Victory at Ostagar

Chapter 30: Legends of the Stone

Jowan had survived. Bronwyn wondered if there was something about mages and the Joining. Tara might be angry at her old friend, but Bronwyn sensed that "old friend" trumped "angry." Tara might want to punish him, but she did not want him to die, and she certainly did not want to turn him over to the Templars for summary execution.

He was a mystery to Bronwyn: nothing like the Blood Mages in Mother Mallol's sermons-those powerful, half-demonic beings who had stormed the Golden City and brought sin and suffering to the world. Jowan was gentle-eyed and biddable. His voice was soft, and when stressed he became whiny rather than threatening. Above all, he was a useful mage, and was now a brother Grey Warden.

"The Circle only lets us recruit one mage at a time," Duncan had told her. Due to the Blight, the Knight-Commander and the First-Enchanter had allowed her to walk out of the door of the Circle Tower with two mages in tow. About Morrigan they knew nothing at all. Now there would be a fourth mage among her companions, and Bronwyn was extremely pleased. Having seen and experienced for herself how immensely useful mages were in battle, she wished she could recruit a dozen more.

Of course, he would only be useful if the resistance to his presence were not too great. She must not flaunt him in the face of the Chantry. Cullen would be a problem. So, too, to some extent, would be Alistair. She would have to find a way to mitigate the tension. Before she could make any decisions, she needed to get back to her people and assess the current situation.

And then she would have to equip Jowan a little more respectably. The sutlers with the army must have a better backpack, and a pair of boots without holes. The mage had a curiously fragile appearance, as if he had not had enough to eat in a long, long time. Bronwyn knew little about the lives of apostates on the run, but she suspected that such was the case. He accepted the bowl of oat porridge cooked with dried fruit from Adaia with fervent thanks—and without even looking at what it was. Any food was a blessing to one who had gone without.

Zevran was being a good sport about sharing a tent. They must get Jowan a tent of his own, too, as soon as possible. With the money she had taken from the Wardens' cache, Bronwyn could provide more fittingly for her people. That would be good for morale.

Tara took her own bowl of porridge and sat down by Jowan.

"How are you dealing with the nightmares?"

Bronwyn listened carefully, not looking their way.

"They're not so bad." Jowan dug into his porridge, and shrugged. "Not as bad as I thought the Harrowing would be. I suppose that's what made me scared enough to run away."

"Not just your dream of spending your life in a country cottage with Lily?" Tara asked, with a sharp edge to her voice.

Jowan kept eating, not looking at anyone. "What happened to her?" he asked softly.

"Taken off to the Aeonar. At least that's what the Knight-Commander said. Whether she was or wasn't I don't know. I was tossed in the dungeon a few minutes later, and I never heard anything about anybody after that." Her face tightened, and she hit him over the head with her silver spoon. "Why did you run off like that, Jowan? Why didn't you take me with you, at least?"

"I thought you were dead!" Jowan burst out. "I thought I'd killed everybody. The spell was more powerful than I imagined. I saw you all fall, and I thought I'd killed you. I was afraid! I ran out the door and I kept running."

"You thought I was dead?"

"I did," he said, his face wretched. "I found out later that I was wrong. There was talk on the roads about an escape and I found out that everybody survived. But at the time I panicked. There was so much blood…"

Bronwyn spoke up. "About the Blood Magic thing. I don't want to see that going on."

"Of course, Warden-Commander," Jowan hurriedly assured her.

"Call me Bronwyn. You're a Warden. I repeat: I do not want to see that going on, unless we're all about to be slaughtered by the darkspawn. Then, if someone were to pull off an impressive feat of magic in order to save our lives, I'd be absolutely fine with it."

Zevran snickered. Leliana was a little shocked, but resigned.

"Intention is very important. That is so true."

Sten was stoically indifferent. "It makes little difference to me. All magic is perilous." He flicked ominous lavender eyes in Jowan's direction.

Jowan nodded, and wolfed down more porridge, glancing up now and then through his lashes to see people's expressions. No one was paying any attention to him at all, which actually was a great relief. Except for the dog. Scout panted happily in his direction, wagging his tail.

"I'll throw the stick some more, I promise," Jowan sighed. "Just as soon as I finish my porridge."

Bronwyn and her companions rode in to camp on a rainy afternoon, just before the last of the dwarven troops. These last were expected soon, and everyone enjoyed some much-needed rest before the final push south. Bronwyn made her introductions brief. The additions to the fellowship were met with varying degrees of surprise, interest, and dismay, before they were dismissed to pitch tents and find the mess wagon. Cullen glared at Jowan, and turned and stalked off, radiating fury.

"You've already got the Dalish to agree to join us?" Alistair looked beyond Bronwyn, blushing a little at the ensnaring vision of Danith in her midriff-baring Dalish armor. "That's…wow…I'm impressed…"

"She is quite beautiful," Bronwyn agreed, good-naturedly. "A fine archer, too. A chance encounter with some darkspawn exposed her to Blight disease. Saving her life with the Joining was all it took to get the agreement of her clan."

Alistair ducked his head. "I wasn't really looking…all right, I was. But I'm really impressed that you got the Dalish to join us so quickly. That should please the King. You said he was interested the Dalish alliance."

