Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 27: Dark Waters
Water lapped gently at the beached rowboat. Two ravens perched on the bow, sooty feathers gleaming with health. A brief dispute, and one of the birds pecked at the other, who fluttered up with a squawk. Anders flapped unsteadily back to the grassy shore, and transformed. "Ouch!" he complained. Morrigan followed, and resumed her human form in the blink of an eye.
"You must practice, Anders, if you wish to master this form. That means, if you do not comprehend it, that you must fly, and fly frequently, whether you find it odd or not!"
"I am practicing, and I was going to fly," he insisted. "I'm just not ready to fly that far!"
He pointed to the Circle Tower, clear and imposing in the morning sun. He added, "And I never thought I would voluntarily go there ever again!"
Morrigan stroked his hair with a light touch. He really was perfect in every way for her purposes, and not an unworthy companion. "We must go, and we must go soon. In three days, 'twill will be too late. I may never have such a chance again!" She leaned in, breath warm and urgent on Anders' throat. "And what a rare jest—to plunder the Tower for treasures they do not even know they possess!"
Anders' face yielded a smile at last. "There is that," he laughed. "I'd risk a lot to put one over on that bastard Irving! I still think his study is the most likely place to find your book."
"You know the Tower, and I do not," Morrigan agreed, pleased that he was once more in a good humor. "We shall fly there, fly back, and none the wiser!"
Her mother had always kept her many secrets close. Yet there was that one time they had slipped her leash: after a long journey gathering herbs, they had returned to find Templars rifling the hut. A quick and ugly battle had dispatched the intruders, but Mother's wrath was boundless when she discovered that two Templars had already escaped through the marshes, bearing away ancient tomes, and, by chance, her personal grimoire. Rarely had her enemies so vexed her, and Flemeth had taken her revenge on the bodies of the Templars left behind. They had provided her with rare ingredients for some time, and what she had no use for had hung from nearby branches until the marsh birds had their fill. The rest was slowly absorbed by the looming sylvan trees themselves: bones, sinew, and all.
Where else would the Templars have taken books of magic, than back to the Tower where magic itself was imprisoned? The fools who dwelt therein might embrace the chains that bound them, but Morrigan knew better. To his credit, Anders felt likewise, and had agreed to help her search for the lost item. The Black Grimoire, the object of her search, would tell her those things that Flemeth had not wished to share.
Anders' price was not high: a tumble or two on the soft moss of the forest, a kind word now and then, a smile. He was a comely man, and a gentle lover. He was educated and magically powerful, even by Morrigan's standards. He was refreshingly clean in his personal habits. He was, in fact, far and away superior to the rough-handed Chasinds Mother had lured in to initiate Morrigan in the ways of men and women, or the clumsy peasants Morrigan herself had chanced upon from time to time. His company was…agreeable…to her.
She remembered to grant him a smile then, the better to have her way.
"Let us fly now, to the bluff and back again…thrice. If you do well," she purred, "you shall be rewarded as you like!"
If this was command, Alistair decided, it wasn't so bad. At the moment, he really didn't have to do much of anything. He was lonely, though. He missed Bronwyn even more than he had expected. She was the alpha of their pack, he decided, chuckling over the image: the leader who defined them all and their relationships to one another. And she was very nice to look at.
They were staying at the Spoiled Princess for the next two days. At that point, they would have to move out and wait at the meeting place Bronwyn had so carefully marked on his map. Until then, they could take turns caring for the horses, practicing their marksmanship, trading, sparring a bit, or resting. It was a nice place: the innkeeper was a friendly sort, and the barmaids seemed to think that Grey Wardens were genuine heroes. The ale was good, too.
Bronwyn had suggested that he plan out a schedule, and Alistair had actually sat down at a table in the common room and written one out. He went outside, where Cullen was exercising his horse, and went over it. Cullen thought it was all right.
"I like it that you've put the dwarves on horse duty with an experienced partner," he said. "They need to get used to them, but we don't want any accidents or injuries."
Alistair snorted. "I wouldn't call Anders or Morrigan exactly experienced with horses."
Cullen laughed. "Well, they don't confuse them with brontos! Speaking of the mages, where are they?"
"I don't think I really want to know. Anders has been smirking more than usual lately."
The horse was reined in. Cullen dismounted, frowning. "Anders had something of a reputation in the Tower. Bronwyn won't like it if he breaks that witch's heart."
"It's more likely to be the other way around."
"I don't think she'd like that either. I have to tell you," Cullen said frankly, lowering his voice a little, "that I don't approve of those mages cavorting off by themselves. It's not decent. I don't want people to get the idea that Grey Wardens are…are…libertines, or something of that sort!"
