhabitants were her own people.
"What's that?" Tara whispered, pointing to a shop door.
Bronwyn smiled. "The Wonders of Thedas. It's a shop full of things made at the Circle. Amazing stuff, really. Books and magical artifacts…"
"I want to go there!"
"Shh… Maybe we will, but not now."
She had been told how to slip into the unguarded warehouse, and also how to unlock the door to the secret room. Now that Tara was a Warden, it was fitting that she learn this as well.
The warehouse was a jumble of crates and barrels. Bronwyn moved softly, looking about for guards or merchants. Her luck held, and it was deserted. Moving to the back, into a small alcove, she tested the locking mechanism. A harrowing pause, and then the cupboard slid away, revealing a room lit only by a few tiny windowed holes, too small for anything other than a mouse or the sun's rays to penetrate.
"Scout," she ordered. "If anyone tries to open the front door, let me know and delay them until I can close the room up again."
A quick yip assured her that she was understood. Now, to see what they could find…
"All I have to do is bind my breasts down," Bronwyn told Tara, heady with success. "It's more than I hoped for. With the gold I took, I can go to Master Wade's and fix it up a bit. Wade is the best armorer in Denerim. My father and brother always go to him. I've never been there, so there's no chance he'll recognize me…"
New armor was a cure for low spirits, she discovered. Furthermore, there was far more in the cache-really a good-sized room-than armor and weapons: there were books and foodstuffs. There were cloaks and blankets and tents and scrolls and journals. There were armor stands and weapon stands, and chests filled with treasure and coin. She could carry only little with her, but she took a great deal of the gold, a quiver of fine arrows, and some maps and books, as well as a set of heavy dragonbone chainmail that she was absolutely sure would fit her. In the privacy of their rooms at the Gnawed Noble, Tara helped her into it. There were a few dings, here and there, that needed to be hammered out. The straps needed to be fastened more tightly than on the previous owner, but that would be no trouble. It was decent armor—better than decent. It was infinitely better than the shabby practice armor that she had worn since the night of the attack on her home. She felt no sentimental attachment to that relic.
She dug an awl from her pack, and set about drilling new holes in the straps. Tara stepped out to the bar to ask after a reliable laundress. There was no reason they could not have their linen seen to while they were in Denerim.
Thus is was that Tara carried a basket of dirty shirts and smallclothes out of the Gnawed Noble, with Bronwyn, helmet concealing her identity, trailing along. The innkeeper had recommended the services of one Goldanna, a woman only steps from Master Wade's shop.
The laundress was sharp-tongued but business-like, and agreed to have the lot washed, dried, and ironed by sunset the next day. Tara did the talking, playing the part of the elf maidservant, while Bronwyn lounged by the door, every inch the bored guard.
The laundress said, "If you'd come much later, I couldn't have promised tomorrow, what with the to-do over the King coming back to town, but I'll see you right."
Bronwyn was so surprised that she blurted out, "The King's in town?"
The laundress snorted. "Didn't think you had a tongue in your head. That's right. He's back and a good job for him, too. Got himself wounded down south, and he's come back so the Queen can give him a bit of cosseting. Not that he don't deserve it, poor soul. It's a hard thing, all this fighting and killing and all them darkspawn. Lucky we've got Teyrn Loghain to look after us."
They moved on to Master Wade's shop, which was as fascinating as she had always imagined. Wade and his shop assistant Herren, however, were not particularly fascinated by her. She was just another bodyguard of just another noble, and Denerim was swarming with them. Wade was only interested in his art, and second-hand heavy chainmail was not a sufficiently challenging project. Luckily, Herren was interested in ready cash, and within a few minutes, Wade gave his grumbling consent to make some adjustments to her new armor right away.
"It's worth every copper to me," she assured them. "I'm lucky to come into this. It's so superior to what I've been making do with!"
"Yes, yes, yes," sighed Wade, "Spare me your tale of woe. We've heard them all. Keep an eye on that mabari of yours. I'm not responsible if he singes his tail."
The forge sparked with Wade's hammer blows. Bronwyn watched in amazement at his skill, and Tara crept out of a corner to join her. The alterations Wade was willing to do would be complete by the morning.
"It would do more harm than good to tamper with it further. It is...adequate armor. I suggest you mold yourself to it, rather than demanding it mold itself to you."
"Thank you, Master. And do replace any straps and buckles that are unsound."
Wade and Herren rolled their eyes at each other, and Herren looked askance at the old chainmail that Bronwyn wanted to sell to him. He told her loftily that it was only good for scrap metal, but that he would take it off her hands when she picked up her new armor.
