Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 31: Secrets Laid Bare

The girl had changed. Months of hardship and command had lent her a new toughness. Loghain might say that her experiences had aged her. Yes. She did seem older, and that was not necessarily a bad thing. The soft edges were gone, and she was fined down to the essentials.

She seemed aware of it, too: aware of all the changes. There was that brief, stiff moment when he had seen her scarred and altered face, and she had seen his reaction. There followed a sudden hardening of her expression; a defiant lift of her chin; a level stare from those startling green eyes. She bore the marks of her adventures proudly, as she ought to.

Not that any of it made her less desirable. After all, Rowan had borne a scar on her face: a cut on her forehead that had been put there by Loghain himself during a sparring match.

No, Bronwyn might not be the dewy fresh maiden from Highever that Duncan had brought to Ostagar, but she was still herself…only, perhaps, more so. Perhaps…even better. At least he no longer felt as if he were contemplating robbing the cradle. She was a very engaging young woman, and so many people seemed convinced that she actually wanted him...

The introductions were handled well. The dwarven lords seemed to know their business, and with this influx of soldiers, the army could extend its defensive line. Loghain was concerned that bands of roving darkspawn were flanking them, and pushing past them to the soft underbelly of the Southron Hills. They had much to discuss.

Nor were the dwarven lords been particularly surprised or offended at the absence of Ferelden's king. After all, their own king was far away in Orzammar, consolidating his grip on the throne.

"My lords of Orzammar," Loghain said, "Grey Wardens: you are most welcome. You will be escorted to your quarters, and when you are refreshed, we can talk. I invite you to join us in a feast tonight."

Bronwyn was slightly surprised by this, but caught Loghain's intent look, meant for her eyes only.

He added quietly, "After the feast, Warden-Commander, we shall speak privately."

"My lord."

She was glad enough of a chance to settle in and wash the dust of travel from her face. The Wardens were quickly shown to their quarters in the Tower of Ishal. Space was at a premium, so these amounted to two fairly spacious rooms, equipped with cots and blankets. In the larger room was a long table, flanked with benches, and with a chair at head and foot. A few folding screens and blankets stretched on ropes would lend some the companions a modicum of privacy. Many now had a chest or footlocker, where they stowed keepsakes or booty. The sutlers who had accompanied the army brought these up the endless stairs for them.

Bronwyn herself did not have such item. Traveling light was essential, in her opinion. The old traveling chest she had claimed had been shipped off to the Wardens' Compound months ago. Everything she currently owned fit into two saddlebags and a backpack.

"This isn't bad, Boss!" Brosca exclaimed, happily arranging her little space to her liking. Danith made a face, finding the surroundings cramped, stony, and evil-smelling. How would the shemlens dispose of waste here, or would they have to live in the stink of that, too?

Alistair looked around, shaking his head. "The last time I was here, I was killing darkspawn. I think there were traps in these rooms. Sleeping here is just…weird."

Bronwyn slapped him on the shoulder and laughed. Alistair was still following her around, but his eyes drifted from time to time: now and then to Danith, who was so incredibly exotic; and occasionally to Astrid, who was so sensible and seemed somewhat interested in him. Bronwyn herself had no intention of encouraging him. He was too much like a brother—and a younger brother at that. It simply felt wrong to her.

She glimpsed Jowan, quietly arranging his new belongings. She gave him a brief, encouraging smile, and went into the adjoining room to remind another of her people of something extremely important.

"Cullen!" she said, urging him over to a private corner. "I know you're unhappy with this, but it's very important that you not mention Jowan to anyone outside our own group."

He did look unhappy, but not rebellious. "I know you're confident in your abilities, Bronwyn, but Jowan, even if he means well, is a danger to us all."

"Jowan is a Warden, Cullen. He is our responsibility, not the Chantry's."

That he did accept. "I know that telling the Revered Mother about him would make all sorts of trouble for you, Bronwyn. I don't want to do that. I just want us to be safe…or as safe as we can be. We already face such terrible danger, and it's just going to get worse. We don't need all the horrible things a maleficar-turned-abomination could do to us!"

"Jowan is trying to atone, Cullen. You saw for yourself how he put himself in danger, protecting those refugees. Many would have died if it weren't for him."

He nodded, thinking it over seriously. "It's sad, when otherwise decent people give in to temptation. Blood Magic will always tempt him now: always. I'll do my best to see that he doesn't go astray again. And I promise," he said patiently, "not to talk about him. Are you satisfied?"

He looked so anxious that Bronwyn felt guilty about causing him such conflict. She squeezed his arm. "Yes, I'm satisfied. You're a wonderful Warden, Cullen, and a good friend. It was a lucky day that you joined our company."

That brought a smile to his lips, and he stood a little straighter. As Bronwyn went back to her room, she saw him diligently making up his cot, stretching out the blanket smoothly, tucking in the ends in perfect right-angles. There was something to be said for the disciple of the Templars. Oghren's cot was already a mess, and it had yet to be slept in.

Anders, accustomed to the lack of doors in the Circle, knew a handy enchantment for muting the sound in the little screened cubicle he would share with Morrigan. Whatever went on in there would be inaudible to everyone else. Bronwyn was very pleased about that, and was not the only one. Tara had learned the same charm, and Bronwyn guessed that Zevran might become a frequent visitor to the cot she had chosen in the corner, shielded with blankets. The young elf girl had not entirely recovered from her experiences in the Circle Tower, but was not averse to some gallant attentions, as long as they did not become too pressing.

Other romances were blooming, or failing to bloom. Brosca was still trying to get Cullen to understand how interested she was in him. The ex-Templar had eyes only for Tara, and Tara showed not the slightest interest in him. Bronwyn hoped it did not all end in grief.

She chose the empty cot between Leliana and Danith. Scout, close at her side, stretched out by the cot, panting, interested in the curious odors that lingered in the room. The only thing Bronwyn had to wear to council and feast that was not armor were the spare clothes in her backpack: her shirt, breeches, boots, and Grey Warden tunic. She would take down her hair, brush it thoroughly, and rearrange it. Alistair's gift, the Silver Sword of Mercy, she could wear on the outside of her tunic, rather than under her shirt, as usually did. There was Belarion's emerald ring, which she kept in a little pouch inside her coin purse. It even fit her. That was the extent of Lady Bronwyn Cousland's finery. It hardly mattered. She was not engaging in the blood sport of husband-hunting, anyway.