Just at that moment, Brosca leaned out of an upstairs window, and called, "Cullen! I'm having trouble fastening my belt. Come upstairs and help me!"
Alistair's brows rose.
Cullen blushed, "She doesn't mean anything by it! She's a nice girl, and not some kind of temptress like that Morrigan. She's just being friendly."
"She likes you a lot," Alistair remarked, completely deadpan. "Don't worry about the horse. I'll lead it back."
Astrid emerged from the inn, just as Cullen was entering, and she granted him a grave nod as they passed. She saw Alistair walking out the horse, and strode over to him.
"Oghren said that you were making out a rota of our duties. May I see it?"
Surprised, Alistair handed it over to her at once.
The dwarf woman studied it frowning, and then nodded. "I might suggest more archery practice, but this is quite acceptable. The horses require no more care for the moment?"
"No." Alistair grinned. "Cullen's very diligent with them. The point of the schedule is to make sure he doesn't have to do all the work with them!"
"Fair enough. We are an order of equals, I understand. It is proper that we share all the duties. I see that you have nothing planned at the moment. Would you care to spar?"
Alistair hesitated. It was a struggle to get used to the idea of sparring with dwarves—especially dwarf women. It seemed too much like attacking children. Astrid was still looking up at him coolly, brows raised. She was not a child, of course, and would be offended if she knew he thought of her as one. The keen blue eyes were not a child's, and no child's mouth had ever been marked with those faint lines of humor and irony.
"Sure," he said, aware he was staring. He had never realized that dwarf women could actually be…good-looking. "That would be great."
They sparred, and within five minutes she handed him his helmet, so to speak.
Alistair gasped, on his back, winded. His entire shield arm tingled from the force of Astrid's last blow. She stood over him, head cocked to one side.
"You were going easy on me," she remarked. "Don't."
"Sorry."
"Am I a Grey Warden, or not?" she asked.
He sat up, wincing. "You're a Grey Warden."
"Good. Because either I'm a Grey Warden, or I'm nothing; and I don't care to be nothing."
She put out a hand to help him up. Alistair was astonished at the strength of her grip. He shouldn't have been, of course. Wasn't that what people called the dwarves? "The Stout Folk?" Astrid was stouter than most, he guessed.
"What are you doing?"
Brosca and Cullen came out of the inn, tankards in hand.
Alistair dusted himself off, grinning wryly. "Trying to spar."
"Nuh-huh!" Brosca laughed, shaking her head. "You were trying, Alistair: Astrid was succeeding."
"Well…" he dug the toe of his boot into the dust, embarrassed. "Let's go another round."
They took turns. Each of them had his or her own tricks. Some time later Oghren came out and joined in the practice. There were special tactics needed to deal with an axe man like the red-haired dwarf. Astrid knew quite a few, but Oghren knocked her flying more than once. Then Brosca took on Oghren, and showed what a pair of really fast practice daggers could do to take down a stronger opponent when he was still winding up for a crushing blow.
"Or would be crushing, if he could land it!" Brosca laughed triumphantly.
"That was a good practice," Astrid admitted. "A decent workout. Perhaps the dreams will not be so bad tonight."
"Don't count on it," Alistair warned her, following her back into the cozy inn.
She actually laughed a little.
The mages did not return until the first stars came out.
A night, a day, a night. Two ravens followed the moonlight to the dark tower in the middle of Lake Calenhad.
Their arranged destination was a window ledge on the second floor. The first raven backwinged down; the second landed awkwardly, talons scrabbling on stone. The two ravens used their beaks to tug at the stiff, narrow window. After a moment, the hinges yielded, and the window creaked open. A small aperture: one that no human, elf, or dwarf could hope to enter. For the ravens, however, it was more than sufficient. Their dark plumage concealed them as they flapped down through the darkened chamber to the stone floor, fifteen feet below.
In a moment, a man and a woman stood there, eyes adjusting to the dim light from the hall beyond. The chamber had no door. Anders had led Morrigan to his old digs in the Senior Mage Quarters. The Templars allowed the mages no real privacy. There were partitions only, and Templars could peer at the sleeping mages as their duty—or fancy—took them: as they washed or dressed or relieved themselves. Mages must not be allowed any privacy, lest they go mad, ally with demons, becomes abominations, and destroy all life on Thedas before breakfast. The tiny windows let in minimal air and light, but were not a practicable exit—unless one could shape-shift, which the Chantry had decreed was a very improper magical discipline indeed.
It was long after midnight. Only the Templars on guard would be awake, and that not for long, when Anders cast Somnium on them.
The two them peered around the edge of the wall at the figure in massive armor, leaning a little against the wall.