"Might I interest you in a helmet?" Herren ventured, regarding hers with contempt. "I have something quite superior in dragonwing..."
Bronwyn laughed. "I like this style."
"Ah." Wade and Herren exchanged another glance, this time one of complicity. Wade pointed out, "You haven't ask the price of the alterations." Herren tried to hush him.
Wade did mostly custom work, but there was a stock of excellent second-hand pieces. Herren liked her a little better when she found some dragonbone gauntlets that fit her. She caught him discreetly eyeing her weapons, which she knew were uncommonly good for a mere bodyguard. She gave him a cheeky grin. Let him think her a scavenging mercenary, if he liked.
"As such a very good customer," Wade drawled, "I might add some advice. You seem to be new to Denerim. Am I right? Well...keep your little elf friend close. After all the unpleasantness at the alienage, tensions are running high in some quarters."
"The laundress next door had no problem..." Bronwyn began.
Wade sighed, his eyes to Heaven. "In exalted quarters. Bann Vaughan is always interested in pretty elf girls."
Herren tried to hush him again. "We don't want to get involved!" he hissed in Wade's direction. He gave Bronwyn a professional smile. "You didn't hear Wade. Sometimes he speaks indistinctly. I've warned him about it."
"I didn't hear a thing."
Bronwyn and Tara strolled around the Market District, looking and listening. They bought hot pasties from one street vendor, and a red apple each from another. Some people did not seem to see Tara, or want to sell to her, but they had no problem with a tall woman warrior. Bronwyn was munching her apple when she heard a high, nasal voice she recognized immediately.
It was her cousin, Lady Habren Bryland, with maid and bodyguard in tow, torturing a silk merchant with her shrill demands. Bronwyn had not seen Habren in years, but there was absolutely no doubt it was she. Bronwyn edged closer, admiring the yellow silk in her cousin's manicured hands. Her shadow fell on the cloth, and Habren looked up, displeased.
"Get away, churl! How dare you look at me? My father can have you sent south to fight darkspawn!"
Tara said, "Come away, Jennet!" and pulled at her arm. Bronwyn looked at her cousin, her lips twisted in a sour smile. Habren's bodyguard tensed, then relaxed as Bronwyn withdrew. Scout raised a leg and gave his opinion.
Well, Bronwyn had known that Habren was in Denerim. She wondered what had come of the matchmaking council between Cousin Leonas and Arl Urien. It would be a good marriage for Habren, in a material light. For the people of Denerim, who would some day have Habren as their Arlessa? Perhaps not so much.
Gossip they overheard confirmed that the King was back in Denerim. Nobody seemed to know much about it. Loghain was still with the army, so there had been no disaster on that front. Apparently the Arl of Denerim had come with the King. When questioned, no one appeared to think the King's wounds dangerous...rather, they were just serious enough to need some convalescence away from the fighting. Now and then, she heard some sarcastic remarks, but only a few. The King was a popular figure.
She caught sight of Zevran and Sten, early on. Eventually Zevran slipped away to their meeting place, and after sunset, so did Sten. Bronwyn, still pleased with herself about her new armor, strolled a bit more, buying some food and drink for Leliana. As the sun dropped below the horizon, the merchants closed their stalls for the day. Carts wheeled out of the Market place, and Bronwyn and Tara clung inconspicuously to the edges of the buildings, moving down the little dead-end street where Marjolaine lived. Scout padded ahead, shaking off the attentions of the last of the children playing in the dirt.
They found Leliana's hiding place. She once again described the interior of the house in detail, and told them what she had observed, while tearing hungrily into the food Bronwyn gave her.
"She has at least two qunari guards. As I said, there is no back entrance. I remember that well from when I used to live here. A man left the house and then returned, and I'm sure he's an apostate mage—the way he holds himself tells a lot. He also has a very large walking stick." She laughed softly. "Marjolaine lives there. I'm sure of it, but she almost never goes out during the day. At night, however…"
"If she goes out," Bronwyn whispered, "We go in. If nothing happens before midnight, we'll go in anyway."
Darkness fell over the city, and the stars glittered above. The usual noises came from the surrounding houses: a man and woman quarreling, a child wailing for attention, someone throwing dirty dishwater out into the street. Farther away, there was a thread of sound from the Chantry, as the choir intoned the Chant of Light. Leliana sighed softly.
Boots crunched on the ground, turning the corner, and a cloaked figure strode into view. Behind him was a well-armed guard. Bronwyn put her hand out still her companions' eagerness.
