Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 29: The Way of Three Trees
As the Warden-led dwarven army marched south, they began attracting attention. While most of the dwarven army was fighting and chiseling its way through long-deserted Deep Roads, enough of their forces were above ground to make them an attractive target for those who always followed armies. Traders, gamblers, thieves, would-be and has-been soldiers, minstrels, scavengers and whores: all them were drawn to the troops on the march south.
It was at the last camp before Lake Belenas where Alistair heard the full details of the disaster at Redcliffe. The sun was low in the sky, and the tents were being pitched by a group of dwarven servitors. It was a good campsite, on fairly high ground: dry, but with water not too far; defensible, and just off the road.
Granted, the shifty trader who told Alistair the tale did not seem a particularly credible witness, but even if a fraction of the news was true, it was shocking and dreadful.
"…And the old Arl's son was a mage! A mage! Think of it. Possessed by a demon, he was. Killed his own mother! It took the King and Teyrn Loghain himself to sort it all out. The King stabbed that abomination right through the heart, and that was the end of it!"
Alistair tried to take it all in. and wished he could call the man a liar. "The King killed Connor?" He asked, heartsick. How old was the boy? Nine? Ten?
"Well…he had to, didn't he?" the grubby little man shot back. "An abomination and all. Nearly the whole town of Redcliffe dead. The new Arl will be put to it, cleaning up that mess."
Alistair regarded the messenger of evil tidings with loathing, and turned away, sitting in silence in front of the Wardens' campfire. The man shrugged, and left to share the thrilling gossip with someone more receptive.
Morrigan was curled up with a book, as far from Alistair as possible. Oghren, Brosca, and Anders were playing cards. Since Oghren was fairly sober, he was winning handily. Anders threw down his hand in disgust, and left to join Morrigan. Cullen noticed the look on Alistair's face, and sat down by him.
"I'm sorry," Cullen said quietly. "I heard that you're from Redcliffe. You must know some of those people."
"The old Arl was my guardian," Alistair told him. "He sent me to the Chantry when I was ten, but I spent my earlier years in Redcliffe. I knew the Arlessa. I saw Connor, that poor little boy, when he was a baby. I know Arl Teagan. He's a good man. I just wish there was something I could do."
Astrid sat down with them, nursing a mug of ale. "You are from a noble house?"
Alistair hesitated, torn between the desire for her to think well of him, and the habitual rejection of his birth. He temporized. "I'm no relation to the Arl. I was just fostered there."
Astrid frowned. It was not unheard of for noble houses to foster one another's children: it was a way of cementing alliances by providing mutual hostages as surety. Why would a nobleman be guardian to a lower-caste child? The fact that Alistair appeared reluctant to speak of his paternity indicated that there was a secret there.
"Ha!" bellowed Oghren. "Oghren wins again!"
"You cheated!" Brosca shouted back over Oghren's booming laughter.
"Wardens!" called a young dwarf, on guard outside the camp. "Horsemen approaching! They've got a wagon, too."
Astrid rose. "Someone has to speak to them." She gave Alistair a hard nudge.
"Ow!"
"That means you, Senior Warden."
"Oh." He had not been doing so badly, he felt. He had maps and orders, and had followed them pretty faithfully. Strange men on horseback were not in Bronwyn's plans. He hoped they were nice horsemen.
He walked out to where the guards were calling to the small party to identify themselves.
"-the Arl of Redcliffe..."
Alistair paused, and thought for a moment of Arl Eamon. Who was dead. Then he smiled, and pushed past the gathering dwarven warriors. The newcomer was surrounded by a half-dozen knights, and was asking to meet with the Warden-Commander.
"Arl Teagan!"
He looked older and more careworn than he had at Ostagar, but his smile was as wide as ever. Teagan Guerrin swung down from his horse, and came forward, arms out. Alistair grinned, happier than he had been in weeks. He was caught up in a fierce hug.
"How are you?" Alistair asked at once. "I've heard such terrible stories!"
Teagan's face creased briefly with anguish. "All true, I expect. I heard the Wardens were leading the dwarves to Ostagar. I had to come to see it for myself. Redcliffe is in grim shape, but I put together a wagon of supplies for you. It's the least I can do."
There was no doubt that the supplies were welcome. Alistair laughed. "Since you've brought supper, you might as well share it. You and your men are most welcome."
"And where is the beautiful Girl Warden?" Teagan asked, looking about. "I expected to see her at the head of the army."
"Oh," Alistair chuckled ruefully. "She'll be along soon enough. There was a problem she had to sort out. She took two of the new Wardens with her and some others, and actually left me in charge! I'm expecting to see her in the next day or two. Disappointed?"
"Unspeakably!"
"Well, too bad, because you'll just have to make do with me. But we've added to the glad throng." He gestured at the rest of his party, now approaching to have a look at the nobleman. "Arl Teagan of Redcliffe, let me present my fellow Wardens and my good friends: Warden Cullen, Warden Astrid, Warden Freydis-"
Brosca growled, "I hate that name! Stick to Brosca!"
"Brosca, then! I don't see Warden Anders, who is no doubt chasing after Morrigan..."
"He's probably caught Morrigan!" cackled Oghren.
"Yes, well...he probably has. This is our friend and comrade Oghren, who's come all the way from Orzammar with us to fight the darkspawn. A motley crew, you might say, but we do pretty well."
Teagan studied all the faces. They seemed a decent group to him. Perhaps they would be good friends to Alistair: better friends than he had been himself…and better than his brother. He repeated the names, feeling he owed Alistair the courtesy of knowing his associates. Cullen was a tall and strong young man, with a knightly but modest air. A suitable companion. The dwarves were all very different from one another: Astrid was a dignified young woman, with keen, knowing eyes. Brosca had a turned-up nose, a huge grin, and a loud voice. Oghren seemed the most like the other dwarves Teagan had met: brash, bearded, and boisterous. Of course, if he really was like most dwarves, he would be a doughty warrior, which is what was wanted at the moment.
After the exchange of pleasantries, Teagan clapped a hand on Alistair's shoulder. "If you have a moment, I'd like to speak to you."
They took a walk together by a quick-flowing brook. Water tumbled whitely over boulders in the stream bed. The noise would cover the sound of his words quite effectively, since Teagan had things to say that he wanted no one but Alistair to hear.