"Carroll," Anders whispered softly to Morrigan. "A complete moron, and generally lyrium-addled. No one will be surprised if he's asleep."
Morrigan chuckled, and the spell was launched: perhaps not as powerful as it would have been had Anders had his staff to focus it, but strong enough. The gawky Templar's knees buckled, and he slid down the wall slowly, with a series of quiet clanks.
"Now for the First Enchanter's Study. The door will probably be open. There's a Templar on duty at that end of the hall, too."
Morrigan looked about, yellow eyes taking it all in. These endless, circular halls, this maze of bookshelves and stonework might have been her home, in another life. Her home, or rather, her cage. Not even to have the right to a door! It did not surprise her that Anders had tried to escape.
They glided along the arc of the corridor, watching and listening. Anders gave Morrigan a nudge as they neared the First Enchanter's study. He looked beyond, to where the stairs led up to the next floor, recognized the Templar on duty, and a scowl darkened his face.
"That bastard," he hissed. "I'll never forget him."
Morrigan caught at his arm and quickly shook her head. Anders snarled soundlessly, but cast sleep over the man. They crossed the hall and tried the door. It was unlocked, of course, for even the First Enchanter could not be permitted a lock on his door.
They eased the door shut behind them, and Morrigan raised a light. Not wanting to seem a bumpkin from the Wilds, she refused to show her admiration for the wide and lofty room, for the fine, carved desk, for the beautiful windows of colored glass and the fascinating trinkets. Instead, she joined Anders as he opened chests and rifled the bookcases. She had described the Black Grimoire carefully to Anders, and they could not miss it, once they laid eyes upon it.
A rustle among the parchment, and a mouse darted across the floor. Morrigan, fresh from her bird form, momentarily saw it as prey, and then noticed Anders' knowing grin. She huffed, and went on with their search.
There was only so much she could carry in her robes, and still successfully transform. They had devised a plan to carry the book, but there were other things in the study that caught their interest. Anders found some notes that he thrust into a pocket, and a thin volume joined them shortly thereafter.
Morrigan moved to a large chest in a corner, opening it, and quickly sorting through the jumble within. Parchments, letters…a parcel wrapped in more parchment…more letters.
She paused, and dug through to the parcel again. It was book-sized, and yes—it was indeed a book. Carefully, she pulled the parchment away from a corner, and thrilled with triumph to see the black-dyed leather cover. Flemeth had once claimed that her grimoire was bound in brain-cured human skin, but Morrigan suspected that that was one of her mother's tall tales. This leather looked and felt like oxhide to her. She distracted Anders from his own search, and tapped her finger on the book. He hurried over, smiling broadly.
"Put everything else away just as it was!" he whispered. "Irving may never know it was gone. The library—"
"Anders, we have no time!" She soothed him with a light touch. "The day may come when, as a Grey Warden, you can simply walk into the Tower and demand to use the library. We will never have another chance to loot the First Enchanter's study!"
Clutching her precious grimoire, she urged him to the door. She dimmed her witchlight, and the room fell into darkness once more. The door was carefully opened, and they were relieved to see that the nearby Templar was still sleeping. Anders sneered, but readied himself to creep out, and find the window they had entered through.
Then the door to the next floor opened, and their plans were changed for them.
"What is—Kendrick! Wake up, man!"
Anders clutched at Morrigan's arm. "Knight-Commander Greagoir!" he whispered, his blood turning to ice. Grey Warden or not, it would be fatal to be found poking about the First Enchanter's study after midnight. The door was shut, and the two of them backed away hastily, stumbling in the dark.
The Knight-Commander's angry rebuke lasted for some time. Then they heard heavy, metal shod footsteps stalk down the hall. A pause. The door opened.
Greagoir held a light crystal up and glanced about the room. Behind him stood a sheepish Templar. The two Templars saw only vague shadows, and nothing resembling mages. It would have taken a closer examination to reveal the two ravens hiding behind the chest in the corner.
"We will do the inspection together," Greagoir was staying, "since you seem to have found your duties too great a burden tonight."
"Sorry, Knight-Commander," mumbled the Templar. "Won't happen again."
"It had better not!"
To Anders' horror, they left the door open when they moved away.
Morrigan stepped out into the shaft of light from the doorway and she murmured, "We can still do this."
They could open the small window—very gingerly—with the hooked pole kept for the purpose. Furniture had to be moved, quietly and carefully, but they could do that, too. Anders pulled out the square of fine silk and the long light cord they had brought, and Morrigan shifted again—to an owl—an strong, grey owl—strong enough to snatch up a sleeping lamb. The owl settled on the window frame, and Anders wrapped the grimoire in the silk and bound it to the owl's legs, grimacing.