"That would be nice," Bronwyn shrugged. She had decided not to tell Alistair all the details of his brother's courtship of Orlais. As few people as possible should know of that. "It was just one clan, really, and their close allies. I've been told of a more important clan to the north. Their Keeper is very influential. At some point we should try to parley with him. Nonetheless, we've got ourselves a sizable force of Dalish scouts and archers, and I'm sure their aid will be welcome."

She needed to say something about the Denerim affair. "We found that Orlesian bard who made trouble for us. She's dead now, but some of her plots might linger on. We should keep our eyes and ears open. I saw my brother in Denerim, too, and warned him. It looks like the woman was feeding false information to Arl Howe to make it look like my father was a traitor. It doesn't excuse him, of course, but it does explain what he did. Anyway, the woman isn't in the picture anymore. Don't tell anyone that I was in Denerim. All they have to know is that I met with the Dalish."

"I won't say a word," he said earnestly.

She put a hand on his arm. "You've certainly handled the march well. How are the dwarves doing?"

Alistair grinned, lowering his voice. He jerked his head at a dismal-looking group of dwarven soldiery, huddled by their smoky fire, rain dripping from their helmets and beards. "They do better at night than during the day. The sky isn't so empty-looking then, they tell me."

A dwarf sergeant glanced up and saw the cloud-heads looking at him.

"Nobody told us, "he growled, "that that Stone-forsaken Maker of yours was going to piss on us!"

Love in the afternoon in her private tent was something Morrigan was learning to enjoy. Anders lazed at her side, fingers running through her dark hair. Morrigan was still considering the new arrivals. "That timid fellow is a blood mage?" Morrigan queried, amused and astonished. "I find that hard to credit."

"True, though," Anders assured her. "He's the one who broke out of the Circle with a spell powerful enough to knock down the Knight-Commander, the First Enchanter, and all the Templars within fifty yards, And it kept them down while he ran out of the door, commandeered the boat, and rowed to shore. He got away clean. I've never heard of anything like it."

"He doesn't look like a powerful blood mage," Morrigan remarked, peering through the tent opening at the black-haired mage, who was being scolded by Tara, as usual, for some deficiency. "He looks like a clerk."

"That's just his sneaky mageness manifesting itself. He disguises himself as a mild-mannered clerk, and then works his wicked wiles." He gave Morrigan a squeeze. "Have a care for your small clothes!"

They were not the only ones speculating about Jowan. Cullen was appalled that he had been made a Warden, and it took all his ingrained discipline not to smite him on the spot. Every time he saw him.

Alistair saw him glaring, and came over to talk. "I know it's hard, but Bronwyn really thinks he should make up for the wrongs he's done by helping us."

Cullen growled, "He should make up for the wrongs he's done with a sword separating his head from his shoulders! Or in the Aeonar, at the very least!" He shook his head as Alistair opened his mouth. "Yes, I heard Bronwyn. He wouldn't be so useful in the Aeonar. But he's dangerous. Bronwyn is a wonderful leader, but she simply doesn't have experience dealing with Jowan's sort!"

Alistair advised him, "We'll keep an eye on him, all right? If he puts a toe out of line, we'll be waiting."

Cullen nodded, casting a dark look at Jowan, who was diligently pitching Tara's tent for her. "I'll be waiting."

"Tara conscripted him publicly. Bronwyn didn't want her to lose face in front of everyone else by refusing. Of course, he's not all that our fearless leader brought back from her trip for us. What do you think of Danith? Isn't she strange?"

Cullen really wanted to watch Jowan, but he answered readily enough. "Strange? Yes, of course. I've never met a Dalish elf before. Naturally Bronwyn allowed her to Join in order to save her life, because she's generous that way, but the woman is a heathen savage."

"Well," Alistair temporized with a smile, "She's Dalish. That's what they are. If she had to let her Join to get the Dalish alliance, then that's understandable. I'm still trying to figure out that other little elf girl she brought along."

Cullen said stiffly, "I sometimes fear that Bronwyn's noble generosity will be her undoing. She trusts too easily. The girl admits she is wanted by the City Guard in Denerim. Tara says—"

"Cullen!" cried Brosca. "I was looking for you! I found a better whetstone…"

Tara called Adaia to join her at mess wagon, and said, "Hurry up and eat! We've got some training planned for you!"

"It's already started," Adaia complaining, rubbing sore thighs. "My legs really hurt from riding."

"Anders can do something for that. He's brilliant. Come on, I'm starving!"

"You're always starving."

After a hearty meal—and Adaia had never seen so much food in one place—there were chores to be done. Everyone joined in, even the shems—even the haughty Dalish elf.

Then Zevran came over, beckoned by Tara. He gave Adaia an elaborate bow, and said, "Carina, the beauteous Tara is concerned that you know how to take care of yourself in the situations that—" he grinned at Tara—"adventurers such as ourselves sometimes cannot avoid." He handed her two short sticks. "Before darkness falls, I am to teach you something of the art of fighting. Come."

He had found a clear space that he thought good for the purpose, and began with showing her some stances and simple moves. Thinking her an absolute beginner, he was surprised that she even knew how to hold the practice daggers correctly.

Studying her with more interest, he smirked. "Someone has taught you a little of this before, yes? You are not so helpless as you think."