"Alistair, my brother did you wrong. No. Don't disagree with me. Just hear me out for now. Why he did what he did will always be a mystery to me. When I was young I accepted it, but as time went on I could see that it could not be at all what the King your father had intended for you. I should have taken you into my own household, but Eamon wouldn't have it, and he was my liege lord as well as my brother. I've come to the opinion that he thought he was protecting our nephew Cailan, by making sure you could never be a rival to him. Perhaps he felt he was avenging our sister Rowan as well. I'm not sure. Then, later, when Isolde was so jealous, he felt that sending you to the Chantry was the perfect solution. He was fond of you in his way, but it was the way of a powerful lord with an eye to his own advantage. I know that he told you that your birth would never matter, because you were a bastard, but you and I know that that is not how the world is. Your birth does matter, and there are those who might seek to make use of you because of it. I just wanted to let you know how sorry I am at how it all turned out, and hwo sorry I am that I did not do more to help you."
Alistair shook his head. With a grin, he said, "There's nothing to be sorry about. I hated the Chantry, sure, but I love being a Grey Warden. Hardly anybody knows who my father was. It's not something I go blabbing about."
Teagan looked at him searchingly. "Does Bronwyn Cousland know about it?"
A sheepish blush. "She figured it out on her own. Hey! It was the King's fault! He called me 'brother' when we were leaving Ostagar and she heard him. She agrees that it's something to keep quiet about."
"I am glad to hear it," Teagan said, though his uneasy expression belied his words. "Unfortunately, I know that other people—people who may not have your best interests in mind—also know about it. Since Eamon and Isolde died, I have been going through their papers. Isolde must have written to her family in Orlais about your birth, based on something in some of the letters I've looked at. It could be dangerous for you." He frowned, and grasped Alistair by the forearm. "My brother was involved in all sorts of plots. Some of them were his own affair. Some of them involved the King. Some could cause a great deal of upheaval in this country. Alistair: I want you to promise me that you will never let yourself be put forward as King. Never: no matter what happens. You must not oppose your brother, and you must not let people use you in order to oppose him. It would be your death." He leaned forward, blue eyes intense. "Promise me!"
Alistair almost mentioned the failed Orlesian plot, but decided against it. It would only worry this decent man. He had escaped the Orlesians, and who else would try to pass him off as anything resembling a Crown Prince? A Clown Prince seemed the best he could manage. He smiled and agreed.
"All right, all right! I promise not to pretend to be King. I promise not to let anybody put a crown on my head…again. Actually, there was this time in Orzammar…well, come on back to the campfire, and we'll have some supper, and I'll tell you all about it!"
Bronwyn's party rode fast on the West Road. Adaia clung to Tara, refusing to show her growing misery and discomfort. She had never been outside the walls of Denerim before. She had never slept on the ground, or in a tent. She had never searched for firewood. She had never seen so many trees. This was supposedly the heritage of the elves, but it seemed odd and alien to her.
Only a few months ago, she had had the wild idea of running away from the Alienage and trying to find the Dalish elves. It would have been hopeless. This world beyond the Alienage was vast and incomprehensible. If she and her cousin Soris had made it through the city gates, they would have died of hunger and thirst and cold in this terrible wilderness. She was learning, but it was hard. She missed her father. She missed Shianni and all the people of the Alienage who had been her world her entire life long. If it were not for Tara and Zevran, it would be unbearable.
They made camp after a long day's ride. Adaia was led about, first by Zevran, and then by Leliana, but she had no idea what she was doing. The giant growled at her, and the noble lady was patient in the way people were when their patience was sorely tried.
Water was found, a fire was built, and some oats were measured out for porridge. Adaia knew how to make porridge, and tried to make herself useful to Tara.
"Don't people hunt when they live out of doors?" she whispered to Tara. "I mean, isn't that how they find food?"
"Hunting takes a lot of time," Tara explained, feeling like a very experienced adventurer, in comparison to this young neophyte. "We brought food with us so we could find the rest of the Wardens fast."
Adaia had discovered that she was traveling with Grey Wardens. It was like traveling with storybook heroes. At home in the alienage, their hahren, Valendrian, always spoke well of the Grey Wardens. Adaia had not quite realized that Grey Wardens still existed. Tara was a Grey Warden too, and very nice, even though she was a mage. She was kind enough to share a tent with Adaia and to arrange the blankets so Adaia would not be cold.
"Since you're new, you get to sleep all night." Tara said, leaving the tent to take her turn standing watch. Adaia sighed, knowing that it was probably because she did not know how to stand watch, and had only a little knife to protect herself with if she saw something dangerous. She hoped she would be useful someday for something other than making porridge.
Night yielded slowly to day. A clear light rose in the east, the first faint glimmer before the dawn. Bronwyn was building up the fire for their breakfast when Scout lifted his head from his paws and rose to his feet, staring into the woods. Bronwyn paused, sifting through her senses. No darkspawn, but there was certainly something moving out of the trees.
"Grey Warden."
She stood up at the low voice. Sten was patrolling the camp, and moved quickly toward the voice, loosening his sword.
The figures moved closer, hands out in the common gesture of peace. Shorter than human, and slender: a man and a woman.
"Everybody up!" Bronwyn ordered quietly.
Leliana emerged from her tent, and look at the newcomers, blue eyes widening.
"Dalish elves!" she murmured, astonished. "I have never met any before."
More rustles. Adaia crept out of Tara's tent, and Zevran stepped out of his, bare-chested, lacing his breeches with an elaborate show of disregard.
Tara stumbled out, dark hair tousled, looking eager. "This is so exciting!"
Zevran only shrugged and laughed to himself. Adaia whispered to him. "They're all right, aren't they? I mean, we're all elves, aren't we?"
He murmured, "You will soon find that that there are elves, and then there are elves, carina."
"Have you ever met Dalish elves before?" she asked, watching the two strangely dressed figures come forward.
"Long ago," Zevran admitted, with a little half-smile, "I tried to join them. They called me 'flat ears,' and condescended to try to teach me their ways. I discovered that I missed a comfortable bed, a glass of wine, and the familiar stink of city life. Dalish are very proud and very fierce, and terribly, terribly boring."