Leliana was pulling her fine blue gown out of her trunk, and fussing over which of her looted jewels she would wear with it. She was very fond of silver. A dwarven smith had hammered a silver ring into a new shape that could be used to bind the end of the single braid she wore on the left side of her head. She had a silver chain with an ancient silver amulet as a pendant, and another ring, set with a blue topaz. Completing her ensemble was an elegant belt, dyed dark blue. She would be quite the fashionable lady, but Bronwyn supposed there was no rule against female Wardens dressing well. If there was, she planned to ignore it. If she had possessed a gown, she would be slipping into right now. Perhaps she would find some green silk, now that her eyes were that color…

Danith was staring at Leliana, but Bronwyn did not know either the Dalish, or this woman in particular, well enough to guess at what she was thinking. Perhaps she was embarrassed at her own lack of finery, or perhaps she thought Leliana absurd. Bronwyn slipped her Warden tunic over her head. She had given one to Danith on the way to Ostagar, but had no idea what the elf had done with it. After a time, the elf quietly donned shirt, hose, and boots of soft doeskin, and then produced the Warden tunic and put it on. It did not look at all bad.

Astrid, too, was watching Leliana, and her feelings Bronwyn could more easily guess at. The dwarf woman followed Bronwyn's lead, asking gruffly for help getting out of her armor, and then she too wore her best shirt, some rather worn breeches, and her Warden Tunic. She asked if she might use Bronwyn's hand mirror, and looked at herself for some time, her face bleak.

She remarked quietly to Bronwyn, "I believe I shall take looting more seriously in future."

Adaia hung back, standing in the shadows, thinking it unwise to wear anything other than her light armor ever again. In armor, sitting with the Wardens-for she knew that Tara would not send her to the servants' table-she might even be taken for a Warden.

Tara had her very pretty dress and bright red shoes; Morrigan, of course, had the splendid green gown Bronwyn had bought for her. They would have to be the grand ladies, and represent their fellowship with honor.

Meanwhile... "Come on, Scout!" Bronwyn called brightly "We'll leave them to it." On the way, she grabbed Alistair, forced him to put on his Warden tunic, and dragged him away to the tortures of a council of war.

The council table was fairly full. There were more faces here than at the council before Bronwyn's maiden battle. Fortunately, all of them were known to her.

Loghain and the arls, of course: gruff Wulffe and cheerful Bryland. Bann Vaughan was here, too, as representative of his father the Arl of Denerim. Bronwyn granted him a nod and a polite smile, but could not forget an awkward encounter many years before, when Vaughan-six years older than she-had grabbed her and kissed her after a salon in Denerim. It was not her first kiss, fortunately, or it might have been her last. He had stuck his tongue in her mouth, and Bronwyn still shuddered, remembering how it had wriggled like a fat worm. She had slapped his face, and Vaughan kept his hands and mouth to himself thereafter.

The dwarven lords and Kardol, the commander of the Legion of the dead, sat together, along with their seconds. Other dwarves were there as well: surface engineers, apparently, whom Loghain respected. Senior Enchanters Uldred and Torrin represented the mages. To Bronwyn's annoyance, Revered Mother Clarine was at this council, accompanied by two smug-faced priests and a pair of Templars. Clarine was the Grand Cleric's right-hand woman, and no doubt anything that went on here would be reported to the Cathedral in Denerim. The number of Chantry personnel at this council was out of all proportion to their numbers in the army, which Bronwyn found particularly galling. She had heard that Loghain, at the beginning of the war, had asked the Grand Cleric for a contingent of her plentiful Templars to fight the darkspawn, and had been refused. Fighting darkspawn was not the mission of the Chantry, he was told. Apparently, telling everyone else how to fight them was.

To her relief, the Chantry group said very little, except among themselves. The meeting was mainly Loghain's exposition of their current situation, the reported movements of the darkspawn, and his planned expanded reconnaissance. No one knew exactly where the darkspawn were coming from, but he had some ideas about that. The dwarves asked some intelligent questions, and the mages reported that their people were all fit and willing.

Bronwyn, when asked, was glad she was able to reply in kind.

"Since leaving Ostagar, my lord, I have succeeded in recruiting addtional Wardens. There are now ten Wardens in Ferelden. In addition to the generous help of our dwarven friends-" here she nodded gravely to the dwarves, who returned the nod graciously, "-I have made contact with a clan of Dalish elves. They have promised to spread the word among their allied clans. We may expect between two hundred fifty and three hundred Dalish archers to make their way to Ostagar within the next two weeks."

This raised a stir of interest and amazement.

Leonas Bryland asked, "You found the Dalish?"

She smiled. "They found me, my lord. They are quite willing to fulfill their obligation to the Wardens. They should prove of use in the scouting operations Teyrn Loghain has outlined. One of my new Wardens, in fact, is Dalish."

The reaction seemed generally quite positive, though the Revered Mother and one of her priests muttered remarks to each other, glancing occcasionally at Bronwyn. She thought it incredibly rude, but there was little she could do about it.

By the time everyone had had his or her say, it was growing dark, and Loghain's camp seneschal appeared, with the welcome news that dinner was ready and waiting. A plentiful welcoming feast was laid out in the huge chamber on the second floor of the Tower of Ishal. Lord Piotin and Lord Ronus seemed pleased at the variety of surface delicacies. Not everyone was satisfied with the seating arrangements, but with a minimum of grumbling, dinner was served.

Bronwyn found her arm taken by Loghain, and was steered to the chair to his left. It was quite the honor, but she was the Warden-Commander of Ferelden, after all, and ancient tradition granted her status equal to great lords, most especially during the Blight. It was rather exciting, too. She was close enough to Loghain to feel his warmth and smell his distracting scent of oiled leather, polished metal, high-quality soap, and vigorous male. It was pleasant: very pleasant, but she must not sniff at him like a mabari. The Revered Mother was trying to catch her eye, but Bronwyn looked determinedly at her plate and winecup. It seemed ages since she had had a meal. The Revered Mother probably only wanted to know how many of the Wardens were mages. Very fortunately, she saw, only Anders was wearing robes. Jowan had been dressed in the plain clothes of a countryman when she had met him. Now those were covered by a Warden Tunic, and his staff was nowhere in sight.

There was a great deal of ale and wine available. Loghain suspected that most of the dwarves would be revoltingly drunk by the end of the evening, but undoubtedly they would not be the only ones.

To his left, the girl was enjoying her dinner. Her manners were too good for her to snatch at the food like a wolf—or like her fellow Wardens, sitting together and laughing uproariously. They were certainly as gluttonous as all the Wardens Loghain had ever known. Bronwyn simply seemed glad of the food, and was paying it due attention. He wondered if she had gone hungry on her travels. It was a good thing for nobles to know what it was to be hungry: it taught them all sorts of lessons.