Adaia smiled shyly. "My mother taught me a little. I was supposed to keep it secret, so it would not be so hard for my father to find a husband for me."

Zevran laughed aloud, white teeth gleaming. "Foolish fathers! They do not realize that a weapon in a beautiful woman's hand makes her irresistible!"

Leliana found Bronwyn, and said, "Come and see! Zevran is teaching little Adaia to fight with daggers, and she is learning so quickly!"

They strolled over and saw Zevran teaching her how to block. The girl was painfully thin, but wiry and quick. She had obviously not had much practice, but was at least willing to learn.

The camp was well organized, but the dwarven newcomers had the usual difficulty with adjusting to the open sky. Alistair had been right: as night fell, the problems lessened. The dark blue vault at twilight was not so bewildering. As the stars shone forth, the dwarves enjoyed looking at them, as at jewels glittering in the high roof of a great cavern. Evidently feeling more at ease, one of the dwarven commanders came forward to meet Bronwyn, as she sat with her friends around the Wardens' campfire.

"Lord Ronus Dace, Warden," the dwarf nobleman introduced himself. "A strange place, this surface of yours."

"Well met, Lord Ronus," Bronwyn smiled. She found a bottle of good wine and offered some to him and his officers. This smoothed the way for a pleasant talk by the fire. Scout, at last bored with scrounging treats from the camp followers, trotted over to Bronwyn and put his head on her knee, demanding to have his ears scratched.

Oghren and Brosca came back from a knot of dwarves, laughing. Brosca plumped herself down by Cullen and squeezed his arm. Bronwyn smiled to herself, as she wiped an imaginary speck of dust from her armor. She was absurdly proud of this armor. Even Fergus did not own something so fine, though she supposed that would change, in time. Indeed, he would probably go to Master Wade for a new set of plate as soon as possible—though not soon enough for any possible advance on Amaranthine.

"It's so long since we've all been together!" Brosca cried. "I'm so glad you're back, Bronwyn. We all missed you, especially Alistair."

Alistair ducked his head, embarrassed. He caught Astrid's eye, and she gave him an amused look. Encouraged, he grinned back.

"I certainly did!" he admitted frankly. "I was expecting any minute for disaster to strike, and at the very least to lead everyone straight into the Waking Sea!"

"But you didn't," Astrid pointed out, "We're all here, and all well, and so far we've been unopposed. You must have cleared out all the darkspawn when you came through here last. As for bandits-well, not even bandits are fools enough to tangle with a force of this size!"

Bronwyn eyed Astrid with reserved approval. It was clear who had stepped up to assist Alistair in her absence. The dwarf noble was an intelligent person, though she as yet knew little about the surface. Perhaps, in time, she would be someone Bronwyn could rely on more and more.

"And I wanted to tell you my story!" Brosca told her, diverting her attention. "I thought of a good one."

"Oh, how nice!" Leliana said, "An entertainment!"

More dwarves gathered round at the prospect,and not just Lord Ronus and his honor guard. Brosca's status as a Warden made her a person in their eyes: otherwise they would have turned from her in disgust.

"Well, go on," Bronwyn laughed, gesturing at Brosca to stand. "We're waiting!"

Made a little nervous by such august auditors. Brosca began her story quietly, but then gathered her courage and went on her usual brash, cheerful way.

"Back before she was drunk all the time, my ma used to like stories. She told me a lot of them, and most of them had a moral. That's funny, when you think about it, because Ma has no morals at all! Anyway, I remembered this story, and I thought you'd all like it."

Brosca's Story of the Nug and the Deepstalker

A long time ago, in the great days before the darkspawn overran the dwarven realm, there was a Nug who lived a cozy little pocket of stone in the walls of Kobaliman Thaig. She was an excellent housekeeper, and kept her little lair so tidy that all the other nugs agreed that someday she'd be a wonderful wife and mother.

All the boy nugs wanted to mate with her, but our nug had dreams and imagination, and she wanted something different. As it happened, she fell in love with a Deepstalker.

The Deepstalker was lean and muscular, unlike the nug boys in the neighborhood, and he had a dangerous air that was very exciting. And he was so sensitive. He brought the Nug presents: sparkling rocks and tasty lichen.

"Stick to your own kind!" wailed her mother. Her aunts and cousins said, "He's no good! Did you see the gang he runs with? Don't you remember what happened to Cousin Fulbi?"

But the Nug cried, "He's different from the rest! You don't know him, so your shouldn't judge him. He's not bad. He's just…misunderstood."

"Listen to your heart, baby," crooned the Deepstalker, when he came to call. "What do those fat old slags know about love?"

So the Nug didn't listen to her mother or her aunts or her cousins. She listened to her heart, and soon she and the Deepstalker were living together in her cozy little nug-hole.

The Nug wanted to cook for him like a good wife should, but the Deepstalker didn't like lichen bread or lichen pudding. He was gone quite a lot, "on business," and he ate out with his gang. For, sad to say, while he was very affectionate with the Nug, he still ran with his old pals.

"They're my friends, baby," said the Deepstalker. "You can't expect me to dump them just like that."

"You don't like my mother to visit," sulked the Nug. "It's not fair."