"Shh!" Tara hushed them, trying not to grin. "They look very dignified."
Zevran's smile faded completely. "They are savages with delusions of grandeur."
Savages or not, they greeted Bronwyn with chilly dignity. The woman spoke first.
"I am Ineria, and my companion-" she gestured to the male archer at her side—"is Junar. The Keeper of our clan sent us to find you, Grey Warden. Word has come through the southern forests that you are calling on the ancient allies of your order."
"That is so," Bronwyn assented. "I am the Grey Warden Bronwyn. I was planning on searching for you as soon as the dwarven army arrived at Ostagar. I expected it to be a long and difficult search."
The woman asked harshly. "And why is that? Do you think that the elves would not honor their oaths? Do you deem us of little worth?"
Bronwyn had always heard that the Dalish were difficult and stiff-necked. She would have to tread carefully.
"Not at all," she replied. "However, I have heard of the consummate woodcraft of the Dalish. While the Circle of Magi and the dwarven city are on every map, the Dalish can disappear into the landscape. I could not know if you had heard of my search, or not. That you have found me makes my task far easier. Is it possible to speak to your Keeper?"
"It is," the male archer replied. "She has sent us to bring you to her. She is not far: but one league's journey into the forest."
It was too good an opportunity to miss. The newcomers were invited to join them for breakfast, and Leliana and Sten put together a meal. Bronwyn sensed that it was extremely important that the Dalish not see her treating any elves in her party as servants. The introductions were briefly made:
"My sister Wardens, Tara and Leliana. My friends and companions, Sten, Zevran, and Adaia."
Ineria's eyes narrowed. "Adaia! That is a Dalish name!"
"My grandmother was Dalish," Adaia said shyly. "She passed this down to me…" The girl displayed her little knife of ironbark. The archer raised his brows, and Ineria scowled. She gave Adaia a stern look, as if finding her unworthy of such a weapon, and then turned to Bronwyn without further words to the Alienage elf. Adaia blushed, but could not take her eyes from them…especially from their strange and elaborate facial tattoos.
"We thank you for your courtesy," said the more civil Junar. They sat down, and a stiff and oddly formal breakfast was shared around the campfire. The camp was then rapidly packed up, and they followed the Dalish into the trees, leading their horses.
A short, careful walk, and they saw signs of the Dalish camp.
"Do you see those wagons with the sail-like structures?" Zevran asked the Tara and Adaia, discreetly pointing. "They are called aravels: some people call them landships. Those are the homes of the Dalish as they travel through the world. As you might imagine, most of their lives are spent outdoors."
They emerged into a clearing, where a large camp lay before them, complete with aravels arranged in a defensive array.
"You may leave your horses here," Ineria told Bronwyn brusquely, with a hint of scorn. She turned suspicious eyes on Scout, who stayed close to Bronwyn's side, and gazed up at the elf with winsome innocence.
The Dalish did not keep dogs or use horses, Bronwyn had once read, but instead domesticated the halla, a strong but delicate-looking white deer. Halla were revered, and while they pulled the aravels, no elf would describe them as a beast of burden. In addition, they provided the elves with milk and cheese. Not meat, of course. No elf would eat the flesh of a halla, and elves were known to kill humans who were so reckless or arrogant as to do so. Bronwyn hoped they would be allowed to see the halla.
Possibly: possibly not. First she would see the Keeper of the Clan, who was an elderly female mage named Marethari. This important personage awaited them by her aravel. The sides were carved with strange shapes and inhuman heads. Perhaps some of their gods. The Dalish clung to their ancient beliefs, in spite of the Chantry and the Exalted Marches that had driven them from their homeland in the Dales.
Keeper Marethari welcomed them with quiet courtesy. "Andaran atish'an, Grey Wardens,"
She wanted something, of course, and told them so directly.
The story was a strange one: of two young elves exploring haunted ruins; monsters; a mysterious mirror. One of the young elves had vanished, the other had been found later, badly injured.
"After some time, it was clear that Danith had somehow been exposed to the Taint. I had been expecting my old friend Duncan to return for some time. He came through in the spring, talking of the massing of the darkspawn. He would be recruiting, he told me, and I knew he wished to take some our young people. Time passed, and he did not come. When Danith was found, so damaged, I wished every day for him. Then I heard of the battle in the south, and that he was dead. I almost lost all hope. I believe there is something you can do for Danith, if you will. Come." She paused. "And bring the mage with you. What is your name, cousin?" she inquired of Tara.
Surprised at being addressed, Tara blinked and answered, "Tara, Keeper. Tara Surana, formerly of the Circle of Magi."
"I know of your Circle," the Keeper said with a hint of disapproval. "I am glad to see one of our kin free of it."
Tara's smile bloomed. "Not nearly so glad as I am to be free of it."
Marethari's expression softened. "It is well, then."
The Keeper invited them to enter her aravel. Bronwyn stooped as she climbed into the covered wagon. There was a wide, gauzy curtain at the back. Marethari pulled the curtain aside, revealing a young girl lying immobile on a narrow bed. Her skin was faintly tinged with grey. Watching over her was another Dalish girl, who stared at the Warden with huge green eyes.
"Atishan!" she whispered. "You are a Warden! I've never seen one before..."
Marethari said, "This is Merrill, my First. And here is our hunter. I have kept her in a deep sleep for quite some time. It has slowed the progress of the disease, but not cured her."
Bronwyn studied the unconscious girl, feeling the faintest thrum in her own blood. Tara must have felt it, too, and she touched Bronwyn's arm, and nodded.
"Yes," Bronwyn said to Marethari, "this is Taint. I have seen it." She had seen it indeed, in the Deep Roads. Ruck's Taint had been more advanced, of course, but it was in this girl as well. She was a very slender, athletic-looking young elf woman. Her limbs were long and muscular, her head shaved for cleanliness. The tattoos on her face traced a butterfly-like shape, refined and delicate.
"Her name is Danith Mahariel, and she is one of our most promising young hunters. Is it too late for her?" Marethari asked, her gaze intense.
Bronwyn paused. What could she say? What did this elf know? More than most, it would seem. Had Duncan told her, or was this lore something known to the Keepers of the Dalish?