Bryland and Wulffe were chatting up the dwarves. Wulffe was getting on particularly well with them, for his bluff manner was very like their own. Vaughan seemed to find it a strain to accept anyone not human as his equal. He had bloody well better get over that. Most of the other banns were doing well enough.

More uproarious laughter from the Wardens' table. Some mages and soldiers had turned on the benches to exchange quips and lies. A few of the banns, too. It was an interesting, rather eclectic mix that Bronwyn had brought back with her. He had not missed the polite demeanour of the dwarven lords toward that good-looking dwarf woman who sat next to Alistair. She was a Warden, yes, but obviously Somebody to them.

Loghain asked Bronwyn, "The dwarven Warden with the unmarked face…what is her name?"

Bronwyn glanced over and then spoke, very softly in his ear. IHer warmth breath tickled him pleasantly. "She goes by the name Astrid, but she is actually Gytha Aeducan, the King's sister. From what I can gather, she was the late King's favorite child, but was outmaneuvered and exiled to the Deep Roads without a trial. She made her way to the Legion of the Dead, and thus is legally dead in Orzammar. She is Lord Piotin's cousin, and he has known her all his life, though he scrupulously addresses her as 'Warden.' She's very competent."

Loghain grunted, glad that she had someone reliable in her party. And who had no ties to Orlais at all, which was excellent. This was no place to discuss anything confidential, but there was no harm in asking her about the rest of those rowdies she called Wardens.

"The male dwarf?"

"Not actually a Warden yet. He's still thinking it over. His name is Oghren Kondrat, and he's a tremendous warrior."

Loghain regarded her pityingly. "He's a drunk." It was obvious to the meanest intelligence.

Bronwyn frowned at him, and answered him a bit impatiently. "I am perfectly aware of that. In the Deep Roads he had no access to liquor, and he is a tremendous warrior. That's all that mattered there. He suffered some personal losses, which led to his drinking; and he feels there's nothing much left for him in Orzammar. I value his service."

This was said so coolly that Loghain dropped the subject, and moved on. "And the loud girl with the tattoos?"

Bronwyn smiled. Brosca saw her looking her way and grinned back, saluting her with an overflowing tankard of ale. "Hey, Boss!"

"That is Freydis Brosca. As you can see, the tattoos indicate that she is one of the casteless. When I found her, she was the prisoner of a vicious criminal. Even weak from starvation she fought brilliantly. She's a cheerful soul, too, and very loyal. Also," Bronwyn lowered her voice again, "Her sister is King Bhelen's favorite concubine…the one who gave him his heir. Thus, she has some royal connections, though on the wrong side of the blanket."

"Is that why you chose to support Bhelen?" he whispered.

She shook her head. "No."

There was obviously more to the story, but he would learn it in due time. "So…" he thought about it. "You were in the Deep Roads. Any particular reason?"

"In order to enforce the treaty with the dwarves, there had to be a king. I had to jump through all sorts of hoops to crown one." She murmured, nodding at the nearby dwarf lords, "Let's not talk about this now." She gestured to a servant for more of the roast venison.

"I see you've learned to eat like a Warden, if nothing else."

She gave him a quick, bitter smile, her strange green eyes glinting oddly. "Wardens are always hungry. I'm no exception."

"Hungry, or simply gluttonous?"

"Hungry," she answered, pointedly taking three more slices of venison. Her smile faded. "Always."

Well, that was one more thing to ask her about when they could speak in private. He leaned in to ask. "Is the red-headed girl the Orlesian?"

"Her mother was Ferelden," Bronwyn said softly, "but yes. She's quite a good archer, and she is now a Warden. However, I do have quite a bit to discuss with you that relates to her. We became a bit…entangled…with her past. You'll find it interesting." She decided to tell him about her other companions. "We can't see all of them, but you know Morrigan, of course, and the mage sitting beside her is Anders, our Healer."

Loghain frowned at the tall, blond young man who bore a startling resemblance to Alistair, and also to another tall blond man he had known. He scowled, then noticed Bronwyn smiling slyly at him.

"Well, is he?' he asked roughly. "Does he know?"

"He does not. His mother hinted at some secret to his birth but died without divulging it. Besides, he pointed out that since he is a mage, it can mean nothing to him, anyway. He's a brilliant Healer, and we're incredibly lucky to have him in the Wardens."

Loghain glanced briefly at the long silver scar extending to her jaw, wondering how she could call him brilliant, if that was the kind of healing he practiced. She laughed a bit wildly. Perhaps the wine was affecting her a little

"You don't care for my scar? I think he did a extraordinary job, considering that he had to work in the dark of the Deep Roads, and that most of my face was gone at the time. I'm lucky to have a face—or eyes—at all. It was disgusting. I don't care to discuss it while I'm eating."

"As you wish." He knew himself that not much good could come of traveling the Deep Roads. "There is another mage, too, I understand."

She looked down the table. The Revered Mother was chatting with Bryland. "I have two more, actually. We recruited Tara at the Tower. She looks like a dainty little elf, but is actually a ferocious battlemage. I pity the man who tries to bully her. I also recruited an old friend of hers that we met on the way. He was defending a band of refugees at the time, very competently; despite a timid manner that hangs over him like a pestilential vapor."

The description made Loghain chuckle. "I've seen it in some of the mages you sent us, though one or two have bloomed a bit. There is this ridiculous little girl named Keili, who's constantly casting healing and rejuvenation spells my way…"

Bronwyn laughed out loud, which pleased Loghain a great deal. He said, "You've certainly recruited a great many elves. Is that young woman your Dalish Warden?"

"Yes!" she beamed. "Her name is Danith, and she's also a splendid archer. Her clan was extremely helpful. In addition to their own archers, I also was given the name and location of another Keeper, whom they told me was very influential."

Loghain shook his head, amused. "Perhaps the King might return to see the elves arrive." He saw a curious darkening of Bronwyn's expression as he mentioned the King, and immediately asked, "What? Have you had word of the King? You have. What is it?"

She stared at her plate. "Not now. Really. Not now, my lord." She looked up, assuming a sunny smile to deceive any casual observer. "And that enormous fellow is Sten of the Beresaad, our qunari ally, who is an army in himself. That is Cullen, a former Templar from the Circle, and you can just see our handsome friend Zevran…" she whispered in his ear, "who is an Antivan Crow hired by Rendon Howe to assassinate me!"

He whirled on her, wondering if she had lost her mind. She burst out laughing again. "He is! Really and truly! But he decided that he liked me better!"

Bryland looked their way, hearing Bronwyn's laughter. He smirked at Loghain with almost paternal pride, and began sharing a thrilling bit of gossip with the Revered Mother. Bronwyn laughed all the harder, knowing she had already had too much to drink.