"Hey, I never said you couldn't go see your mother! I don't bring my pals home, do I? It is fair. This place is just for us. I've never even told my pals where it is."

So things went, and the Nug was happy most of the time, and thought the Deepstalker was, too.

But over time, things changed. The Deepstalker was gone for longer and longer at a time. "Game's getting thin, baby," he told her. "Look like this thaig's just about hunted out."

She was lonely, and went to visit her mother, but when she looked in her mother's lair, it was deserted. She couldn't find her aunts or her cousins, either, and she went home, very sad.

Finally, the Deepstalker returned, and the Nug was so happy.

"Glad to see you, too, baby," the Deepstalker said. "I'm starving!"

"I've made a lovely lichen salad," she told him, "I'm sure you'd like it if you tried it."

"I was thinking more about fat, juicy nug. You're looking pretty good, baby."

At first she could not understand what he was saying. Horrified, she backed away. "You told me you loved me!"

Some time later, after the screaming had stopped, he licked his chops and said, "I do, baby. I've always loved nug."

"Yup!" laughed Oghren, "I saw that one coming!"

Lord Ronus unbent sufficiently to say, "My nurse told me that story. Sometimes the simple tales are the best."

"It's…horrible," Cullen finally managed. Brosca's face fell.

Leliana saw it, and defended her. "I think it is a clever fable. Using animals in stories makes them timeless."

Sten approved greatly of the story. "It is a wise lesson in the dangers of moving out of one's appointed sphere. The foolish nug should have remained in the environment appropriate to her. To mate without regard for her people's customs and laws invited the retribution of Fate."

The dwarves listening generally agreed with the qunari, since nothing seemed more natural than for castes to remain set in Stone.

Jowan said nothing, but miserably wondered if he had been the Deepstalker to poor LIly's Nug.

"The nug and the deepstalker really had nothing in common," Bronwyn pointed out, "and so their relationship was bound to fail, even if hunger had not precipitated quite such a radical…divorce…"

Alistair and Anders laughed. Even Morrigan smirked.

"Anyway," Bronwyn continued. "it seems to me like one of those situations in which young women are determined to love someone in spite of family disapproval, or even because of it, in order to prove their independence. That often ends badly."

Zevran smiled oddly. "There are all sorts of ways a story like that can end. I knew a man in Antiva who preyed on young girls who came from the country, looking for work. He would flatter them, gain their love and their trust, and before they knew it, they were working in a brothel, addicted to Black Lotus. You might say that he did, in a sense, eat them. Not many survived long there."

"It's a wicked world," Adaia whispered to herself. Jowan, sitting silently on the edge of the firelight, gave her a brief. sad look of understanding. She smiled timidly back.

"Still," Brosca said cheerfully, "My sister is living with the King, and they seem to be getting on."

Astrid smiled thinly, "I gather that your sister has a clearer idea of who is in charge than the Nug in your story did."

Brosca chuckled and shrugged. "Maybe so."

"It is true that Bhelen may shake things up in Orzammar," Lord Ronus admitted. "He has new ideas. Some of them I agree with, some of them I'll need time to adjust to. But the King's the King."

Grunts of agreement. Bronwyn had her own opinion on that matter, but kept her counsel.

Oghren belched and stretched. "Good story…" He sat up a little straighter. "My turn next."

"Already?" Alistair was surprised. "You've already thought of a story?"

"Haw!" cackled the dwarf. "I got a million of 'em! I could tell you the one about the twin sisters of King Darran—heh-heh—" he saw Bronwyn's raised brows, and hastily added, "…or maybe not. Or the one about the warrior who taught the noblewoman how to make Stone Soup—heh-heh—or maybe not." He tugged on his beard, grinning, and slowly swayed to his feet.

"Yeah, I can stand. See me standing? Got a story for you. There was these three Templars —uh—" He glanced over to see Cullen's narrowed eyes, and Leliana's wary expression. "…or maybe not…Right."

He squared his shoulders. "Political story, then. And historical. Yeah, it's historical. I didn't make it up to insult anybody. Every word of this is true. And when Lord Ronus says the King's the King, think about it."

Oghren's Story of the Justice of King Valtor

King Valtor was a evil bastard: everyone knows that. You've heard yourselves how he condemned dwarves to be transformed into golems, cooked alive inside stone casings, white-hot lyrium cascading over their heads. He stole men's wives and daughters, and he stole property and wealth. After years of this, he was so used to having his own way that he couldn't tolerate anyone disobeying his orders, no matter how crazy they were.

And it was not a good idea to criticize him for his drinking, not that it has ever been wise to criticize kings.

Once, when he was so drunk that he vomited into his own soup bowl, one of his warriors told him he needed to stop drinking so much.

"You majesty," said he, "Strong drink is the joy of a dwarf, but too much makes the hand clumsy and the wits befuddled."

These words made the king so angry that he had the warrior tied to a chair, and then he called for the warrior's young son to be brought forth.

"Think I'm clumsy, do you? Think I'm befuddled?" he roared. He snatched a bow from a guardsman, and put arrow right into the boy's eye. The boy fell down screaming, and died there in front of the king's table.

Valtor turned to the warrior and laughed. "I think I'm doing pretty well." With that he shot the warrior in the throat, and let him die slowly. After that, no one ever told King Valtor that he drank too much.