She chose her words carefully. "She may still die. And if she does not die, she must leave your people and join us."
Marethari smiled sadly. "I think Duncan would have taken her anyway. If you can save her life, it will be yours, and you will have the gratitude of my clan and all its allies."
Good enough. They could attempt a Joining. If the girl died, Bronwyn would have to talk seriously about the treaties, which did not allow the elves any conditions regarding the life of a single elf.
Tara knelt down to examine the Dalish girl more carefully.
"This is an amazing sleep spell."
Marethari regarded the Circle mage with interest. "It is old magic. A shadow only of the Eternal Dream of ancient Arlathan."
Merrill whispered, "Uthenera…" the word shivered in the air, until the spell was broken by the Keeper.
Marethari turned to Bronwyn. "So you will do it? Shall I awaken her, then?"
"Yes," Bronwyn agreed. "We will need to go somewhere private, however. I shall send Warden Leliana to fetch the proper supplies from my pack."
The Keeper seemed willing enough for Bronwyn to go. She asked Tara to stay, however, to see how the girl Danith was awakened from her enchanted sleep.
Bronwyn found Leliana, sitting in a circle with the others, listening to a Dalish elf recounting a long story of the wicked treachery of humans. Interrupting the elf would only cause trouble. She nearly leaned against a tree, and then wondered if that would be offensive to Dalish customs in some weird way. Instead, she waited politely, inwardly fuming, until the tale was done. Leliana dealt with the accusatory questions that followed the story with great tact, and then saw Bronwyn standing nearby.
"Excuse me," she said to the storyteller. "My commander wishes to speak to me."
Bronwyn led her away a little, and spoke softly. "Emergency Joining. One of the elves is Tainted. I don't know if it will work, but if it does, we'll have the clan's support. If she dies, they may be angry, but if we refuse, they would be angry anyway. Get the supplies from my pack, and find the nicest silver cup we've got."
Leliana smiled impishly. "I don't think Tara will mind sharing her loot for such an occasion."
Adaia sat in the circle beside Zevran, listening to the hahren tell the story, completely fascinated. These strange elves lived in another world, one that frightened but excited her. How could Zevran think so little of them? She did not mind their pitying looks. Her life in the Alienage was pretty horrible at times. These people did not bow to a monster like Vaughan. They did not beg for coppers, or grub for scraps. Their life was hard, obviously, but they were independent, and beholden to no one.
The hahren actually spoke to her, which made her blush.
"I am told that your grandmother was Dalish. From which clan was she?"
Adaia stammered, "Please, ser, I don't know. My mother died before she could pass on all my grandmother had told her. From south of Denerim, from what I know. Her name was Talanni. I do know that."
"Do not call me 'ser,' the elderly hahren mildly rebuked her. "That is a shemlen title. The name sounds like one in Zathrian's clan. Perhaps your grandmother came from there. And you, cousin," he asked Zevran. "Have you near relations among the Dalish?"
Zevran smiled tightly. "My mother was Dalish. She died when I was a small child. She fell in love with a city elf in Antiva and went to live with him. Things went badly for her."
There were many sage nods around the campfire. The hahren declared, "As they do when elves live among humans."
Adaia glanced around nervously. She did not want to tell these elves her real name, which was not Dalish at all. She wondered if Lady Bronwyn would be offended by the things the elves were saying. She was talking quietly to Leliana. Sten, the huge qunari, was sitting at some distance, apparently meditating on his Qun, or something of the sort. Zevran was carefully expressionless, and she sensed, being very alive to the feelings of those around her, that he disapproved of these people.
"Warden Bronwyn," Zevran declared, "is…an honorable woman, and treats her companions equally and fairly. All elves are not the same. All dwarves, I have found, are not the same. It is unreasonable to hold that all humans are the same."
"Did she invite you to join the Wardens?" one elf woman asked sharply.
"She did," Zevran answered shortly. "I refused. It is not for me."
Adaia watched them, to see if the elves would be angry. They did not seem to be. Zevran, she knew, thought a lot of Lady Bronwyn, and it was true that she was a fair-spoken noblewoman, and had treated Adaia herself very well. Still, how could she really trust her, Grey Warden or not? Shems always had their own reasons for doing things, and generally they were unpleasant reasons.
Bronwyn and Leliana were directed to the west of the camp, where they would be sheltered by overhanging vines. Very carefully, since not just a life, but a great alliance depended on it, Bronwyn mixed the ingredients of the Joining potion. This was the time-consuming procedure that Riordan had shown her. It would be nice to have Tara hurry it along with her magic, but Keeper Marethari wanted to talk to Tara. Anything that would sweeten these difficult people should be encouraged. She had seen Adaia and Zevran sitting with some elves, apparently exchanging stories. That too, was very nice. Anything to improve relations was desirable.
Her own feelings and prejudices mattered not. Father had had no end of trouble with the Dalish up in Highever. A clan lived in the Coast Mountains, and sometimes migrated across Amaranthine down through the Wending Wood and into the Blackmarsh. They used all their skill to hide when doing so, and for good reason. Rendon Howe considered Dalish Elves to be useless vagrants and no better than thieves, since they hunted and gathered wherever they traveled. He treated them as vermin: raiding them when he could; breaking up their camps and killing those who resisted.
Father had phrased his views more moderately, but had essentially felt the same. There was no doubt that the elves had been dispossessed by humans, and they certainly had been treated unjustly. However, their refusal to assimilate into normal society—to convert to Andrasteanism and to surrender their mages to the Chantry- made dealings with them fraught with tension. They disregarded property boundaries; they killed game on noble preserves; they were infernally quick to take offense.
Now that she had seen how children were treated at the Circle, Bronwyn could not quite blame the Dalish for hiding their own. If a child of hers were a mage, she might well try to find a way to save them from such a fate. That the Dalish insisted on worshipping their silly heathen gods seemed foolish, since it appeared that those gods did nothing to help them. To be honest, though, the Chantry itself admitted that the Maker had turned his face from his creation and did nothing for anyone either, and would not: not until the Chant of Light was sung in every corner of the world. Considering how satisfied the Qunari seemed to be with their own religion, it did not appear to Bronwyn that the Maker's stipulation would be met any time soon. She decided to concentrate on her potion.