"I still don't like this," he told Morrigan. "It's dangerous for you."
The owl pecked at him in exasperation. Anders finished the last knot, and stood back. "Good luck…"
Morrigan dove from the window into the chilly moonlight. There was a moment of terror as the book dropped the length of the cord and a leaden weight tugged at her.
She opened her wings, and the first downstroke was agony. All she had to do was make it to the broken end of the causeway…
Anders jumped down silently from the desk, and moved it back where it had been, rearranging the papers on it. If something were out of order, the First Enchanter would think it was the Templars, spying again. He took a breath, and transformed into a raven again, flapping up to the window ledge, and glancing with keen birdsight to see the big owl laboring with its burden.
Darting out, far more swiftly, Anders flew past with a "caw" of encouragement. The owl was finding it hard going, but there was no help for it now The lake glittered beneath them, silver on black; the broken end of the causeway was marble-white. He flew faster, wanting to be ready when Morrigan arrived. She was coming, a growing silhouette against the moon.
A rush of dark feathers, the bump of an unbearable weight. Anders hissed as a talon caught his hand, drawing blood. He tore at the thin rope, and the knots came free. Between one breath and another, Morrigan lay stretched out on the cracked stones of the causeway, trembling with exhaustion.
He fetched his staff and cast a general rejuvenation spell, and then used his fingertips and a word to heal his own hand.
"I hope this bloody book is worth all that. I thought for a moment you might not make it," he told her, sweeping her up in his arms.
She did not push him away. "I am not so feeble in will as to let a mere book kill me, even though 'tis Flemeth's!"
Cold rain sheeted down, making the encampment at Ostagar even more inhospitable than usual. Smoke rose from damp fires in a white cloud, reducing visibility from the lookout posts.
Loghain, walking along the pickets, heard the challenge and the response. Reports from Gherlen's Halt? It was not Roarke's usual time. He must have something notable to say. He sent a man to fetch the courier, while he continued inspecting the improved defenses Voldrik had devised here on the north approach.
There were two young men, this time, worn out with hard riding.
"We made good time enough, my lord," one explained. "Arl Teagan gave us remounts when we went through Redcliffe."
"Did he?" Loghain considered it. "Sensible of him. I'll want to hear about Redcliffe later. Let's see what Roark has to say…"
Emboldened by his excitement, the other boy burst out, "It's not just the Commander, my lord! The Girl Warden was at Gherlen's Halt and she sent letters for you, and her brother the Teyrn, and his Majesty!" He saw the panicked look on his friend's face, and lowered his voice. "I reckon it's good news, my lord," he mumbled, chastened.
"Indeed? Then let us have it…"
He would question the lads later. Right now, he wanted to read the letters in the privacy of his quarters at the Tower of Ishal. The heavy leather bag was deposited on his camp desk, and the riders sent off for rest and a meal.
"Stay, Cauthrien. The rest of you are dismissed."
They were too disciplined to show the disappointment they must be feeling. If the news was good, he would tell them himself, and in his own way.
There was thick parcel of parchment, directed to Fergus Cousland, and sealed with the Grey Warden griffon. There was a letter to Cailan—a thin folded parchment. And for Loghain himself…
"My lord Teyrn—
Bhelen is King in Orzammar, and the dwarven army is on the march."
He felt his lips curl upward. The smile could be indulged, for this was the best news he had had in weeks.
No. Months. Maybe longer.
He told Cauthrien, "It appears that Bronwyn has been successful in her appeal to the dwarves. They are coming."
He read the letter through, and hesitated over the references to their "neighbors." She must mean the Orlesians, and that was ominous.
He gave the letter to Cauthrien to study, while he pored over the nice little map Bronwyn had drawn for him. It was a useful thing, to know where the Deep Roads lay under the soil of Ferelden. Bronwyn had marked them in red ink, and then shown where the old entrances were situated. It was not complete, of course. Perhaps someday he could persuade her to give him a complete map of the Deep Roads, or at least one that showed where they wound underneath Orlais. Of course, an underground march would not be feasible, but it would be amusing to see if was even possible.
Meanwhile, his second remarked, "Based on this, she will be here with the dwarves in less than two weeks. Hardly an outcome that anyone expected."
Loghain snorted. "You mean it was unexpected by our King, with all his defeatist talk! I am not so surprised." He gave Cauthrien a grim smile. "I shall see to it that His Majesty gets the news just as fast as our couriers can reach Denerim! Perhaps he will be moved to rejoin us, in order to share in what he must describe as a 'glorious moment.'"
Cauthrien considered and said frankly. "It is rather a 'glorious moment.' The dwarves last came to Ferelden's aid in the days of the Rebellion."