Another time, it happened that a patrol was in the Deep Roads, and one of the warriors did not return to the city. King Valtor accused one of the other dwarves of killing him and hiding the body.

To the captain of the patrol, he ordered: "Take this man out to the Deep Roads entrance and cut off his head! He's a murderer!"

The captain bowed, and the accused was chained up and dragged out to be executed. When they were at the Deep Roads entrance, who should come limping up but the lost warrior!

The captain was glad that he had survived, and took both men back with him to the Palace, eager to give the King the good news.

The King greeted the men, and then looked at them, while the captain started to get just a little uneasy.

Finally, the King said, "You ought to be dead."

He pointed at the chained warrior, "I condemned you to death, and my orders must always be carried out." Then he pointed at the warrior who had been lost. "And your friend is going to die because of you, so you're a murderer, and thus I condemn you likewise."

Then he turned to the captain, "And you! You refused a direct command! Guards!"

The three men were cut down on the spot. And that was the justice of King Valtor.

There was a stir at the story.

Lord Ronus was carefully unoffended. "We have all heard of King Valtor. It is a lesson to the dwarven people about the importance of choosing our leaders wisely."

"A lesson," Bronwyn said smoothly, "that is important to all peoples, and not just the dwarves. Humans have borne—and thrown off- their share of tyants."

Lord Ronus, bowed his head, appreciating her tact.

"I can't believe…" Alistair paused, wondering if he was about to say something undiplomatic. He thought again, and asked. "Did he die of old age?"

General laughter from the dwarves. Oghren laughed loudest, but Astrid smiled grimly, and even Lord Ronus was amused.

"No indeed, Warden," Lord Ronus assured him. "He was assassinated by members of those families whom he had wronged. And his end is a lesson to tyrants about how much a warlike people will stand."

Brosca muttered to Cullen, "It sounds to me like they stood for quite a bit."

Astrid came forward, and looked Lord Ronus in the eye. He gave her a slight nod. She was technically non-existent as a dwarf, but she was also a Warden, and therefore deserving of the courtesy shown a distinguished foreigner.

She said, "It's really all a matter of who suffers and who does not. If King Valtor had directed his cruelty only at the casteless, the poor and the uninfluential, he might well have died in his bed. He grew bold, and he grew careless. No deshyr cared when he forced servitors and warriors from poor houses to be made golems. When he threatened the wealth and power of the noble houses, it was then that his day was done."

"And that is why the deshyrs are the guardians of the dwarven kingdom," Lord Ronus agreed mildly.

"Such as they are," Astrid stood. "I wish to tell a story. It, too, is true."

Astrid's Story of Signy Varen

Long, long ago, in the days of the Paragon Bemot, Lord Falkor Varen was a powerful deshyr, and few dared cross him. His wife, of the noble house Lantena, had been the most beautiful woman in Orzammar, and Falkor swore he would not settle for less in his second. His children lived in fear of him. The elder was a son, Orm, and the younger was a daughter, Signy.

After his wife's death, Lord Varen paid little attention to his daughter, and allowed her to grow up unheeded by him, cared for by servitors, and guarded by the warriors sworn to his House. This changed when she turned sixteen, when he saw that she was becoming very beautiful: as beautiful as her mother.

It occurred to him that she was the only woman in Orzammar fair enough to be his wife. He decided to take her as his wife, and celebrate the event with a great feast, to which all the deshyrs of Orzammar were invited. He commanded that the women of his house devise garments of the finest surface silks for his daughter, but she was to be told nothing of his plans.

To his son, Orm, he did confide his intentions, first telling his son that he should soon have a new mother, and then telling him who that mother would be.

"You cannot mean to do this, Father!" his son protested. "When was it ever heard of in the dwarven kingdom, that a father would take his daughter to wife!"

But Lord Varen struck him, and shouted, "Well, now you have heard of it! Cannot a Head of House do as he wills with those under his hand?"

Orm went to the Shaper of Memories for counsel, but there he found no comfort. No law specifically forbade the marriage of father and daughter, for no one had ever imagined such a thing. Additionally, the law was quite clear about the absolute power of a Head of House. Orm went to the King, hoping for a royal edict that would prevent the marriage, but the King owed money to Lord Varen, and did not think it prudent to offend him.

Thinking his father mad, and this marriage a disgrace, Orm went to his sister, and told her all.

"And you will stand aside while I endure this?" she cried, horrified. "You are a coward!"

"Are you asking me to kill my own father?" Orm burst out in anger. "That I will not do, for such a deed is Stone-cursed. If you want him dead, you must arrange this yourself. Find some loyal man to help you, if you must. I do not want to know about it."

He left Signy to her fear and sorrow. No longer could she take pleasure in her new garments, for they were to her like the silken web of the spider. She brooded, thinking over what she could do, wondering if when the time came, she would have the courage to use her dagger on her father, or failing that, on herself.

The day before the celebration, a young warrior named Haldan came to her secretly. He told her he pitied her, and if she would pledge herself to him, he would do all he could to save her. He would not have been her first choice, but now he was her only hope. She agreed, and promised herself to him.