She was tired and tipsy, and wanted nothing so much as a good sleep before facing Loghain and his questions, but Bronwyn knew there was no way out of the looming conversation, short of pretending to faint, or drinking herself into incoherence. Neither was likely to do much for her reputation, so she resigned herself to the inevitable.

Most annoying were the grins and raised brows or frowns and scandalized expressions on the faces of her own people, as she accompanied Loghain to his quarters after dinner. The eager whispers made her want to knock some heads together. Loghain, unsurprisingly, was utterly indifferent to gossip, probably because everything that could be said about him had already been said, at some time or other. They climbed the stairs in silence.

"Come in." At least this was simply an office, with no bed in sight. That would have reduced her to gibbering idiocy. The intense awareness of him as a man had not receded. Her heart was pounding. Her belly warmed with excitement—a most improper excitement. She must keep her mind on her report, and not make a fool of herself.

"Sit." He waved vaguely at a hard wooden chair by the writing table, but did not sit himself. He seemed restless, and in an odd humor.

Loghain, for his part, was in rather an odd humor. He had not missed the general interest in their departure, or the smirks, or the significant looks, or the wide-eyed amazement. What was the matter with people? If Duncan had still been alive and had been told to make a report to him in private, no one would have batted an eyelash.

But of course, Bronwyn was not Duncan: she was the glamorous Girl Warden, and the object of many a young fool's fantasies. And, if he were honest, of many an old fool's as well…

Was Alistair her lover? He had imagined so, but the boy's expression was not that of a jealous rival, but of a shocked and innocent admirer.

He poured wine for them both, and gave her a goblet. He wanted her tongue as loose as possible. Restlessly, he paced back and forth, paying little heed to the cup in his hand.

Bronwyn, for her part, thought that yet another cup of wine was the last thing she needed. She felt odd and nervous, and rather off-balance. In fact, she had not felt so awkward since that ghastly conversation with her mother about men and women and babies. Then she thought about having that conversation with Teyrn Loghain instead of Mother, and nearly laughed aloud. She hid the treacherous smile behind the cup, and pretended to sip.

The room was no temporary dwelling, as his tent had been. This room spoke of the man: uncluttered and male. Weapons were neatly stored in racks. Armor was oiled, polished, and hung on stands of the correct size. Dominating the room was a big writing table, arranged by a methodical hand, displaying items of good but not garish quality: a pitcher of wine, and goblets of chased silver, probably a gift; maps and notebooks; a small carved chest for private papers; fine writing and drawing tools, including a splendid bronze inkstand. The chair behind the table looked comfortable. The chairs in front of the table were markedly less so: discouraging idle visitors from lingering.

He paused in his pacing, and fixed her with a probing stare. "You've been a busy girl, Warden. Mages, Dwarves, and now the Dalish. You've done well."

She tried to think of an answer that was witty, or at least not insipid, and failed. He made her too nervous. "Thank you, my lord," she simply said. She hoped she would not spill her wine or drop the cup.

"I was astonished that in the midst of your journeys, you yet found time to visit Orlais."

Of course he would know. The commander of Gherlen's Halt must have told him.

"Yes," she answered easily. "I crossed the border to send a message to the Senior Warden of Jader, who had offered his assistance to me. Warden Riordan answered all my questions, and greatly aided my mission."

He pounced. "And why would you need an Orlesian to enforce the treaties with the allies that you assured me would be anything but Orlesian?"

She should have known that the first word out of his mouth would be "Orlais." She took care to make her response as reasoned and calm as possible.

"I did not, my lord. Enforcing the treaties is not my only mission. Rebuilding the Grey Wardens in Ferelden was not possible without the assistance of a Senior Warden, well-versed in all the lore and secrets of the Order."

"But you've been recruiting so very energetically," he said, the faintest hint of mockery in his voice. "A pair of mages here, a trio-forgive me—another pair of dwarves there. Elves and ex-Templars and Orlesian bards. Such an interesting company, loyal to you, I daresay."

"They have given me every proof of such loyalty," she answered, wondering where this was going. Was he going to accuse her of building a private army? If so, she was going to laugh in his face at the idea of such a paltry force being any threat to Ferelden—or to him personally. She added, "I needed information from the Senior Warden. Simply calling a recruit a Warden does not make him one."

There it was, the first Warden secret, dropped for him to pick up and examine, if he wished.

He did. "The Wardens have always guarded their secrets closely."

He was trying to catch her out, which annoyed her. She had already chosen her course, and had not the least desire to play silly games.

"You do not need to trick or cozen the secrets from me, my lord. I came to Ostagar with every intention of sharing them with you."

That stopped him. He paused, startled and wary. This was too easy. "Just like that?"

"Yes. Just like that, my lord. There are things you ought to know. And I have it on good authority that heads of state are routinely entrusted with the Wardens' secrets. As you have been the de facto ruler of Ferelden for thirty years, I think it's time you were told these things. And they are nothing that the Empress of Orlais does not already know. I am not sure Duncan told King Cailan all of them, based on some of the things the King has said and done. Perhaps Duncan was shielding him on account of his youth."

There was a certain flatness to her voice. Duncan might have wished to shield the King, but no one had shielded her.

"The Empress…knows…"

"She knows everything, my lord. She knows about the Wardens. How they are made, about their special abilities, about the things they sacrifice to be Wardens. Above all, she knows why only Wardens can slay the Archdemon. That was perhaps why she has not been particularly generous with the Wardens of her own country while Ferelden is threatened by a Blight."

"Do you believe what this Riordan told you? Might he not be trying to deceive you for purposes of his own?"

Bronwyn thought it over. It would not do to be credulous.

"I do believe him, my lord, and not just because he seemed trustworthy. The Wardens, whatever you might think, are not an Orlesian order. There are Wardens in every country in Thedas. If Riordan were to give me false information, that would be all too easily revealed by the Antivan Wardens, or the Wardens of Ostwick. Furthermore, the historical record, if examined, supports Riordan's claims. Yes, I believe what he told me, if only because it is so extremely unpleasant."

Loghain nodded. She had thought it through, at least. Was she in contact with Antiva and Ostwick? She had family connections in both places.

"At any rate, my lord, on to the Warden 'secrets.' I shall begin at the beginning." She took another sip of wine. "I am not certain that you noticed, as you were extremely busy just before the Battle of Ostagar—"

"—The first Battle of Ostagar," he put in, rather dryly. There had been a dozen more battles since she left.

"—As you say, my lord. I am not certain you noticed at that time that I was not Duncan's only recruit."