The cloaked figure rapped three times and then once more on Marjolaine's door.
"Message for the Lady."
The door creaked open, and there was a muttered conference. The cloaked figure passed some parchment to someone within, and Bronwyn heard him hiss, "No—he wants to see her himself!" There was more talk, and after a moment, the door opened wider, and three people emerged from the door: a cloaked woman, a heavily armed qunari, and someone who might be..
Tara nudged her, and nodded. Yes, a mage, then... The door closed, and there was the sound of a bar sliding into place.
After the sound of their footsteps faded, Bronwyn made up her mind.
"We're going in, and we'll wait for her inside. Try to keep at least one of the guards alive."
Sten grunted acknowledgment, and Zevran chuckled softly.
"All right, let's go," Leliana murmured.
Bronwyn strode up to the door and knocked three times, and then once. "Message for the Lady."
Someone inside unbarred the door, and cracked it open, "What's going on—"
He froze in place, caught by Tara's spell. Bronwyn leaped into the room, and found herself attacked by one of the qunari guards. Leliana flanked the man, and snarled as she drove her dagger under his armpit. Scout charged him, and knocked him down. Behind them was a thud and gurgle, and Zevran's excited laugh. Another spell hissed, and the two guards were dead.
They were in an anteroom, dimly lit by a pair of candles. It was not an unattractive place. Another door accessed the rest of the house. The walls were plastered and whitewashed. The plank floor was covered by woven rugs. There were benches for visitors, and a big wardrobe for storage. Bronwyn bit her lip. Yes. It was big enough for her purposes.
"Bar the door, and put the qunari in the wardrobe," she ordered quietly. "And hide that other poor fellow in the big chest. Let's move this rug a bit to cover the bloodstains."
It was done. They drew a deep breath and eased the next door open.
Lightning popped at them, its sudden brightness burning dark patches in Bronwyn's vision. Tara ran out, low and quiet, and shot a freezing spell into a doorway. A pair of warriors rushed out from the opposite side and Leliana and Zevran were on them. Sten did not roar a battle cry, but was the more terrifying for his silence. He sneered at the qunari who faced him, and knocked him backwards with a brutal slam of his sword pommel.
"Katara, Tal'Vashoth!" he growled, driving his blade through his opponent's neck.
A tell-tale sphere of blue light bloomed in a doorway, and Bronwyn rushed at it. She tripped, caught by a booby-trap, and fell head-long, but not before she could lash out of the mage's feet with her silverite blade. The man shrieked, ankles spurting blood. Scout was leaping past her, smashing the man back against a bench.
Tara cried out, but it sounded more like victory than distress. Bronwyn untangled herself from the tripwire, and dusted herself off.
What had been quite a nice house was now a shambles. The cozy sitting room floor was littered with bodies, and the furniture was splintered with blows and charred with spells. Blood smeared the wall by the door like a crude painting.
Zevran came out of the single bedroom, calling out, "Clear here!" On the other side, the open doorway appeared to lead to a kitchen and larder. There was a faint, smothered rustle. Scout growled and lowered his head. Bronwyn glanced at Leliana, and they moved all cautiously to check it out.
There was an alcove to the right, where the noise had come from. Bronwyn stepped out to look into it, and saw a young girl crouching in the stone laundry basin.
"Please," she whimpered. "Please don't kill me." Trembling and young, her voice was sweetened by an Orlesian accent, and her eyes were large and blue. "Please," she sobbed, nodding at Scout. "Please, I'm afraid of big dogs."
"Put your hands up," Bronwyn ordered, "and come out of there slowly."
Leliana sighed deeply, looking the girl over. "Marjolaine has a new apprentice, I think."
"No!" the girl cried. "I am only the kitchenmaid. Madame brings me from Orlais. I cook, I clean, I serve Madame! I am never allowed to go out! Please, please save me! Madame is so cruel!"
Bronwyn was relaxing, about to lower her sword, when Leliana's voice sounded in the little room, hard and unyielding. "Marjolaine is never cruel to her tools," she contradicted, "until she is done with them—"
The sharp little dagger was spinning out of the girl's hand already, and a flask of acid was ready in the other. Bronwyn snarled as the dagger lodged in her leather helmet, and she lunged quickly, her sword extended. The flask of acid dropped and broke, the fumes rising up, sharp and acrid. Scout barked, rearing back from the stink.