Haldan found a cunning apothecary, and from him he purchased a poison of great power. It was a powder made from lyrium sand ground very fine, then mixed with firestone and dried deathroot leaves.

"Sprinkle this on the food of your enemy," said the apothecary, "and it will shred his belly and bowels in short order."

Haldan paid for the poison with a bar of fine gold, and thought it a good bargain. He arranged that he would be the guard standing behind Lord Varen's high seat at the feast. The food would pass by him, and he would poison it then.

The next day, Signy was dressed in her new robes. They shone with the colors of deep-delved jewels: red as ruby, blue as sapphire, purple as the amethyst of the finest water. The hems were embroidered with gold a handspan wide. She was led out to the high-pillared hall of House Varen, where all the deshyrs of Orzammar were gathered, even to the king himself. Beside her father, the Shaper of Memories stood ready to record the marriage.

A rush of whispers and chatter greeted her arrival, for her beauty was indeed remarkable. As her father was her Head of House, he merely declared that he was taking her as wife, and the Shaper in his turn declared that it would be recorded in the memories.

"But I do not consent!" Signy cried, pretending shock and surprise. "This is a great evil, and a dishonor to our house! Surely this can not be."

But it was as if she had said nothing. The whispers and chatter continued, like an draught of foul air in the Deep Roads. She was forced into a chair by her father, and dishes both sweet and savory were brought forth to feast the happy couple. There were great tuns of ale, and precious wines from the sky-lands. Signy touched nothing, saying that she was ill.

Lord Varen, however, ate heartily and well, not noticing the subtle dusting of poisoning on the costly roast boar—or perhaps, as the dish was rare in Orzammar, he merely thought that it was the way it was supposed to taste. Fair women sang and danced and played the string harp, and the feast lasted many hours.

After the feast would come the bedding, but as time passed, Lord Varen felt unwell. He called for more ale to quiet his belly, and held up his gold cup to the beautiful bride, who shrank from him as if he were a hurlock.

"To my lady wife, Signy Varen, the fairest jewel of Orzammar!" He drank, and suddenly screamed out. Blood dripped from his nose, and trickled from his mouth. It spurted from his bowels, dyeing his fine breeches crimson.

Instantly the hall was in an uproar. Those who had said nothing, or merely gossiped at the wedding were horrified at the sight of at the sight of a deshyr bleeding to death before them. His guards rushed to his aid, but in minutes Lord Falkor Varen had breathed his last.

"Poison! Poison!" cried the guests, and everyone turned accusing eyes on Lady Varen, but the warrior Haldan suddenly shouted, "It was my doing! Mine alone!"

The deshyrs cried out in anger as such treachery, but Haldan declared, "I wished to save the lady his daughter. She knew nothing of my deed. I procured the poison. I sprinkled it on Lord Varen's food. I, and I alone, have done this!"

The king commanded, "Let the traitor be sent to the Deep Roads, weaponless and unarmored, and thus be given to the darkspawn!" And the deshyrs roared their agreement.

A procession of the greatest in Orzammar descended to the barrier doors to the Deep Roads. Vast and heavy, they opened slowly, revealing the dim and dreary halls. The guards tore Haldan's armor from him and cast his weapons aside. Just as they readied themselves to push Haldan through the entrance, Signy Varen, clothed in her silken garments, came to the warrior's side, and spoke.

"This man has done what he has done to protect me! No one else in Orzammar lifted a finger to save me from my father's perverse desire! I pledged myself to Haldan if he would save me from rape and incest. He has kept his word. Now I shall keep mine."

She took Haldan's hand in hers, and together they walked away, into the Deep Roads. Slowly the barrier doors closed behind them, and neither Haldan nor Signy Varen were ever seen again.

Lord Ronus looked at her, frowning. Not angry, clearly, but sad and thoughtful. "A noble tale, and well told."

Astrid bowed, "I thank you, Lord Ronus."

"Very noble for the lady to keep her word," Leliana agreed. "The descriptions of the lady's dress give the story vivid detail, essential to good storytelling. There is a similar story in Orlais—or it at least it begins in a similar way. It is called "Donkey Skin," and it is about a princess whose father wishes to marry her. She, however, puts on a disguise and escapes from him…"

Astrid granted her a dry chuckle. "There is no escape from Orzammar, save by way of the Deep Roads."

"Unless you brave the surface!" Brosca lifted her cup of ale in salute. "Like us!"

"Everybody dies in your stories!" Tara complained to Astrid. "Every one of your stories ended with somebody dying!"

"Of course they do," Astrid looked at her strangely. "Everybody dies. That's life."

"That's true," Oghren agreed. "Death is the only proper way for a story to end."

Alistair protested, "What about 'happily ever after?'"

Morrigan burst out laughing—startlingly like a witch's cackle. "And what comes after the 'happily ever after' is done?" she scoffed. "When the princess is a wrinkled hag, and the hero grey and toothless? Everyone's story ends like everyone else's."

Bronwyn disagreed. "Everyone dies, that's true, but each person dies his or her own death. Each is different. Death is the end, but it can be met with courage or cowardice, with strength or weakness, in venomous hatred or in loving sacrifice. Death comes to us all, but we can grovel before it, or rise to meet it."

"That is so true!" Cullen cried. He blushed then at his own outburst, and Brosca punched his arm, grinning.