He frowned. "I knew there were others. I presumed them killed in the battle." She was staring at him with those strange green eyes. They were quite distracting. Not unattractive, mind you, but different.

"Not so, my lord. They did not live long enough to see it. They perished during the Joining ritual. Many do. I am told it is often fatal."

He really had had no idea. Duncan had recruited so few… "An ordeal of some sort? A duel to prove your worth?"

"Not a duel. I suppose you could call it an ordeal, but it is the thing that transforms us into Wardens. A great many words are spoken, but what it really comes down to," she took a deep breath—" is drinking a potion, of which the principal ingredient is darkspawn blood."

A silence. Loghain's eyes widened, and he began hastily to rearrange some opinions. "Darkspawn blood is deadly poison, even to the touch. To drink it—"

"The potion has some other essential ingredients. It took thousands of lives before a compound was discovered that did not simply kill or turn those who drank it into mindless ghouls. But yes, it is indeed deadly poison. The Joining potion kills many who drink it outright, hence Duncan's wariness about recruiting people whose loved ones might wish to come looking for them later."

"But you survived."

"For now. Darkspawn blood is always fatal. Always. Either one dies immediately and horribly, or one becomes a Warden. After some decades, I am told-thirty years on average-the poison finally takes hold, and the Warden begins to deteriorate. We experience something known as the Calling. We go off to the Deep Roads to die in a last battle against the darkspawn—and also to spare the surface the distressing sight of Wardens turning into ghouls."

Loghain stared at her, utterly horrified. It was a form of Blood Magic: a cruel, shocking form. How was such a horror permitted to exist? Other Heads of State knew of this?

"If the Divine knew about this—"

Bronwyn smiled sourly. "She knows. So does the Black Divine in Minrathous. They know it and they tolerate it because of the reasons that this is done. The First Blight destroyed the Tevinter Empire: shattered it so thoroughly that an invasions of barbarians led by the Prophet Andraste could sweep up to the gates of the imperial city itself. The Tevinter legions were vast, and had seemed irresistible: their magisters had magic of inconceivable power. All of it was vain against the Blight."

"Until the coming of the Wardens."

"Until then," she agreed, firelight glinting into her green eyes. "although you might as well say, until the creation of the Wardens." She took another sip of wine. Speaking all this aloud, so long held within her like a lump of unworked lead, was tiring. "Make no mistake, my lord: we were created. Thousands of people died hideously in failed experiments to created a being that could kill the Archdemon. The formula of the Joining potion is generally not entrusted to Junior Wardens. Neither Alistair nor I knew how to make more Wardens until Riordan taught us the formula and supervised the Joining of our first new recruits. And that is the matter—the great matter—that I am coming to."

He sat down, facing her, fingers interlaced, his blue gaze intent on her green one.

"Then let us have it."

"Very well," She paused, looking for right words, the clear, eloquent words that would satisfy this man.

"The Archdemon," she began, "is not simply a dragon. If it were a simply a dragon, it could be killed like any other beast, however powerful. After all, the Nevarran dragon hunters nearly drove such creatures to extinction only a few generations ago. No. The Archdemon is a god. And Old God, perhaps, but a god all the same." She laughed bitterly."If the Revered Mother were eavesdropping on us now, no doubt she would squawk in outrage, and correct me, saying that the creatures the Tevinters worshiped were false gods, and no better than demons, but we are not children, my lord, and no one is listening. The Chantry itself teaches that the Maker has turned his face from us, and has no interest in our doings. I can assure you that the Archdemon is quite godlike enough to threaten us, and it is very interested in us indeed."

"You claimed to have seen it in the Deep Roads."

Offended, she stared at him a little longer. "I saw it in the Deep Roads—and elsewhere. Even were it a mindless beast, it would be very, very dangerous, and very hard to kill. Which brings me back, once again, to the Wardens, and why we are no so irrelevant as you might believe us to be."

She took a moment to fight down the rising anger. It irritated her beyond words that this man should be questioning her like a criminal. After all she had done—after nearly dying in the filthy Deep Roads—she felt she deserved better.

But of course he knew nothing about that. She bit her lip, forced herself to stay on task, and continued. "The Joining makes Wardens immune to the Taint. Perhaps you know this—or something of it. It also gives us other powers. The Taint in us gives us a link to the darkspawn. We can sense them. And they can sense us."

He straightened, making a connection. "That is how the darkspawn were able to target the Grey Wardens so quickly."

She nodded, not saying anything for a moment, remembering the horror of that battle. Finally, she sighed, and said, "As you say. It is a double-edged sword. I have heard that some older Wardens, after long experience, claim that they can hear the darkspawn, after a fashion, or at least comprehend the commands the Archdemon is giving to its mindless minions. I have sensed nothing form the Archdemon other than raw emotions, such as rage and hatred, but it may be so. I have not been a Warden all that long."

He watched her carefully. She believed what she was saying, he was certain. Some of it might even be true. The Warden lore made sense.

She went on: "The crux of the issue, of course, is our ability to slay the Archdemon. The Tevinters could slay the Old God in its dragon form, but the spirit of the Old God lived on, and followed the pull of the Taint to the body of one of the other darkspawn, and when that was slain, into yet another, and so on, and so on... After a time, the Archdemon simply rose again. And again. It is hard to imagine the terror those ancient folk must have experienced."

She sipped from her cup, and thought for a moment. "Here it is: because of the Taint in us, when a Warden slays the Archdemon, it stays dead. The essence of the Archdemon, freed from its dragon form, follows the Taint into the Warden. Since a Warden is not a soulless vessel—unlike the darkspawn—the Old God's essence collides with the soul of the Warden, destroying them both. That is why, if you make a study of the matter, you will find that every Warden who slew an Archdemon died in the act of doing so."

"The Grey Warden who slays the Archdemon…dies?"

"Exactly so. There is no other way. It also explains why the Wardens closed in on the Archdemon, not allowing others an opportunity to bring disaster down upon everyone by making a 'lucky' shot, for example. Others joined in the fight, but at the end, it needed to be Wardens, and only Wardens, lest the Archdemon rise again."

Loghain was still wrapping his head around the sentence of death that the girl was under. Either immediate death—and complete destruction, if she were to be the one to strike the killing blow; or to have only thirty years before a miserable, lonely death. She would never live to see his own age. It was cruel and unfair, but mortal life was like that. Still, thirty years was thirty years, and many did not live that long anyway. What mattered was to make the most of the time one had.

He said, "I will indeed make a study of this. There should be some sort of loophole in this. There always seems to be. I can see why you would want to have quite a few Wardens, certainly."