"Stupid girl!" Leliana said bitterly. "Dying in a laundry tub for the likes of Marjolaine." The girl sagged to her knees, coughed, and was dead. Leliana's voice rose. "Did you think she would die for you?"
They left her there, the acid eating away at her skin. One of the mages was badly wounded, but still alive, and they took away his staff and bound his hands. Zevran knelt over him, the point of his sword as the man's throat.
And then they had a talk. Tara would heal the man, which he needed if he wanted to live, but at a price. Sten and Scout guarded the front door, waiting for the return of the mistress of the house.
"You're not from the Chantry," the captive mage guessed. He was a bearded, rangy man, who looked like he had gone for long periods without enough to eat.
"No," Bronwyn said shortly. "We're not from the Chantry. I don't care if you're an apostate. I want to know all about Marjolaine and what she's up to. Where does she keep her papers? Who is she working with? Give me something I can use, and this lady will stop you from bleeding to death."
He was only hired help, and so was perfectly happy to tell them anything that would save his life. He was not allowed into the lady's private room, but he knew her papers were there. He did not go with her to meet her clients, but he knew who some of them were. His testimony was written down, his bleeding stopped; and he was tied up and put under a sleep spell.
Leliana, of course, remembered all of Marjolaine's hiding places: even the secret drawer in her desk. Behind a bookcase were hidden files and something that Leliana called "dossiers," which contained lengthy information on every important person in Ferelden.
In easy reach were the bard's tools of forgery: model letters from individuals which were rewritten to suit her needs. Bronwyn flipped through them, and her stomach dropped at the sight of one of her father's, along with some drafts of the document that Marjolaine had transformed it into. It had taken some attempts, evidently, before she had made it something useful for her purposes. Knowing Father, it was clear to Bronwyn which was the original. It was quite bad enough. She read it through, and then read through it again with growing anguish.
"Oh, Father!" she whispered. "How could you do that to me?"
Two hours passed, while Bronwyn, Leliana, and Tara sorted through the papers. Bronwyn's misery had hardened into a cold, dark rage, which she grasped like a sword. She would be taking everything here, and the nobles of Ferelden would bear the consequences.
Zevran was watching at the window, and gave the quiet signal that Marjolaine was returning. The companions assembled in the anteroom to wait.
"I would like to talk to Marjolaine," Bronwyn murmured. "The others need to be eliminated instantly."
Sten unbarred and opened the door at the secret knock, his size and armor making him much like any other qunari in the gloom. Marjolaine and her guards did not realize the substitution until they were inside, and the door closed behind them.
The woman was stunned, and her surprised bodyguards disposed of with lethal dispatch.
"Bar the door," Bronwyn said, her voice icy and inhuman even to her own ears. "We don't want any surprise callers. Bring the woman into the sitting room and we'll have a talk."
"I'll tie her up," Leliana said fiercely. "You don't know how clever she is." She slipped her hand into the woman's bodice, and withdrew a thick packet of folded and sealed parchment. Moving over to a candle, she used heat and the tip of her dagger to expertly pop open the seal without damaging it. Bronwyn took the packet, paused as she recognized the seal, and began reading the contents, her brow darkening at every sentence.
Marjolaine's hands were tied behind her back, and her thumbs were bound togther—a trick Leliana had learned from Marjolaine herself-and she was moved to one of the settees. When Bronwyn had read enough, she gave a nod. Tara revived the prisoner, and the interrogation began. Bronwyn stood in a shadowed corner, not wanting to show her hand right away.
"Ah, Leliana," Marjolaine said softly, her Orlesian accent drawling out the words. "How lovely to see you! But what have you done to yourself? Your hair—short as a boy's! And such a color! You have not been taking care of yourself, I fear."
"Is that why you sent your men after us?" Leliana asked. "To 'take care of me?' They failed, as you see."
"You understood my invitation, then. And here you are," smiled the dark-haired woman, "come back to play the Great Game. I always knew you would, after you tired of your little holiday in the Chantry. We are not so different, you and I."
Tara cried, "Leliana is nothing like you!"
"Ah, a fierce little mage! And pretty, too! Always a useful servant—unless they are like that one," she sneered at the unconscious bound mage on the floor.
Leliana stood over her, eyes searching. "We killed your guards and found your correspondence. You have been very busy, here in Ferelden. I thought you would have gone home to Orlais after the last time we met."
Marjolaine laughed darkly. "And so I would, ma petite, but there is always so much to do here in Denerim. I would love to leave, but not until the Game is played to the finish. I hate Ferelden, as you know: the entire country smells of wet dog. The smell is in my hair, my clothes—bah! I cannot get it out."