One of guardsmen had been quite struck by the stories, and having had more to drink that he should have, wished to join in.

"Hell, I know a story. 'S a good story. Appropriate, like."

"Shut up, Banak," a comrade said, putting a hand on his arm. "It's time for you to turn in."

"No!"

"Let him tell his story," Bronwyn agreed, hoping it was something more light-hearted than the others.

"It's not fair," Brosca complained. "It's not his turn. It's what's-her-name…Adaia's turn to tell a story."

Adaia, on the edge of the campfire, was struck dumb with horror at the prospect.

"I don't know any stories!"

Tara laughed at her, and patted her back. "It's not as bad as you think," she whispered. "We've been taking turns. You don't have to until you're ready."

"Did you already tell your story?" Adaia whispered back.

"Yes, but I don't mind telling it again. After we turn in, I'll tell you, I promise."

Danith had been repairing arrows, half hidden in the shadows, but she was listening very carefully to all that had gone on before. Would she, too, be expected to tell a tale? It was not a bad way to entertain the company of an evening. What could she tell them that would not cheapen the Dalish? Surely she could do better than this drunkard who was demanding a turn.

The dwarf, ale trickling through his black beard, staggered to the campfire, and then briefly into it.

"Hey!" he protested, half in a stupor, "My boots are getting hot!"

His friend dragged him out of the fire. Lord Ronus' expression promised the man nothing good.

"Get on with it. The Warden-Commander is permitting you the liberty. I advise you not to abuse it."

The nameless warrior's tale

Anyway, these two warrior caste types were captured by a rival family, and condemned to die. They were chained to a huge granite boulder by their feet, and there was no way to get loose. Trapped, they were. Utterly doomed.

So they knew they were going to die and they started talking, you know, to keep their spirits up before the executioner showed.

"I wish I could be sure we're returned to the Stone when we die," said the first fellow.

"Of course, we're going to be returned to the Stone, you gravel-brained half-prick," said his friend.

"Well, I don't know. Do you know? Maybe there's nothing. Maybe we just rot and the darkspawn come and eat us and that's that."

"Look," said the first guy. "They said they were going to kill me first, so I'll tell you what: I'll take this cloak pin of mine, and if I know anything after they whack my head off, I'll stick you with it. Then you'll know what to expect."

Well, the executioner came with an axe damned near as big as mine, and he whacked the first guy's head off. Clean off. It flew off and landed in a barrel of mead. Haw! The second guy waited to see if his friend would stick him with the cloak pin, but it just sort of tumbled out of the first guy's hand, so the second guy didn't know what happens after you die until he lost his own head about two minutes later.

So I don't claim to know what happens when you die, and I'll bet my stones none of you know either. And that's the story. Where's my drink?

The dwarf was hustled away by his friends, and there was some scattered laughter.

Cullen was annoyed. "None of that proves that there is nothing after death: only that the body is insensible, and everyone knows that already."

"I liked the part with the head flying into the barrel of mead," Oghren mused. "That's pretty funny."

Zevran nodded, "A vivid detail, essential to good storytelling!" He smirked at Leliana, who sighed loudly.

The final dwarven company arrived, led by the commander of the combined dwarven forces. Lord Piotin Aeducan was a proud warrior, and a cousin of the King. Astrid gave Bronwyn some background information on him.

"My brother Trian called him, 'the horns of the army.' His prowess as a warrior is renowned, and he's nearing the record for decapitations within the Proving Grounds."

"Impressive," Bronwyn said, wondering if an ability as a headsman would translate into a talent for command. Astrid seemed to think well of him, at least.

Kardol and Legion arrived with Lord Piotin. There were cheerful greetings—as cheerful as possible for the Legion of the Dead—and the united dwarven army readied itself to face the darkspawn with its allies.

They moved out, heading southeast. They avoided the bottleneck at Lothering by following an old Chasind hunting trail until they rejoined the Imperial Highway, five miles south of Lothering,

There they were met by a band of horsemen: knights of South Reach, who had been sent out to make contact with them.

"Teyrn Loghain didn't really expect you until the day after tomorrow, my lady," their leader said, "but he's had us out for the past three days, just in case."

Bronwyn gestured at the long parade of dwarves marching in her train. "I hope the Teyrn has a place to put all the reinforcements!"

"He has, my lady," the knight assured her, "A camp has been arranged for them on the north of Ostagar. If it pleases you, we can lead you there directly."

"That it does."

There was no great need for haste. Dwarven marching speed covered sufficient ground. Brosca and Oghren were happy to walk. So too was Danith, striding along proudly, ignoring the curious stares.

Ostagar had changed in the months since she left, Bronwyn realized. Cunning minds and deft hands had been at work strengthening the defenses. A deep ditch, lined with abbatis, protected the north approach to the camp. Someone had constructed a strong gate where the Imperial Road entered the site.

And the fortress—for that it now was, beyond question—had been used hard. The ancient stone was pitted and scarred from attack. Remains of pyres old and new blackened the landscape. The most distant must be for the darkspawn, but distant or not, there was a faint reek of them tingling in the air.

Soldiers began crowded along the way, pointing and shouting. A shout went up:

"The Girl Warden!"