A drop of Archdemon blood. It mixed greasily with that of the darkspawn: black on darkest red, filth on filth. Now, to add the lyrium…
A whiff of the substance rose with the insistent breeze, briefly tingling through all her senses. She stirred with the dragonthorn twig that would afterward be burned or buried. She swirled the substance in the cup carefully, remembering her own Joining.
"Shall I call Tara and the new recruit to join us?" whispered Leliana.
"Yes. I have almost finished the potion. Nice cup, by the way."
The bard laughed. "I thought you would like it. Such pretty designs. With the deer chasing each other around the rim, I thought it suitable for a Dalish Warden's Joining."
"I hope we'll have a Dalish Warden when it's all over."
"I shall pray to Our Lady Andraste and to the Maker." Leliana stepped out to look for Tara, and then gave her a wave. Tara nodded and waved back. Very gently, the Dalish girl was led to her fate in the little glade among the trees.
"So, we have another Warden," said Tara. "That is something to celebrate."
"And we have the word of Keep Marethari to provide three hundred archers from her clan and her clan's allies," Bronwyn agreed. "That's the real reason we're here, after all."
A new Warden, of course, was a good thing: even if the new Warden had been summarily Joined without much chance to express her own opinion of the matter. Bronwyn had barely been introduced to her before she had been put through the ritual. The girl had survived, which was something of a surprise, considering how sick from the Taint she had been. Perhaps her Keeper was as wise as she made herself out to be. At any rate, they had the beginnings of an alliance with the Dalish, and another Warden.
Danith Mahariel, like the best of the Dalish, had a reputation as an archer. She was also considered to have considerable skill with a pair of daggers. Bronwyn studied the fine-boned face as the young woman struggled with the horror of her Joining nightmares.
Leliana asked, "Will you go north to find the clan of this Zathrian? From what Keeper Marethari says, his word carries a lot of weight among the Dalish in Ferelden."
"Not yet. We must meet Alistair and the dwarves. Merrill will lead Marethari's clansmen to Ostagar. It's not like I expect her to lose her way."
She needed to get back to Ostagar. Things were happening there that she needed to know about. More to the point, she needed to retain the good will of Teyrn Loghain in her struggle to defend her brother and herself against the Howes and their secret supporters. Should she show him the King's letter? It might enrage him. It might cause a public rift that Ferelden could ill afford in this time of crisis. On the other hand, keeping secret the King's intention to set aside Loghain's daughter in order to marry the Empress of Orlais would certainly be regarded as disloyal on a deeply personal level. She would have to keep her wits about her.
At length, the new Warden's eyes opened: dark blue as a midsummer night. If Danith thought Bronwyn's face an improvement over seeing the Archdemon in the Fade, she did not show it. She accepted her fate with calm stoicism, like a noble girl accepting an arranged marriage.
The Dalish wanted them to stay, but Bronwyn had to say no to them. Yes, it would be better for their new Warden Danith to have a day or two to bid farewell to her clan, but there was no time. They had already lost a day dealing with the elves. They would resume their journey, riding hard to find Alistair.
For the first time in her life, Danith Mahariel rode on a horse, clinging to the waist of the city elf named Zevran. She had seen horses in passing, but had never dreamed she would actually travel on one herself. The horse was a heavy, slow-witted creature compared to a halla, but it carried them willingly and faithfully. She must learn more about these animals. Her light pack was tied to the horse, and her fine new bow and daggers were strapped to her back. Her clan had been generous with loving farewell gifts.
Zevran's manner of speech was foreign, and he had an insouciant air like that of no elf she had ever met; but his strong and compact body was that of a true elf, and she felt more comfortable holding onto him than she would have been touching the giant who traveled with them, or the tall shemlen women. One, the leader, was quite tall indeed, with eerie green eyes that sized Danith up very coolly.
At first, Danith had thought the woman's face was marked like an elf's with vallaslin: the blood writing of the Dalish. Looking closer, she realized it was a long pale scar. She was a warrior, certainly: and a Grey Warden. The Keeper had a good opinion of the Grey Wardens. They were an order that did not discriminate among human, elf, or dwarf. In fact, the Keeper had been friends with their former leader, a shemlen male named Duncan. Duncan had died in battle against the darkspawn, and this young woman had assumed command.
There were other elves in their party, which was a pleasant surprise. Not only was there the young mage Tara who had spoken to her kindly, and the handsome, foreign Zevran, but there was also another young girl of the city elves. Adaia was a good name, rolling off the tongue in a pleasantly familiar way. The girl, however, was as helpless and clumsy as a little child. She had lived all her life among shemlens, and did not know how to take care of herself.
The girl, in her strange croaking voice, had shyly told Danith of the beautiful tree in her quarter of the city. A great vhenadahl grew there, which was well and proper, but as she talked of it, it became apparent that that was the only tree she had known there. The thought of a single tree, alone, surrounded by the ugly dwellings of the shemlen and the poor ignorant flat ears, made Danith a little queasy. Adaia was not a Warden, but was traveling with them for her own protection, since she had found herself in trouble with some shemlen bullies in the city.
Tara, the mage, had lived her whole life until recently in the Tower of the Circle of Magi, imprisoned by the shemlen Chantry. There, she said, elves and humans were treated as equals: but equal in that they were prisoners all alike. Tara had many friends who were shemlens, and did not like to hear the term used of them. One of Tara's good shemlen friends had left the Tower with her. He was a not a lover, she told Danith, but more a brother of the spirit, and now her brother in the Wardens. Tara also thought highly of Bronwyn, their leader, who had saved her from some unspecified danger at the Circle.
Danith did not like the idea of these elves revering a shemlen woman as a protector, since they should be able to protect themselves. However, the world being what it was, it was understandable that they preferred to be patronized by a better sort of shemlen to being killed or even ill-treated by the worst of them. They believed this Bronwyn to be well-meaning, and the Keeper had also believed her to be so. Time would tell. The shemlen woman Andraste had clearly meant well when she had befriended Thane Shartan and freed the elven slaves, but her followers had suppressed that part of her story, and had used her name to destroy the elven homeland and scatter the survivors all over Thedas. Danger could wear many masks, and none more dangerous than the mask of friendship.