Loghain tried to resist the moment of nostalgia, but it swept over him nonetheless: sweet, painful, intoxicating…
"The Legion of the Dead. That name certainly brings back memories. Superb fighters, too. She's done well." He studied the Fergus' thick packet, and said, "So, Cauthrien, It seems that we'll have to reorganize the camp to accommodate our stout new allies."
After she had gone, he had decisions to make. Cousland was already in Denerim, and possibly in parts north. Loghain would have to forward this parcel to him tomorrow, but there must be untold amounts of intelligence within. No doubt both brother and sister would be furious if they knew what he intended, but he needed to know just how far the Cousland family was in with the Orlesians…
Over the years, he had learned skills that would have been useful in his younger days. It took time to remove the seal from the tangled string, but he had also learned patience. The lump of griffon-impressed wax was carefully set aside, and the string unbound. The heavy parchment was folded back, and the lengthy correspondence inside exposed. A note lay on top, and Loghain felt not even a moment's shame at reading it.
Eight Grey Wardens? That was impressive. Eight in such a short time. After twenty years, Duncan had commanded only two dozen. Bronwyn had been very busy.
So she had been in the Deep Roads. He did not envy her. He had spent time enough and to spare there himself. For some reason the dwarves had let her choose their king for them. That sounded so incredibly unlikely that it must be true. He liked the idea that she had chosen the king based on his value as a Ferelden ally. This was all very satisfactory, so far.
As to seeing the Archdemon…She had no doubt seen something…
Ah, yes, their little private code. Very sensible of them. How convenient it was to be Commander of the Armies and above suspicion: so much so that when Fergus Cousland was away from his quarters, Loghain could walk past the guard, tell the man that he would wait for Teyrn Fergus inside, and then go through his private papers and make a copy of the cipher. How convenient not to have been born a nobleman, and thus not to be repressed by one's own chivalry. Loghain was proud to say that he had not chivalric bone in his body.
He found the cipher and began decoding the mysterious paragraphs. In a few moments, he laughed aloud.
"…You are not to tell the following to anyone but Teyrn Loghain…"
Well. There was as pretty an invitation to read her correspondence as a man could ask for. He went back to work, quickly decoding the rest, and then sat back, scowling in alarm.
Bronwyn had been incredibly reckless to cross the border and put herself in du Guesclin's hands. Loghain had known the father—who had been killed at the Battle of River Dane—and a pompous, preening swine he had been.
"For obvious reasons, I left Alistair behind…"
Loghain paused, wondering which reasons had been uppermost in her mind. He returned to his reading. So the Orlesian Warden had lured her to the border? This all sounded very suspicious.
"…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…"
Loghain sat up straight, eyes blazing. "Fool of a girl! Do you imagine that is the only use the Orlesians would have made of you?"
A son of the late king. A daughter of the deceased heir-presumptive. The latter was as dangerous as the former, for Ferelden inheritance laws being as fluid as they were, Bronwyn's claim to the throne was as good as her brother's—and as good as an unacknowledged bastard's. If Cailan died in battle, the two young Wardens would have made a pretty pair of puppet monarchs to dangle on Celene's strings. At least this note supported his own theory-and Howe's-that Bronwyn knew nothing of her family's treason. Or alleged treason, if Howe was lying.
This Riordan fellow had intervened for reasons of his own. It was touchingly naïve of Bronwyn to put it down to some sort of attachment to the land of his birth. Though very capable, she was young, after all. At any rate, the fellow had intervened and Ferelden still had its Wardens, and Cailan would have no excuse to go crawling to that bitch Celene.
"…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…"
Loghain blew out a long, long breath. Blood magic, probably. The room turned chilly, despite the good fire in the brazier. He had always suspected that the Wardens had some sort of dealings with Blood Magic. Why be so very secretive, after all? Why did so many of their recruits disappear? What power could they wield that was great enough to slay Gods?
Did the Chantry know? Or did they suspect? Or had the Wardens made an arrangement with them, long ago: an exception to the ban on Blood Magic, because the Wardens had confided their secrets to the Divine.
It made sense. He grimaced, regretting that the girl had gotten mixed up with anything so foul. Not her fault, of course, but very unfortunate.
Yes, the cunning Orlesians in the Chantry at Val Royeaux must know. They had no doubt passed it down, from Divine to Divine, since the days of Kordillius Drakon. The Chantry did not interfere with the Wardens—much—and Loghain suspected that it was because they were busy holding their noses so very hard.
So Bronwyn believed that this secret Warden power would work, did she? It hadn't done much for Duncan. Did it only work on the Archdemon itself? If that was the case, putting the Wardens in the vanguard had been a foolish waste.