Bronwyn smiled, accepting their joy, and making it her own.

"My lord! The dwarven army is not a half-hour distant! The Warden is—"

"I can see them for myself, Sergeant," Loghain grunted.

He had been keeping a desultory watch here for the last few days, hoping for the spectacle that now unfolded before him. The Tower of Ishal commanded a view of several miles in all directions. Due north on the Imperial Highway, a little dark serpent crept toward Ostagar. As it moved down from the low hills toward the Ostagar Valley, the snake grew longer and longer, as the thousands of dwarves coming to reinforce them became visible.

At the head of the snake were bright glints of metal. With time, the glints resolved into little moving shapes, and then more clearly into horses and riders leading the dwarven footsoldiers.

From a soft leather case, Loghain produced one of his chief treasures, a little spyglass of qunari make: a rare wonder that permitted one to see distant things as if they were much closer. The collapsible tube of polished silverite held two pieces of specially ground glass. Loghain held the narrower end to his eye, and looked down at the approaching army. He recognized one small shape near the front as Alistair, remembering the splint mail. The leader must be the girl, from the winged helmet and the casual excellence of the horsemanship. She had found herself some new armor. The little figure by her horse would be her dog, of course. Loghain smiled faintly. That was a good dog.

There was noise in the Tower: shouts and gossip, and booted feet on the stone stairs, as everyone began rushing out to greet their allies. Loghain caught Bryland's enthusiastic voice, echoed by Wulffe's deep rumble. Vaughan, newly arrived from Denerim, was calling out indignantly, loudly wanting to know what was happening. Loghain rolled his eyes. The only way to work with a useless prick like Vaughan was to step on him: early and often. Loghain had already begun that task with some relish.

He must go down now, if he wished to meet the girl on her arrival. He had not felt so stirred in years: his heart thudded with pleasurable excitement. Bronwyn's mission had been a brilliant success. In raising the dwarves alone, she had done more to aid him than anyone had in…

His thoughts halted as he hurried down the long and twisting stairs, his guards clearing the way. Their engineers and masons had repaired and furnished the lower chambers of Ishal for the dwarven leaders, and set aside quarters for the Wardens themselves, including a private room for the Warden-Commander. A great deal had been done to make the campsite to the north livable. Loghain believed their allies would not be displeased.

The ground floor was in chaos, the great door open to the tentative sun. Loghain walked through, breathing deeply, hoping the scattered patches of blue among the lowering clouds was a portent of better days.

Bryland saw him, and waved genially. "A great occasion for us!"

"It is."

"Too bad the King isn't here."

Loghain managed a slight, false smile. The King ought to be here. That he was not was something of a relief.

Wulffe joined them, more sedately, and Vaughan puffed up behind, annoyed at being last. Together they strode out to the ramp that would lead the dwarves out to the field set aside for their camp.

Loghain could hardly blame the men for behaving as if it were a holiday. The cheers and clamor increased as the girl in the winged helmet drew near. Soldiers lined the way, waving. She waved back. Most of the Warden were waving and smiling as well, but for a huge, scowling figure who must be the qunari; and walking nearby, a slender Dalish archer, who paid no more heed to the cheering human soldiers than she would to tall grass blowing in the wind.

A hawk soared overhead, and fluttered down, backwinging, to light on Bronwyn's shoulder. Another cheer went up, and the girl truly smiled then: smiled as if she would light up all the world with her smiling. She and Alistair looked at each other, a look pregnant with friendship and understanding, and Loghain experienced a sharp, shocking, utterly disgraceful pang of jealousy. It was ridiculous, and he would put it from his mind immediately. Whatever the girl had done on her travels in the past few months was her own business.

Bryland was waving like a madman. Bronwyn looked their way and smiled at her cousin. She saw Loghain, and the smile did not fade, but softened a little, and her hand lifted in a grave salute. What he felt then was far more than any man of his age had any right to feel.

Rather than making an ass of himself, he simply stepped forward to greet her.

"Welcome back to Ostagar, Warden-Commander. I see you've brought some few thousand of your closest friends with you."

Notes- Thanks so much to my reviewers: JackOfBladesX, Judy, derko5, Pirate Ninjas of the Abyss, Lehni, Remenant, UmbertoInferno, Gene Dark, Menamebephil, demonicnargles, Teutonic Knight 92, Jenna53, KCousland, Shakespira, Aoi24, Sash'Rahaal, Dante Alighieri1308, callalili, dyslecksec, The Moidart, mutive, Dragon's Tongue, fifespice, Zute, Josie Lange, Anon, mille libri, Kira Kyuuketsuki, chocolatebrownie12, almostinsane, butterflygrrl, Halm Vendrella, wayfaringpanda, Enaid Aderyn, Have Socks Will Travel, What Ithacas Mean, Eva Galana, PhoenixDownAt20, cowerd22, and Piceron.

Brosca's story was inspired by The Cat and the Mouse in Partnership, collected by the Brothers Grimm.

Oghren's story was adapted from a story within the Summoner's Tale by Chaucer.

Astrid's story is partly based on the gruesome fate of Beatrix Cenci, who was executed for the murder of her father after a lurid murder trial in 14th century Rome. Her father didn't attempt to marry her, but he did rape her.