The other shemlen female, Leliana, had some redeeming qualities, too. She sang well, in a sweet voice that not even an elf could despise, and she was polite to everyone. She was supposed to be something of an archer, though Danith would believe that when she saw it for herself.
They stopped to camp at last. The Warden leader set Danith her first task. She was to teach Adaia the ways of the forest: of earth, tree, and stream. She advised Danith to teach the girl Adaia as she would a child of the Dalish, beginning at the very beginning, with skills like finding firewood, and moving quietly through the trees.
Danith took the city girl in hand, and began her lessons at once, showing her the proper way to collect fallen wood, in a way that did not result in poisonous bites from serpents or spiders. Adaia did not know better than to break twigs as she walked, so that had to be addressed. While they worked, Danith spoke: old words, words meant more to comfort herself than to educate such an unpromising pupil.
"The Way of the Dalish is Vir Tanadahl, meaning 'Way of Three Trees.' It is made of three parts, which are: Vir Assan, The Way of the Arrow, Vir Bor'Assan, The Way of the Bow, and Vir Adahlen, The Way of the Forest. Repeat those words," she ordered. Adaia stared at her in confusion. With a deep sigh, Danith said, "Vir Tanadahl."
A slight hesitation, "Vir Tanadahl."
"What does it mean?"
"The Way…of the People?"
"No! The Way of Three Trees. Say it, and say what it means."
"Vir Tanadahl. The Way of Three Trees."
"What are the three parts?"
"Er…The Way of the Bow is one, I know…"
It took some time for Adaia to learn those few words, and then they had to go on to the meaning of the three parts:
The Way of the Arrow- Fly straight and do not waver.
The Way of the Bow-Bend but never break.
The Way of the Forest-Together we are stronger than the one.
Tara came up and listened in silence to the lesson. Afterward, she said, "Those aren't bad precepts for Grey Wardens, either."
"Perhaps not," Danith replied coolly. "However, there are other words that are only for our people. This is the Oath of the Dales, from the time when our people were hunted from their second homeland. Listen well, Adaia, and learn it by heart:
"We are the Dalish: keepers of the lost lore, walkers of the lonely path. We are the last elvhen. Never again shall we submit."
The West Road followed the River Drakon as it stretched to the southwest. They had swung wide, avoiding South Reach, since Bronwyn did not want people gossiping about having seen the Girl Warden on the road from Denerim. Likewise, she wished to avoid Lothering and its time-consuming well-wishers.
Half a day's ride from Lothering, however, they found themselves in battle.
They were moving fast, trying to make up time, when Bronwyn shuddered with the familiar tingle of nearby darkspawn. She lifted her hand, and they halted, while they all swept the horizon for signs of the enemy. It seemed that it was a fairly strong band.
"They have an emissary with them," Tara judged. "Maybe two."
"I agree." Bronwyn bit her lip, wanting to press on, but they had no choice. If there were darkspawn nearby, they had to be dealt with. They found the nearest ramp and left the road, picking their way toward the Southron Hills. They had not gone far when they heard the screams.
They were not soldiers, the mob they saw running for their lives. There were tiny figures among the terrified people, being dragged along or carried or simply knocked aside in the rush. About two dozen refugees were making a break for the West Road. A few among the crowd were armed, and some of these were running back to engage the darkspawn. Further on, half-hidden in the trees and scrub, there were bursts of magic, brilliant and fearsome. The rasping sensation of Darkspawn! Darkspawn! Intensified as Bronwyn headed toward the refugees at a gallop.
"Out of my way!" she shouted, hand flung out to direct the scrambling human tide. "The ramp's over there! Get up to the road and turn left. Lothering's not ten miles away!"
She pulled on her reins, and kicked the horse toward the trees, ducking under a low-hanging branch. "Come on!"
"Hold tight, carina!" Zevran called out to Danith. "Grip the horse with your legs!"
"What he said!" yelled Tara. She decided that as soon as she saw the darkspawn, she would have to get off the horse and fight on foot. She could not wield her staff and hold the reins at the same time. There was no time to let Adaia slide off the horse, and no guarantee she would be safer if she did.
Leliana shrieked a war cry, her bow already in her hands. Sten was thundering past on Trampler, a raging mountain of defiance. He, too, must dismount when he found the enemy, for it was impossible to wield a blade the size of Asala from horseback.
Danith had ridden hallas often enough to know how to stay on. How to fight when mounted was not a skill she possessed. As soon the darkspawn were in sight, she jumped from the horse, landing lightly on booted feet, and threw herself behind some cover. In another second an arrow was nocked and aimed, and she was shooting into the mob of darkspawn.
The horses screamed protests, alarmed at the darkspawn stink. Trampler was not as frightened as the others, and reared up, brandishing heavy hooves in the creatures' faces. One hurlock screamed in agony, and went down, the left side of its skull caved in. The horse landed on its front hooves, and Sten grabbed another of the darkspawn, snapping its neck with his gauntleted hands.
Tara shouted to Adaia. "I've got to get off the horse! Slide down and hide!"
It seemed good advice, and Adaia stumbled from the horse, clutching frantically at her little knife. An arrow hummed past her. She shrank down behind a tree. Twenty feet behind her was the Dalish girl, her eyes bright and fixed on the darkspawn. Her bow twanged again.
Everyone but Adaia seemed to know what to do. She felt scared and useless, her insides shrinking up very small at the sight of these unbelievable monsters: nightmare creatures from a cruel fairy-tale. She crouched down behind the tree, her breath coming quick and shallow. Zevran was yelling something, and she glimpsed a bright flash of his sword, and a head bouncing to the ground and rolling.
Ahead of her, Tara's staff was lifted high, and she was shouting strange words. Frost sparkled from the monsters, slowing them down. Another shout and the air rippled with a sudden blow, knocking two of them off their feet.
Leliana was shooting from horseback, not even touching the reins. Somehow her horse also knew what to do, and was circling the darkspawn, curvetting out of their way, dodging and biting, while her rider twisted in the saddle and shot the darkspawn with long, steel-tipped arrows. Adaia wondered if something was on the tips, for the darkspawn stuck by Leliana's missiles suddenly clutched at themselves, and jerked until they fell thrashing to the ground.