"I am hoping to learn more from the Grey Warden texts about killing dragons. There don't seem to be a great many live ones to practice upon."

He frowned, shaking his head. "I remember seeing one in the Wilds at the end of the war, It was the only one, though. And they fly, of course. Have you given thought to how you will fight a flying creature, now that the Wardens no longer have griffons? Or am I mistaken in that? Do the Wardens have a secret paddock of griffons hidden away in the Anderfels?"

Bronwyn scowled at him. "If they do, they are not inclined to share them. I shall have to rely on the fact that the Archdemon will be drawn to us by the Taint. The problem, as I see it, is not so much bringing it down upon us, as it is keeping it down."

"Ballistae could be used to damage or cripple it. I've had some dwarven engineers working on the problem."

She looked up at that, interested. "Have you indeed, my lord? I should like to talk to them at length."

He nodded, his mind already on the next issue. "What about the King? Do you plan to share your secrets with him?"

She really was unsure about that. Could the King be trusted? She temporized.

"The King is not here, my lord. He is in Denerim, recovering from wounds, as I understand it."

Loghain snorted. "I had thought he might return for your triumphal procession with the dwarves, but there are political concerns that keep him in the capital. He has called for a Landsmeet. Did you know?

"I had heard that, my lord," Bronwyn said carefully. "In order to call Arl Howe to account for his crimes."

"Yes. Well." He opened his box of correspondence and held the accusatory letters in a moment of contemplation.

Why not? Let us see if the Girl Warden, who has an answer for everything else, has an answer for this.

"Arl Howe feels that he was more than justified in his actions. He has sent me documents supporting his claim that the Teyrn of Highever and his wife were guilty of treason and espionage." He slapped letters down on the polished writing table, and gave her a level, challenging stare.

Bronwyn stared back, utterly taken aback at the accusation. She had imagined they were getting on, that they were talking as equals—or nearly. She had imagined that he returned her feelings for him…a little. She had imagined that he respected her for her achievements, and was grateful for her sacrifice. She had entrusted him with her deepest secrets. The magnitude of her folly was before her, and rage rose up to choke her, like an inky black wave of Taint.

Unable to speak at first, she rose slowly from her chair, her eyes on Loghain. She would not lose control before this man, self-satisfied in his power, throwing her confidence in him back in her face with this studied insult. She would not—

Anger slipped its leash. She hissed in rage and threw her goblet in Loghain's face, the wine spattering the room like blood.

"How dare you!" she shouted.

Startled, he knocked the cup aside with his arm, and took an angry breath himself. With a scrape and a silvery clang, the cup felt to the stone floor, spinning crazily. Before Loghain could say a word, Bronwyn was in his face, all her terrors and miseries pouring out in a scalding torrent.

"I have gone to the limits of the Deep Roads for this country, and you repay me with suspicion and contempt! Let your friend Arl Howe find troops for you, if you find me so unworthy!"

"I did not say I found you unworthy!" He shouted back. "Don't put words in my mouth!"

Unheeding, she stalked to the table, and furiously swept off everything on it, letters, maps, parchment, ink stand, and all. The ink ran over the floor and the parchment swirled down, settling gently. Loghain, furious himself, grabbed her by her shoulder, and whirled her around. She twisted out of his grasp, and stepped back, her fists clenched to fight.

"Don't you dare to put your hands on me!" she snarled. "I won't endure such insults from you or any man! And Arl Howe is a fool, and a coward, and a bastard, and a snake, and the dupe of the Orlesians! And he hides in his castle like a filthy spider in his web while the rest of Ferelden fights for its life! I am personally going to rip his tongue from his lying mouth, and I cannot believe that you would credit his feeble, half-witted slanders, but for the fact that I know that all he had to do was write the word 'Orlesian' and you would believe the worst of anyone!"

He slammed his own cup down on the table, and roared, "Hold your tongue!"

She should, she should, she really should, but it felt so good to release all this pent-up wrath…

"I will not! You dare to call my parents traitors, knowing them dead and unable to defend themselves! You call them traitors to my very face—"

"I never called your parents traitors!" he shot back. "I said that Arl Howe said he had evidence, which he sent me!"

The door creaked open, and a trio of guards peered in nervously. "My lord," one ventured, "is everything all—"

"Get out!" Loghain bellowed. The door slammed shut.

Trying to pull the pieces of herself together, Bronwyn lowered her voice and growled, "His evidence is rubbish: a forgery concocted to make him believe what he wished to believe. I'm willing to wager what coin I have left that he only sent you copies."

He loomed over her, eyes narrowed. Bronwyn gulped, remembering at whom she was ranting. She would not flinch, not even were he Korth the Mountain Father himself.

"It is understandable," he ground out, "that you would defend your family, regardless of their innocence…or guilt. These papers contain a letter in which your father offers his allegiance to Empress Celene in exchange for the name of King of Ferelden."

"Rubbish!" she exploded. "Absolute rubbish! How dare you accuse my family of treason! I suggest you look to your own, before you speak against the Couslands!"

"What do you mean?" he asked, his voice lashing her like a whip.

Too angry for half-measures, she shouted. "You want to see something treasonous? I'll show you who's a traitor to Ferelden! You wait here! Wait right here and I'll show you something to make the blood freeze in your veins. Don't move a muscle!"

She rushed from the room, slamming the door open. The unfortunate guards, trying to eavesdrop, were knocked down. She roared, "Out of my way!" nearly tripping over them.

Loghain followed her to the doorway, seeing the back of her as she raced for the stairs, and ran up them still raving to herself.

His blood was up. The girl had behaved inexcusably. Who did the chit think she was?

He glared at the unfortunate guards. "Idiots," he muttered.

"Sorry, my lord," they muttered sheepishly.

That could have gone better, he admitted to himself. It was not at all the reaction he had expected.

I suppose I thought that she would protest their innocence with wide and wounded eyes. Perhaps even cry. Possibly that I would have to comfort her. I really had no idea she had such a temper. I've haven't been shouted at like that since Anora was a teenager.

More gapers were arriving to witness the drama, but the girl was ahead of them, pounding down the stairs, parchment in her hand, green eyes blazing. She saw him waiting, and stalked toward him, shaking the parchment like a deadly weapon. Perhaps it was. It must be something he was not going to like.

She strode through the doorway, slamming the door behind her, and proceeded to slap the parchment onto the table, just as he had done.

"All right! Read that! And that's the original and no forgery, for I took it from the courier herself!"

Warily, with a glance at the girl to ascertain whether she meant to throw anything else at him, he picked up the parchment. And then he recognized the broken seal, dread pooling in his gut.

Cailan, what have you done?