Bronwyn glanced at Leliana, who understood, and ask, "And the Game itself? Or the endgame, I should say? It seems that you are playing for very high stakes. If you succeed, the Empress herself will reward you."
"Ha!" the woman shook her long dark hair, smirking. "Reward me? She might even give me one of these little dog provinces to rule! To win by marriage what her predecessors failed to win by war—now that is triumph! That is victory!" Her voice lowered to an insinuating purr. "And there will be riches enough for all. Enough even for you and your most efficient companions. If you have seen the documents I was carrying—and I must presume that you have—you know that I am on the winning side. To oppose me might even be called treason! You will never have a better opportunity, my dear. Untie my hands, and together we shall deliver this very good news to the Empress!"
Leliana paused, thinking it over. "Untie you so you can stab me in the back, you mean…"
"No, no! Not with all these swords pointing at me!" Marjolaine laughed. "If you have done so well, you deserve to be a partner in my success."
"And leave?" Leliana seemed off-balance, even hopeful. "Just leave? Go to Orlais, you mean?"
"But of course! We can leave this horrible place behind us. I have horses in the Market stables. We can take our letter and leave all else behind. Untie me, and we can be gone together, tonight!"
Tara took her cue from Leliana, looking at the red-haired girl with wide eyes. "Would we really go with her? What about him?" she asked, pointing at the mage on the floor.
Marjolaine shrugged. "Bring him or leave him. It is all one to me. A little fire will cover our departure."
"And your correspondence?" Leliana asked. "Do we take it or leave it, too?"
"Most should be burned: but the Empress might enjoy some of the dossiers. Not all—some are no longer of use…"
Bronwyn spoke, her words dropping like icicles into the conversation. "Not the dossier of Teyrn Bryce Cousland, for instance?"" She stepped out, removed her helmet, and stared down at Marjolaine. "Not the dossiers of those who are already dead by your intrigues?"
"Ah!" Marjolaine looked up at her. Her eyes changed, then, and her voice softened. "You do not look much like your description, my dear. War is a hard master, is it not? The scar does nothing for you. And such eyes…very compelling, very strange. They are new, yes?"
"Yes."
"I see. You must know, my dear, that it was nothing personal. That Arl Howe—how easy it was to make him believe what he wanted to believe. Your father was a charming man, and not unskilled, but he played the Game, and lost."
Bronwyn shivered under the stress of maintaining her calm. She took a deep breath, and hefted her dagger. "Be sure to tell my nephew Oren," she murmured in Marjolaine's ear, "that it was only a Game."
The dagger struck home and twisted. Marjolaine's eyes widened, and she ground her teeth, too proud to scream. Her feet kicked out, reflexively, and then she flopped back. Bronwyn was frozen in place. unable to withdraw her dagger. Scout whined, and rubbed against her side.
Zevran took charge of the aftermath. "Now, bellissima, let us move her quickly, yes? We must make the house look like she has gone on a long journey. We do not want her to bleed on the cushions!"
Brownyn could not move. "And by the way," she snarled furiously at Marjolaine's corpse, "Ferelden does not smell like wet dog!"
Scout yipped comfortingly, while Zevran and Sten pulled Bronwyn away. The assassin and the qunari exchanged eye rolls.
There was much to do, and Zevran was experienced in the art of concealing murders. There was a cellar beneath the kitchen, and Sten was put to work digging a grave, wide and deep enough for all the bodies. It was fortunate that there was a shovel down there—or not so fortunate as ironic, when digging quickly revealed that there were already bodies under the house.
"How well our hostess has provided for us," Zevran laughed. "Shovels, quicklime to consume the bodies! One might almost say she was our accomplice!"
The blood was scrubbed away, and the furniture rearranged. Bronwyn, still numb from the night's disclosures and events, was brought a cup of herbal tea. It was then she noticed that the captive mage was awake and looking at her, terror in his eyes.
"What shall we do with this one?" Zevran asked lightly. "It is a pity you have awakened, my friend. Better to die in one's sleep, feeling no pain."
Bronwyn croaked, "Let him go."
"Bellissima," Zevran said reproachfully, "you know it cannot be. The man knows little, true, but he knows too much."
"Let him go!" she cried out. "Look," she said to the man, a little desperately. "if you go blabbing to any of Marjolaine's old friends, you'll just end up dead. Here…here's three sovereigns. I want you on a ship out of Ferelden tomorrow."