No more secrets. When the girl rode in with her dwarven friends, she and Loghain would have a very private talk, and she would tell him everything.
The captive mage's name was Betancourt. He had been trained in the Orlesian Circle, and then assigned to serve Marjolaine in Denerim a year ago. Zevran questioned him when they awakened, gritty-eyed and exhausted, the morning after the events at Marjolaine's house. He had been tied up and put under another sleep spell, and now he was frightened and thirsty and in desperate need of a chamberpot. Zevran saw to his comfort and allowed him a hearty breakfast. Sten watched him unblinkingly, sword drawn.
The women stumbled out of the inner bedchamber a little later, first Tara, then Leliana, and then Bronwyn, who looked quite awful. Dark smudges purpled the skin under her eyes: she was haggard and irritable. Leliana encouraged her to have a bowl of the inn's good porridge, which was enriched with apples and honey and a touch of nutmeg. Then there was a good strong cup of honeygrass tea, and then Leliana insisted on giving Bronwyn's hair a good brushing.
While she brushed, she told Bronwyn her plan. "You said you must go fetch your armor. While you are there, Zevran and I will take the mage to the docks and put him on a ship. We cannot leave until tomorrow, so why don't we see a bit of the town...do some shopping,...have some fun? I thought I would grieve over Marjolaine, but I feel as if a heavy weight has been lifted from me."
With more prodding, Betancourt could tell them quite a bit about Marjolaine's operations: even things he did not know that he knew. They learned the procedure for delivering messages to the Palace, and he told them that messages to various nobles went through the barkeep right here at the Gnawed Noble, who was paid a regular fee for the service. Bronwyn nodded, and filed the information away for future use.
"We have to pick up the laundry this afternoon," Tara reminded her. "I want to go to that Wonders of Thedas place...and maybe see the alienage...if there's time," she added.
"Come with me to Master Wade's," Bronwyn said gruffly. "After I get my new armor, we can go to the alienage. I don't think you'll like it, but you can see it."
"What are you going to do, Sten?" Tara asked.
"I shall guard the mage as well," Sten answered instantly. "We cannot be too careful."
Leliana and Zevran caught each other's eye, and then shrugged.
"All right then," Bronwyn considered, her voice still a little gravelly. "We'll run our errands this morning. Let's meet back here for the noon meal, and then we shall go to the Wonders of Thedas and perhaps some other shops. I also wanted to call on Brother Genetivi, and see if he's come home from that quest of his yet. Someone at the Cathedral should be able to direct me to his house."
"Do you think he might have already returned?" Leliana wondered.
Bronwyn shrugged. "If he survived at all, possibly. That village he was going to was only on the other side of Lake Calenhad, and a day's travel into the hills. I wonder if he actually heard anything about the Urn of the Sacred Ashes."
She asked the frightened Betancourt, "Do you still have your three sovereigns? Good. I don't care where you go, as long as it's not Ferelden. Good luck to you, and I hope you find better friends at the end of your journey."
"Thank you! thank you! Maker bless you for your mercy!" the man replied, head bowed. Bronwyn nodded to him, and left with Tara and Scout.
The Gnawed Noble itself was sleepy in the early morning. A few chambermaids were at work, silent and efficient, mopping floors and sweeping carpets, polishing the long, shining bar before the rest of the inn was up and doing. Outside, it was a fair and sunny day. Bronwyn inhaled the usual smells of Denerim: fresh bread and rotting garbage; oiled metal and stale urine. She bit back a wry smile, acknowledging that there was more than a hint of dog in the air, but perhaps that was just the proximity of Scout.
They strolled through the market, watching the endless parade of people, listening to the merchants crying their wares. It was, luckily, not too early to be admitted to Master Wade's workshop. Wade himself was not out of bed, but Herren gave her the armor, took her old suit in trade, and spoke with professional civility. Bronwyn felt better, simply for being in decent armor. After last night, she never wanted to see her old chainmail again. She paid for the repairs and for the new gauntlets, fended off another attempt to sell her a betterhelmet, and left.
"You look very impressive," Tara told her. "So that is dragonbone. What a strange color. I think your other helmet will look nice with this. Could we go to the alienage now?"
"We could."
They could not. They arrived at the alienage gates to find that they were locked. The bored guard on duty informed him that at Bann Vaughan's command, the alienage was closed. No one could go in, and no one could leave without his express permission.
"Them knife-ears have been causing trouble for months," the man told Bronwyn. He eyed Tara as he would a mangy stray cat. "Move along, now! There's nothing to see here."
"Sorry," Bronwyn said to the disappointed Tara, as they walked away.