"This is royal correspondence," he growled ominously. "What are you doing interfering with it?"

"Go on, read it!" she insisted. "I dare you to tell me afterwards that you're sorry it was intercepted!"

He did read it, his rage and fear growing with every paragraph; for each sentence was a knife in his back, a betrayal of Anora, and a mortal blow to Ferelden. He had known that there were treacherous leeches among the Bannorn who wanted to replace Anora with a queen of their choice…but this…

It was not a forgery. He knew the hand of Cailan's private secretary too well. And he knew Cailan's hand from the day the boy had started learning his letters. Not only his signature was there, but little notes to some of the paragraphs. This was real: Cailan meant to turn his country over to the Empress in exchange for the name of Emperor. It was the most genuinely horrifying document that Loghain had ever read.

He read it again, standing by the window. He moved to his chair and read it again. Bronwyn leaned against the wall, watching him, her blood calming, her temper cooling, regrets and shame surfacing.

She had not meant to give him this. Or at least not the way she had: out of anger and spite. It must alarm and horrify him. On a human level, it must grieve him deeply. This was his best friend's son: the husband of his only child.

"How did you lay your hands on this?" he growled at her, more suspicious than ever.

"How?" she exhaled deeply, and told him. "Six days ago I was in Denerim."

Loghain was quite the master of the frown. Bronwyn reminded herself that she had looked darkspawn in the eye. Loghain was only a man. A powerful man, certainly, but he was not as terrible as a Broodmother, or as dangerous as a demon.

"Why were you there?" he asked in a hard, cold voice.

"Because the Crows and Arl Howe weren't the only people trying to kill me. Between Orzammar and Gherlen's Halt, my party was set upon by some very skilled and professional people. We discovered they were after us due to Leliana—the half-Orlesian archer. Her old associates were afraid she would reveal what she knew about them."

"And had she?"

Bronwyn snorted, "No. I wish! She had spent the last two years atoning for her sins in the Lothering Chantry, and had largely put them out of her mind. They had not forgotten her, however, so I discovered that she had been quite the naughty girl prior to serving Andraste." She was breathing more slowly now, though she was still angry and disappointed. "She was the cast-off apprentice of an Orlesian bard who lived in Denerim." She smirked at the look of anger and alarm on Loghain's face. "I say 'lived,' because six days ago I killed that bitch and all her henchmen. Her name was Marjolaine, and it was she who was the King's secret contact with Orlais. Of even greater personal interest to me, it was she who turned the Arl of Amaranthine's wits the seamy side without, and made him think his best friend was a traitor!"

Naturally, Loghain wanted to hear every detail about the woman. Bronwyn looked at him a moment, and thought about what she cared to tell him. An hour ago, she would have told him all.

That her own father had approached the King about a Cousland marriage, Bronwyn decided was simply none of Loghain's business. She possessed the original of that letter, and would take care that no one else ever saw it. She had kept it, indeed, because she had nothing else of her father's at the moment, and because he spoke so lovingly of her in it. Loghain would never touch it, or scoff at it, or scowl over it. She continued with her carefully edited tale.

"After Leliana identified that the men sent to kill us had come from this woman Marjolaine, I knew I would have to do something about her. She had attempted to interfere with Wardens in the course of a Blight, and that could not stand. In addition, Leliana told me that this Marjolaine had been a confederate of the late Harwen Raleigh—"

Loghain glanced up at this, very interested and intent. "I suspected that Raleigh was disaffected. Maric should not have cast him off so completely, but that's all blood under the bridge now."

"As you say," Bronwyn agreed. "At any rate, Raleigh was one of Marjolaine's useful sources of intelligence about Ferelden, but she had obviously been very active for some time. If someone wished to communicate with the Empress through other than the approved diplomatic channels, she was the person to see."

"And Cailan…saw her."

"Leliana knew where she lived in Denerim. We disguised ourselves and watched the house. Late one night, a messenger claiming to be from the Palace knocked on the door and demanded that she accompany him there. After she and some of her guards had left, we gained access to the house and awaited her return. When she came back, we had a talk. She had just obtained the document before you."

"Was it absolutely necessary to kill her?" he asked, irritated. "Surely it would have been better to turn her over to more experienced interrogators."

"As I was in Denerim incognito, and was in a hurry to return to the main party—yes, it was necessary to kill her. I am hoping that since she had that remarkable document, no one will be concerned about her absence for weeks—perhaps months. The King no doubt thinks her on her way to Val Royeaux. The Empress might not be expecting her any time very soon."

"No one's going to find the body?"

She regarded him grimly. "No."

He grunted at that, looking at her sharply. She was a very different girl now than the one who had left Ostagar a few months ago. "Did she say she had dealings with Howe?"

Bronwyn looked strained. "She was so very smug about how easy it was to make Arl Howe believe what he wanted to believe, She recognized me, and assured me that the murder of my family was not a personal matter for her, but merely part of the Great Game. Yes, at that moment I found it necessary to kill her."

"How do you intend to disprove Arl Howe's evidence?"

"What evidence?" she asked, her voice rich with contempt. "Those papers of yours could be written by anyone. I see no reason even to read them, since I know them to be invented out of whole cloth by that vicious bard. Marjolaine was something of a forger, but let Arl Howe come forward with his lfalsehoods. Either I or my brother stand ready to prove him a liar in trial by combat. He knows this, which gives him even more reason to send the Crows after us. They attacked Fergus when I was in Denerim, but luckily I was there at the time. We killed them all. Fergus knows to take serious precautions now."

Loghain brooded a little longer, and shook his head. "No doubt Rendon Howe seems important to you, but you must see that I look upon the King's treachery as a far greater danger to the nation. He is planning to cast my daughter—his wife—aside, and unite us with our ancient enemy." His voice grew sarcastic. "How he plans to do that is a matter of some concern to me, if you will forgive me for saying so."

She answered sharply. "Obviously it is a dire matter, which is why it is before you right now. But it is not simply a matter of the King's say-so. The Queen was married by the Chantry and publicly crowned. The King cannot undo that with a proclamation. And the Landsmeet would not ratify it if he did."

His eyes bored into hers. "You think not?"

"Well," she considered. "He obviously won't have the support of Gwaren and the banns sworn to you. Nor, I can assure you, will he have the support of Highever and our vassals. To do him justice, if Rendon Howe were to attend a Landsmeet, he would not support the King in this either. My cousin Bryland's loyalty to Ferelden I am certain of. Arl Wulffe, agree to recognize the Empress as Queen of Ferelden? I don't believe it for an instant."

"You say nothing of the Arl of Denerim."