Even the big dog knew what to do. He was running beside Bronwyn's horse on the left side, knocking down darkspawn who attacked her there, ripping at them with horrible growls. Adaia could not believe that this was the same dog who had wagged his tail when she had tossed him a piece of jerky that morning.
Some of the refugees were lying dead on the ground. Some were wounded and bleeding, and calling pitifully for help. Abandoned wagons were tipped on their sides, and wounded oxen lowed dismally. A tiny boy tottered past a dead woman, face red and tear-stained, howling with fear.
Bronwyn saw Adaia and shouted, "Stay down!" She galloped past, leaning out of the saddle, slicing at one of the strangest of the creatures, one who wore a bizarre headdress and carried a mage's staff. A nasty green mist spurted from the staff. Bronwyn spurred her horse out of its path, and then her sword cut the staff in two. The darkspawn uttered a baffled roar, and tried to chase after her. Her horse spun round and her sword sheared through the creature. It coughed blackly, suddenly sat down, and then collapsed to the side, dead. Bronwyn galloped on, and then reached down and plucked the little boy from the ground.
In a flash, the horse was headed toward Adaia's way, and the screaming toddler was dropped next to her. "Look after him!" Bronwyn shouted, and then galloped away, seeing Sten chasing a pair of darkspawn who were dragging a woman behind them.
Adaia stared at the little boy, nonplussed. He whimpered at the sight of her, and she managed a weak smile, pulling him into her arms. "Shhh! We're going to hide from the monsters, and let the heroes save us!"
Bronwyn charged down a shallow hill, sword dripping. Sten was ahead of her, running with astonishingly speed for all his size and heavy armor. One of the genlocks turned to face the qunari, and was knocked down and pinned to the ground by the point of Sten's greatsword.
The other genlock was doggedly dragging the woman by a leg. She was bruised and bloody, and appeared to be dead or unconscious: her arms lax, her long dark hair trailing through the dust. Bronwyn picked up speed, judged her moment carefully, and brought her sword down, cutting through the tough left arm of the darkspawn. Tainted blood spurted from the stump, and the mortally wounded creature actually attempted to cross swords with her. Sten smashed it down. He snarled, as he tried to brush the dead hand from the woman's leg, and found the grip too tight. Painstakingly, he broke the darkspawn's fingers, and threw the hand behind him. By now, the darkspawn was dead. The woman did not move. Sten studied her more closely.
"She is alive," he declared. With two fingers to his lips, he blew a shrill whistle. Trampler appeared, and loped after them, stamping briefly as it stopped at his master's side. Sten put the woman over the saddle, and led the horse back toward the road. Bronwyn gave him a nod and turned back to see how the rest of her party had fared.
Another burst of magic to her left. Tara took off on foot, shouting a paralysis spell at a hurlock in her way. The ground sloped off, and she stumbled, nearly falling. More fighting was going on here. Another emissary was spewing his primitive spells at a black-haired mage. A pile of darkspawn lay dead between them.
"I'm stronger than I look!" shouted the mage. Another spell sucked life from the darkspawn, and a spurt of fire followed, setting the emissary's crude garb on fire.
Tara sent a bolt of lightning at the monster, and ran up to support the other mage. The darkspawn swayed on its feet, uttering a last weak gobble. Tara reversed her staff and knocked the creature down, giving it a kick for good measure.
The mage turned, relieved to be rescued, and then yelled when Tara's fist connected with his nose.
"Bloody hell! What was that for?" He wiped the blood from his face, and looked up, just in time to be hit again. "Wait! Tara!"
"Jowan, you bastard!" Tara screamed. "I'm going to kill you!"
"Ow!"
Bronwyn rode back toward the hill to find Tara beating not on a darkspawn, but a human mage. He was not fighting back either, but had put up his hands to protect his head. Tara shouted as she clouted him again.
"Do you know what I went through because of you? Do you know what the Templars did to me? And you just ran away. Just ran away and saved yourself!" She hit him again. "And now I'm a Grey Warden, and guess what? You're conscripted. Conscripted! Conscripted! Conscripted!" she shrieked. "Don't try to run away this time or I'll hunt you down myself, and our very tall commander will chop you into mincemeat!"
"Tara!" shouted Bronwyn. "Stop larking about with that mage and do what you can to heal the wounded. You!" she called to the stranger. She kicked her horse closer, and stared down at the quailing Jowan. "Whoever you are, this Warden has conscripted you. You will help her in her efforts. You will assist us in rounding up the refugees and protecting them on their way to Lothering, and then you will Join the Wardens."
Tara made a face at Jowan and stalked away, slapping him on the back of the head. "So there! Bastard."
They hurried to heal whom they could, though some were already beyond help. Tara saw Sten walking toward them, leading Trampler, and she began casting spells on the woman draped over the saddle.
"Leliana!" Bronwyn called. "Ride after those people and tell them the darkspawn are dead. They might have wounded or belongings back here. Or a child," she snorted, seeing Adaia comforting the little boy in her arms.
Danith began methodically collecting her arrows. These were not her people, and she had done her duty in slaying darkspawn. It was more important that she not lose her excellent arrows through her own carelessness. Zevran had tied up his horse, and was helping the qunari right a shemlen wagon. One of the beasts that had pulled it was dead, and the other was living but bloody. A stranger mage healed the beast quickly, and its dead mate was unbuckled from the harness and the wagon pulled away from it. Another beast—an ox—she remembered it was called, was found alive, and was harnessed in place of the dead one.
What a lot of rubbish the shemlens carried with them! The ground was littered with their possessions. Some of them were already on their feet, picking through the trash, moaning about the things they had lost, while other humans lay dead or injured.
Leliana was leading some the refugees back to help their clansmen. The red-haired Warden was indeed something of an archer, and the feat of shooting from a moving horse was to be respected. Whether the shemlen woman was Danith's equal in a straight match of skill was yet to be determined.
A shemlen male shouted, and rushed down from the road, arms out. He ran at Adaia, and snatched the child from her.
"Lorcan! Give him to me!"
He clutched the child, weeping, and without a word of thanks to Adaia for sheltering his son, he walked away. He was looking for his wife, it appeared, and was distraught, but it was still discourteous and ungrateful. Danith grimaced, and resumed her search for the lost arrows.