Zevran sighed. Leliana sat down by Bronwyn and took her hand, giving Zevran a look he understood perfectly. "It is your noble nature," she said softly. "I understand that. If that is what you really want, Bronwyn, we must take the man with us and put him on the boat ourselves to make sure of it."
"All right," Bronwyn subsided. "Let's do that."
Zevran told the mage, "I hope you appreciate this lady's generosity. Myself, I would kill you now and bury you in the cellar, but she is full of mercy, and I am her sworn man."
"What is that you have?" Bronwyn asked Tara, whose hands were full of something sparkling.
"Marjolaine's jewelry," Tara told her at once. "It would be silly to bury her with it."
Bronwyn took an angry breath, but Leliana cut in. "That is very sensible. Her jewelry is worth a lot of money. In fact, we should go through the house carefully. We should take everything of value, and what we cannot take we should bury with the bodies, to make it look like she packed up and left."
It was logical, and perfectly disgusting. Bronwyn pulled herself together and gathered all the papers she could find. They went into a backpack she found in a cupboard. Meanwhile, Leliana and Tara packed some of the best clothes, and a few of the best weapons. Leliana lingered over Marjolaine's beautiful vanity set: brush, comb, hand mirror, and jewelry box of silver and ivory, and then packed them too.
The bodies and the unwanted equipment were consigned to the deep hole in the cellar. The nameless young girl fell backwards like a crushed flower, Marjolaine was thrown in next and her arms spread wide, one covering the girl's face. When all the bodies were in the grave, Leliana murmured a prayer:
"I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Fade, For there is no darkness, nor death either, in the Maker's Light, And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost."
Zevran poured the bag of quicklime over all, and he and Sten quickly shoveled the earth back and tamped it down. The companions went back upstairs without speaking.
Murder, Bronwyn thought wearily. That was murder, not war. I am a murderer, and I must live with it. Scout sniffed at her, puzzled at her strange smell, and whined.
Leliana broke the silence. "Let us all wash ourselves carefully, and no one will guess what we have been up to."
She took her own advice, and after she was clean, she went into the bedchamber, looked at herself in the mirror briefly, and began changing into Marjolaine's richest silk gown. Bronwyn, wiping off her armor in the sitting room, listened to the bard's calm voice, soothing as a lullaby.
"I found the key to the front door. We shall lock the house, yes? If Marjolaine is expected to be delivering a letter in person, then no one will be coming here for at least a month. Even then, they might think she has had some misadventure, or has changed her mind. Now come, what's done cannot be undone, and we shall all sleep late tomorrow."
Edwina, the sleepy and irritated owner of the Gnawed Noble Tavern was awakened by knocking, and roused herself to let the foreign lady and her retinue back in. The lady was very pretty, very drunk, and very happy. Some sort of wild party, Edwina supposed. The guards were silent, and the servants half carried the lady back to her rooms.
Another typical night in Denerim, Edwina sighed to herself. She blew out the candle and slipped back into bed.
Note: Thanks to my readers, and especially to my reviewers: Elizabeth-chan, Lehni,Warrose, Josie Lange, Shakespira, Amhran Comhrac, Sarah1281, Zute, demonicnargles, Pirate Ninjas of the Abyss, Nithu, dyslecksec, Aaron W, Persephone Chiara, CynderJenn, mille libri, JackOfBladesX, mutive, Aoi24, Dante Alighieri1308, Enaid Aderyn, derko5, Isaac A. Drake, WellspringCD, Windchime68, wayfaringpanda, almost insane, Gene Dark, Papillon, Piceron, jen4306, jubamischin, and undeadyeti.
Papillon asked about the serving maid's child, since I have decided to write Alistair as Fiona's son. My theory for purposes of this story is as follows: There was indeed a serving maid at Redcliffe Castle who died in childbirth. Alistair was substituted for the dead baby. It would have taken some time and effort to put this over, and therefore there was all the more reason to drive Goldanna away. A few people must have known about the substitution, other than Eamon, who did not know the mother's identity-simply that this was a son of Maric. I daresay he imagined the worst-and perhaps, knowing something of where Maric had been, might even have hit on the truth. Because of the dates, I originally thought that the dead child could not be Maric's, but I am faced with Goldanna's belief that it was. Apparently she knew of her mother's relationship with the king. Presumably Alistair was older than the dead baby, which means that Maric had some sort of brief liaison before Fiona showed up with her child. Go Maric :(
Zevran's story is that of Masetto da Lamporecchio, the first novel from day three of the Decameron by Giovanni Boccaccio.