She bit her lip. "I don't know him well enough to say. It's possible that he had dealing through Marjolaine, but to say he is a traitor—no, I can't support that with serious evidence. Arl Eamon does seem to have been an intermediary, but…"

"Eamon is no longer a problem."

"Indeed. I heard dreadful things of the events at Redcliffe."

"Whatever you heard was paler than reality. Teagan seems honest enough, and his arling is too weakened to be a threat. However, that might be an incentive to seek help from over the border. And the Bannorn is a wayward animal."

She sat down again, thinking. With a half smile, he pulled his chair closer, and sat down facing her. He said, "I would offer you another cup of wine, but you might shy it at my head again."

That got an angry, embarrassed scowl from her. "If it makes you feel better, you can throw your own cup at me, and call us even."

A grim laugh escaped him. "Perhaps I shall, someday, if you make me angry enough." He sat back thinking. "What a time to instigate a civil war! For civil war we shall have, if Cailan follows through with this scheme of his. And with what army does he expect to enforce it?"

"Well," she said slowly, a quite horrible thought occurring to her. "The Empress knows it is a Blight. Her own Wardens will have told her so. She knows the bulk of the Ferelden army is pinned down her in the south. She may not wish to involve herself openly, but there is something that must be done before she can marry the King, and only the Divine in Val Royeaux can do it for her. The Divine could annul the marriage of Cailan and Anora, and the Grand Cleric in Ferelden would proclaim it. You have always been so concerned about the Grey Wardens being a private army under foreign control. May I direct your attention to a much large armed force, also under foreign control, whose commander is indisputably Orlesian?"

It had already occurred to Loghain. The bloody Templars. They were indeed under Chantry control, and they were everywhere. In a low voice, he ground out, "How I hate the bloody Chantry."

Bronwyn nodded. She was quite fond of their own priest, Mother Mallol, back in Highever. She hoped that she had escaped the massacre. For all that, Father and Mother had told her stories of how the Chantry had collaborated in the invasion: how the Grand Cleric, Mother Bronach, had declared it the will of the Maker, and those who rebelled against the usurper Meghren, to be rebels against divine authority. Most of the priests and Templars had been loyal to the Grand Cleric, and had formed a network of informers: educated and literate, collecting intelligence in every town and village.

"They've been traitors to Ferelden in the past. Father explained that King Maric could not sever ties with the Divine, for fear of her calling an Exalted March against Ferelden. They've always been the dagger poised to strike against us. Even now, they are doing nothing to defend this country. It's all completely business as usual. The Grand Cleric even has her right hand, Revered Mother Clarine, here, spying and interfering. I don't suppose you can get rid of her?"

"Short of feeding her to the darkspawn, I think not," Loghain said acidly. He thought a little more. "Anora is in danger, but I cannot leave the army."

"I really don't think the King would harm her."

He raised his brows at her.

"I mean," Bronwyn clarified, "that I don't think he would physically hurt her. Here's a thought..." she considered. "I have to go north-a little north of South Reach, I understand, to find that other Dalish clan. I'll go to Denerim and warn her personally. I could take her a letter from you, and no one else would need to know."

"And what about the darkspawn?"

"I'll leave most of the Wardens behind...including..." she made her decision. "Including Alistair. He's Senior Warden, anyway, so it would seem reasonable. If things get very bad, you'd want him with you, anyway."

He scoffed. "Are you proposing that I ultimately replace Cailan with another son of Maric, even more deplorably unprepared to be King?"

"I am not proposing anything of the sort. However, it might be more prudent for him to be under your command than under the King's. Alistair is a very fine warrior, and a very decent and modest young man."

"It is my understanding that he has a great deal to be modest about."

She did not find that funny. "I see you find it easy to despise someone who was abandoned by his own father, and brought up as a stableboy by a malicious noble, who wanted his nephew to have no rivals!"

"Come," he said tiredly. "let us not quarrel over trifles. I promise not to be unkind to your faithful Alistair, but he'll have to pull his weight with me."

"And he will. He knows nothing about my intent to lay bare the cherished secrets of the Wardens, so please don't gloat about it to him. It's enough that you know the facts and can plan accordingly."

"Enough about him," Loghain said roughly. "We have more important things to consider. I want you to meet with my engineers tomorrow, and hear what they have planned for the Archdemon-if the beast ever deigns to make an appearance. I'll write a letter to Anora, warning her of Cailan's plans. Meet that Dalish Keeper if you must, but then we must consider the army complete. Try not to get distracted by blood feuds when you're in Denerim."

"Howe may not attend the Landsmeet. If he does not, Fergus will want the King's leave to attack him."

Loghain used a word Bronwyn had not expected to hear from him. "And so we shall have civil war of some sort. Was that the bard's plan all along?"

"One of them certainly. I think it's clear that Orlais has more than one string to its bow. Even the attempt to abduct Alistair and me I regard less as an attempt to create puppet monarchs than to remove possible alternatives to Cailan. Fergus, too, is in danger for that reason, hence the attempt to discredit the Couslands. The Empress will do everything to smooth his way."

"And hers. You do realize, don't you, that if Cailan renounces Anora and betroths himself to Celene, I will march on him."

She nodded gravely. "I would expect nothing else. And I will march with you, if the darkspawn let me."

He thought himself too old to be touched by gallant gestures, but so he was. "Even though I shall be declared a traitor to Ferelden?"

She thought a little longer, and said, "Ferelden is not the King; and the King is not Ferelden. This is our country as much as Cailan's. It is not his to barter away like a drunken woman selling her children's clothes for more ale."

He studied her face. "I thought the Wardens were loyal to no country."

Her wry smile reached to her brilliantly green eyes. "I've never claimed to be a very good Warden, my lord."

He reached out to her, and they shook hands on their alliance with conscious gravity, wondering what would come of it.

This chapter has been growing, and growing, and growing... I finally said all that I thought needed saying for the moment.

Thanks to my reviewers: Zeeji, JackOfBladesX, Rosabell, Sah'Rahaal, Remenants, Kira Kyuuketsuki, Menmebephil, Josie Lange, butterflygrrl, Aoi24, Dante Alighieri1308, The Moidart, derko5, Have Socks Will Travel, demonicnargles, LovingSanity, mutive, What Ithacas Mean, almostinsane, chocolatebrownie12, Lehni, wayfaringpanda, mille libri, Jenna53, Amhran Comhrac, Gene Dark, .x, Death Knight's Crowbar, and Enaid Aderyn. You are really coming up with some amazing ideas!

Yes, I do promise to incorporate material from DA2 into this story, but the time is not yet ripe. Bronwyn and Loghain had too much to discuss in this chapter.