Bronwyn's temper was beyond frayed by the time the bedraggled little caravan reached the safety of Lothering. She had been hard put to it, resolving the disputes over ownership of the surviving oxen, over what should be carried in the usable wagons, and over who was to ride in them. The mages burned the dead, humans and darkspawn both, and it was time to be gone, if they were to reach Lothering before dark.
Bronwyn led them out, with Leliana and Tara on either side. Scout trotted happily along, sniffing the air for more of the Tainted ones. Adaia and Jowan walked with them.
"I want him where I can see him," Tara said fiercely, pointing at Jowan. "If he tries to run, I swear I'll paralyze him." She leaned over and spoke to Scout. "You watch him, too. All right?"
Scout agreed with a yip. He did not know the black-haired mage very well yet. He smelled of blood and regret.
"I'm not going to run," Jowan protested wearily. "I've been trying to make up for all I've done. If being a Grey Warden is what you think I should do, I'll do it."
"Enough talk about Warden business," Bronwyn admonished them quietly. "Let's get these people to Lothering, and then be on our way. I don't even want to camp there tonight. They'll find a way to slow us down, and we are out of time."
"No baths at the Manor, then," sighed Leliana.
Bronwyn laughed. "Certainly not! I can't imagine that poor seneschal being happy at the sight of me. Baths at Bann Ceorlic's manor must henceforth be enjoyed only in memory."
"A very nice memory it is. Perhaps the bathing facilities at the Wardens' compound will require similar improvements."
"That sounds like a good idea," Bronwyn agreed. "From what Alistair told me, they seem a bit primitive."
Sten mounted Trampler, and formed a rear guard with Zevran and Danith. They kept an eye on the landscape on either side of the road, especially where the forest crept up very close. Danith insisted on walking, keeping her bow at the ready. Her clan rarely journeyed on shemlen roads, but they certainly made travel quicker.
The people of Lothering would have made a celebration for them if Bronwyn had let them. Some of the refugees had arrived before the Wardens, and had spread scare stories of the darkspawn horde advancing on Lothering from the east. When the lookouts saw instead a caravan of humans with a rider wearing a winged helmet in the lead, there was an outpouring of relief and gratitude.
Bronwyn refused to stop, telling Ser Bryant that they were in a hurry to rejoin the army marching south to Ostagar. People forced presents on them as they made their triumphal way through the town. Danal rushed out with a tray of tankards from Dane's Refuge, and all the party was refreshed by the ale. Even Danith allowed that this shemlen drink was not bad. Loaves of bread and bags of apples were thrust at them. Flowers strewed their path, and Bronwyn was hit in the face with a thorny bouquet of roses. She caught it and smiled gamely, thanking the giver with a wave. Leliana was delighted by a bunch of fragrant white flowers, given to her from a Chantry sister she knew.
"Thank you! Thank you!" she called. "You remembered! Sister Beatrice, tell the Revered Mother I am a Warden now, and ask her to pray for me. Pray for us all!"
She shouted to Bronwyn over the noise. "Andraste's Grace! These were my mother's favorite flowers. When I smell them, I can almost remember what she looked like!" She pressed the cool white petals to her face, and then smiled radiantly.
The Revered Mother herself appeared on the porch of the Chantry, but Bronwyn only bowed respectfully from horseback as she passed. The refugees they had shepherded joined the crowd in the Commons, and the Wardens climbed the far ramp back to the road.
"Everybody on horseback now," Bronwyn ordered. "Jowan, get up behind Sten. Trampler is strong enough to carry you both. We can't get where we need to be at walking speed. Yes, Danith, I mean you, too. Tara, you said you knew a spell to make horses go faster. We'll need it now."
"You mean Haste?" Jowan asked. "I know that one. I can help."
"Then do it," Bronwyn snapped. "Now."
Notes: One of my reviewers asked if Leliana should recognize the name Adaia, since in the DLC Leliana's Song, (SPOILERS) Leliana rescues Tabris' mother Adaia from the dungeons of the Arl of Denerim during her own escape. I think not. While the figure is identified as Adaia, she does not converse in a cut scene with Leliana, and there is no reason to think that names were exchanged. It does, however, put the date of the death of Tabris' mother a little later than I previously imagined.
Another reviewer could not imagine Anora obediently stepping down as Queen, if Cailan arranged a grand alliance with the Empress of Orlais. I can't imagine her doing so either, but the question is: would Cailan expect it? I think he would. As I told some of you, I am basing my Cailan somewhat on young Henry VIII: handsome, charming, athletic, popular, immensely vain, and utterly egocentric. Like many monarchs who came to the throne very young, he really believes that people want to do whatever makes him happy. Henry VIII was genuinely shocked and outraged that Catherine of Aragon did not obey him meekly and admit that their marriage was incestuous and invalid. As George Bernard Shaw once wrote: "Kings are not born: they are made by artificial hallucination. When the process is interrupted, as in the case of Charles II, the subject becomes sane, and never recovers his kingliness."
I picture Maric more as our Charles II: a monarch ascending the throne after a childhood and youth of war, dispossession, and deadly danger. His charm, bonhomie, and to some extent his promiscuousness disguised his deep disillusionment and abiding melancholy.
Thanks to my reviewers: Lehni, Shakespira, Pirate Ninjas of the Abyss, Josie Lange, Sunnydale-High-Class-of-95, Notnahtanha, Aoi24, demonicnargles, butterflygrrl, almostinsane, Judy, Sarah1281, JackOfBladesX, Zute, Eva Galana, Menamebephil, Jenna53, chocolatebrownie12, mille libri, Halm Vendrella, Amhran Comhrac, wayfaringpanda, Enaid Aderyn, Piceron, mutive, Kira Kyuuketsuki, Dragon's Tongue, The Moidart, fraught, swisschocolate, millahnna, cjonbloodletter, Windchime68, BucklesintheSun, Costin, NuitNuit, BlackCherryWhiskey, EmbertoInferno, What Ithacas Mean, and Have Socks Will Travel.
Thanks to all my readers. I'm glad you're enjoying this adventure. I'm looking forward to the release of DA2, and it will be interesting to see how I need to alter or retrofit the story to fit canon.