"Why would they lock them in like prisoners?" the elf protested. "That sounds as bad as the Circle! Who does this Bann Vaughan think he is, anyway?"
"He is the son and heir of the Arl of Denerim," Bronwyn explained. "The Arl rules the city, and since Arl Urien was in Ostagar with the King, he deputized his authority to his son. Vaughan is a rather unpleasant man."
"Evidently!" Tara bit out, and then stalked along beside her, sulking. Scout whined at her consolingly
They went next to the Cathedral, Tara shrinking fearfully from the big Templars at either side of the open door. Bronwyn felt like a boor, wearing her helmet inside the sacred precinct, and slipped it off, taking care to remain in the shadows, as far as possible. The light from the stained glass windows was fairly dim, and glancing about, Bronwyn saw no one she knew, and no one likely to know her in return.
"Behave yourself, Scout!" she whispered. "We have to put on our best manners here!" The dog whuffed a dismissal, unimpressed by his surroundings.
Bronwyn spoke to the priest on duty, mentioning that she had met Brother Genetivi on her recent travels, and was concerned that he had returned home safely. The woman raised an inquisitive brow, and told Bronwyn to wait. She moved off to a side chapel, and spoke to another priest. Bronwyn scowled as she distinctly heard the word "crackpot."
After a moment, the other priest came forward, smiling pleasantly: a nice-looking woman in her late thirties with coils of fair hair.
"I am Sister Justine. You know Brother Genetivi?"
"We met out by Lake Calenhad some months ago. He told me he was looking for the Urn of Sacred Ashes. He seemed a very decent fellow. I told him that this was perhaps not the best time to be traveling. I wanted to see if he made it safely home."
"He's a brilliant man," Sister Justine told Bronwyn, her voice very low, "but he isn't...well...politically-minded, if you understand me. Sometimes he writes things because the evidence supports them, and they're quite contrary to established doctrine. I agreed with him that the Urn of Sacred Ashes was certainly real, but I found it hard to believe that it could still exist after all these ages. He found a reference to an obscure village and was convinced he would find a clue there. I have not heard from him since, but sometimes he gets so involved in a project..." She bit her lip, and said, "He lives opposite the Gnawed Noble, in the downstairs flat. I couldn't go there alone, you understand. If he's home, do tell him to pop 'round to see me?"
"I shall." Bronwyn turned to go, and Tara was away, eager to be out of the Chantry, when the Sister's voice stopped them.
"Wait! I don't know your name!"
Bronwyn gave her a polite nod, and said, "No, you don't."
They walked on, and stepped out into the sunlight. Tara took a deep breath, and then saw the Templars. She hurried away, and Bronwyn laughed, lengthening her own strides to catch up. Scout bounded along with a happy yip. The Templars admired him, not even noticing the women the dog accompanied.
Bronwyn said, "We'll go to the house. We can knock, at least."
Tara nodded, and then glanced back discreetly, to make sure the Templars were out of sight. "I was so scared. I was scared that I would do magic accidentally and then they'd catch me."
"You're a Grey Warden," Bronwyn assured her. "I would have had to identify myself, and that would have been inconvenient, but not disastrous. You're fine. The Templars only have power over you if you give it to them."
Tara shrugged, feeling a little skeptical. She was still an elf, and still a mage, and if she were alone and tried to tell a Templar that she was really a Grey Warden, she wondered what would happen. Probably nothing she would like.
They found Brother Genetivi's lodgings without trouble, and knocked. And knocked again. Scout snuffled, and then growled.
"What's wrong?" Bronwyn asked. "Is there..." She leaned closer to the door, and her nose wrinkled at the smell. "That's not good," she muttered. She pounded the door, and gave it a kick. To her surprise, the door cracked open, and a young man peered out at her.
"Is Brother Genetivi at home?" Bronwyn demanded. The stink washed out over her, sickly-sweet and all too familiar. The young man was shuffling and ill at ease.
"He's not here. Brother Genetivi went west to do some research. Shall I tell him you called...? What are you doing?" he squeaked, at Bronwyn shoved hard at the door, forcing him back. Scout leaped in, teeth bared. Tara came last, and at a gesture from Bronwyn, closed the door behind them.
"Who's dead here?" Bronwyn demanded, tall and terrible.
They got very little information out of the young man. At first he denied everything, and claimed to be Genetivi's secretary Weylon. Scout raced across the long room and scrabbled at a door. At that point, the farce was over, and the stranger attempted to curse them. Tara brought him down, and he was killed in the scuffle. Bronwyn opened the door that Scout had growled at, and found the remains of another young man under a blanket. He had been dead at least a week. They searched the body of their assailant, and found only the front door key and some copper coins. The other young man was too decayed for either Bronwyn or Tara to stomach putting their hands inside his clothing.
Given their situation, it was quite impossible to simply call the City Guard to their assistance. Nor was there a convenient cellar where they could store the bodies. Their assailant was put in a wardrobe, and the rotting corpse was eased into an emptied trunk. The jumble of items cleared from said trunk included some of Brother Genetivi's notes, which Bronwyn appropriated. Around the house were some curious volumes: books on Dragon Cults, histories of Andraste and the fate of her remains.
"That...fellow...was looking for something," Tara said. "Maybe Brother Genetivi ran into trouble out west."
"I think that's more than likely," Bronwyn agreed. "Let's find anything pertinent to his travels. We can store it in the Warden's cache, and if he ever returns, we'll give it back to him then."
Not long after, they locked the front door behind them and strolled casually away, down the street toward the warehouse.
The walk to the docks was a silent one. Leliana confidently took the lead. Betancourt, the bindings on his hands discreetly hidden by his long sleeves, followed. Zevran walked at his side, a companionable arm on his back, and a ready dagger out of sight. Sten was last, and if the mage attempted either fight or flight, the qunari appeared quite capable of tearing the man in two.
Zevran suggested the north end of the dockyards, telling them of a ship he knew: The Siren's Call. The owner and captain, a Rivaini named Isabela, was a friend of his, and Zevran foresaw no difficulty in obtaining passage for Betancourt. Isabela might even have a use for a mage among her crew.
They talked quietly, of inconsequential things. Leliana hoped the good weather would hold for their journey south. Sten scoffed at the possibility, and predicted disaster on their way. Zevran hoped that a street vendor by the docks still made that fish stew he liked.
What they all agreed on, was their own homelands' infinite superiority to chilly, misty, inhospitable Ferelden. And even Betancourt agreed that the entire country did, indeed, smell like wet dog.
"Of course, there are far worse smells," Leliana pointed out. "And Scout is such a brave and clever dog. Bronwyn is very fond of him, and naturally she does not mind his smell-in fact she probably likes it because it is associated with her canine friend."
"The dog smell is bearable," Sten allowed, "for the beast is a true warrior, and worthy of respect. The smell of rotting garbage, however, is inexcusable. The Ferelden people have not yet grasped the concepts of proper drainage and sewage treatment."
This was so, they all agreed.
"And the city could also be much improved with some public gardens," Zevran remarked. "Statuary, other than the usual votive images of Andraste, would be attractive. Some planters with greenery and a few flowers would cover the odors."
"An excellent idea," said Sten. "It has been proven that the presence of green plants purifies the air. Thus, public gardens are not merely ornamental: among the qunari we recognize their functionality."
"Well, I like them because they are pretty," Leliana declared. "Oh, there is the sea! How sharp the east wind is!"
They moved along a narrow alley, twisting through a maze of warehouses and tradesmen's shops. Sailmakers, netmakers, caulkers, ironmongers. The smell of rotting garbage and wet dog gave way to salt air and tar. Around the corner was a deserted pier.
"Is this the place you meant, Zevran?" Leliana asked.
"Yes. This will do, I think. The current is right here," answered the elf. Like a striking snake, he stabbed up into the mage's ribcage and pierced his heart. Betancourt could not even scream. His eyes widened with shock and betrayal and disappointment. Zevran twisted the dagger, and the mage slumped to the ground.
"Sorry, my friend," Zevran said kindly. "You knew too much, and did not offer your services to our leader." He squatted down, and deftly retrieved the three sovereigns Bronwyn had given the man. "We have arranged a passage for you that is entirely free of charge."
Leliana sighed, and whispered a prayer. Sten gathered up the dead man, and slipped him into the water.
"You do not look surprised," Zevran said to the qunari, as he distributed the coins.
"Hardly. It was the logical thing to do."
The mage's limp body sank into the dark water, and began its slow journey out of Denerim Harbor toward the deep blue of the Amaranthine Ocean. The three companions turned, and made their way back to the Gnawed Noble Tavern.
Notes- Thank to my readers, and especially to those who have reviewed: Eva Galana, mutive, Amhran Comhrac, Supaslim, Josie Lange, What Ithacas Mean, derko5, Shakespira, demonicnargles, Enaid Aderyn, Aoi24, Zute, callalili, Judy, wayfaringpanda, Notnahtanha, White Ivy, almostinsane, Sash'Rahaal, WellspringCD, Lehni, Gene Dark, JackOfBladesX, Nithu, Halm Vendrella, chocolatebrownie12, Piceron, Dante Alighieri1308, mille libri, Menamebephil, Windchime68, Have Socks Will Travel, Galdor123, and NuitNuit.