Victory at Ostagar
This chapter just kept growing...and growing...and growing...
Thanks to Enaid Aderyn for the insight that the Dalish do not march.
Chapter 39: Into the Wilds
Cailan, King of Ferelden, arrived at Ostagar with much fanfare, pleased beyond measure that he had not missed the arrival of the Dalish. The army, as a whole, was glad to see their handsome and cheerful young king.
Loghain was resigned, but not pleased at all. Things were going well, and he did not need Cailan's interference. Nor did he want to pretend that all was well, knowing that this traitor had betrayed his daughter and was planning to sell Ferelden to the Orlesians. From time to time, he played with the idea of confronting and arresting Cailan. Could one arrest a King? He had never heard of it, but surely kings were answerable to the law of the land. Or if they were not, they should be.
But he could not. They were in the middle of a war, and the King and the General could not admit to differences in front of the troops. Loghain was sure of Maric's Shield, but the rest of the army would fall apart if he set himself against the King. And that could not be allowed to happen.
The Orlesian plan might still fall through, now that the marriage treaty had gone astray. Loghain smiled bitterly when he thought of it, carefully locked away in his own correspondence chest. It would be months before Celene and Cailan realized that something was wrong. A great deal could happen before then.
The dwarven allies were presented to him, and Cailan was on his best and friendliest behavior. He even knew some of them, remembering them from his visit to Orzammar with his father some years before. He was always up for drinking parties, and so he and the dwarves got on rather well, all things considered.
"All we need are the Dalish," he exulted, "and the Archdemon might as well give it up altogether! How grand that will be, the day the Dalish come marching into Ostagar."
Days passed, but the Dalish did not march in. Watchful eyes at the top of the Tower of Ishal were trained on all the approaches to Ostagar, but they did not see their elven allies.
The Dalish did not march in, because the Dalish did not march at all. Their culture was not the sort that marched, hundreds of feet tramping the earth in unison, trumpets blaring, making as much noise as possible. Instead, they drifted in one evening at sunset, indistinguishable from rock and tree, from vine and trailing bush. Over fifty Dalish were actually within the walls of the fortress before a shocked guard noticed a tattooed elf peering down at him from the branches of a whitewood tree on the north side of Ostagar Gorge. The unprofessional oath he bellowed turned heads right and left. Very shortly, weapons were seized and a trumpet blatted out an alarm.
"The Dalish, Your Majesty!" an officer bawled out, bursting into the council room. "They're here!" Loghain scowled at the man.
Cailan turned, his face bright with his widest, whitest smile. "They been spotted on the road?"
"No, Your Majesty! They're here! Right here in camp! They crept in like shadows. Reckon it was magic!"
Stunned looks were exchanged, and the senior command, men and dwarves both, hurried down the winding stairs and out into the cool air of twilight.
Ser Cauthrien was glaring down at a semicircle of slender and tattooed elves, declaring that the manner of their arrival was contrary to the law of arms. "—and it is customary to announce one's presence at the gates, instead of simply infiltrating the camp! We might have mistaken you for darkspawn and shot you!" She saw the King hurrying forward and gestured at him, "See how you have discomposed the King!"
"Oh, I am sorry!" apologized a pretty elf woman, her enormous green eyes luminous with sympathy, an appealing burr in her voice. She gave Cailan a vague, sweet smile. "You're the king, then? My, you are tall and shiny. Sorry, King. We didn't mean to frighten you. We were just being…er…Elvish. We thought you might be at supper, and we didn't like to interrupt…Where is Bronwyn? I like Bronwyn. I thought she would be here… And Danith? I'm supposed to report to the Warden. The Warden. A Warden..."
Alistair, slightly behind the King and Loghain, gave her a shy wave and a grin. "Bronwyn's off to find Zathrian's clan. Danith, too. I'm Alistair. Senior Warden Alistair. I'm afraid you'll have to make do with me."
"Oh, that's very kind of you. You're just as nice as Bronwyn. Tall, mind you, but nice all the same. In fact, you're all…tall…Oh, wait, I'm supposed to say something…" She straightened her thin little shoulders and declared, "'We are the Dalish, Grey Warden, and we are here, according to our oath!'" She cocked her head. "There now, I think I remembered all the words that time."
The human nobles were in varying states of shock, delight, wry amusement, and fury. Cailan was quite enchanted with the elves' appearance: so wild, so free, so picturesque—and in the young woman's case, so exquisite. Her tattoos enhanced her high cheekbones and dainty pointed jaw.
Loghain glanced at her, saw she was pretty, and understood that she had no more idea than a cat of how humans conducted themselves. He was more interested in two of the archers lounging gracefully behind her—the two with grey in their hair. He knew them…
"Thanovir! Maynriel!"
"Andaran atish'an, Loghain!" Thanovir answered cheerily. "It is many years since you led us in battle."
Arls Wulffe and Bryland and a number of the banns relaxed slightly. These must be some of Loghain's Night Elves, the scouts he had organized during the Rebellion. That Loghain knew them and apparently was vouching for their reliability gave them considerable validation among the humans. The pretty girl must be the daughter of some clan chief or other, leading the elves just as noble youths sometimes led human forces—with the quiet support of experienced soldiers.
"That's Merrill, our Keeper," Thanovir informed Loghain, still beaming to see an old comrade-in-arms. Loghain was not looking too badly, either. Older, of course, but they were all older.
"Keeper, eh?" Loghain said, lifting a brow. Personally, he thought that fey little girl needed a Keeper herself.
Maynriel looked up at Loghain, mildly admonishing. "She is our Keeper on this journey, and has led us well."
"Then," beamed Cailan, preferring a pretty girl to Loghain's greying old cronies any day, "she shall be welcomed as befits the representative of our worthy Dalish allies." He inclined his blond head to Merrill, with his most winsome smile. "You are most welcome, my lady! Most welcome, indeed!"
"Indeed you are, Keeper," Loghain agreed, remembering his manners, and that these were valuable allies. "There are no archers in Thedas to equal the Dalish!"
More Dalish arrived and now were let in properly—through the gate. A dozen aravels—the landships of the Dalish—came in with them, pulled by white halla, which were of more interest to the army as a whole than the elves themselves. Loghain was more concerned about how easily the Dalish has infiltrated his fortress. Merrill explained how very simple it was to slide through gaps in the stones or up overhanging trees and move among the branches. Of course, those of them who were the very best at it went first.
"It would have been even easier on the south side of your big stone camp," she told Loghain, "but Maynriel said that might be too sneaky and smack of arrogance."
"Maynriel is a wise man, and no doubt will always give you sound advice," Loghain answered, carefully expressionless. She was a mage, of course. He knew that Dalish Keepers were mages. Was that why she was so…odd? Not that it mattered. Five hundred Dalish scouts and archers had just joined the Fereldan Army, and he could bear with an eccentric young figurehead. For that matter, better her than a swine like Vaughan or a brash fool like Cailan. To her credit, this innocent little girl did not remind him in the least of the elven spy Katriel, who had been a city elf, a sophisticated seductress, and a foul traitor.
Others were not so pleased to the see the Dalish.
"Look at those knife ears!" sneered Bann Vaughan to his companions. "Painted and half-naked! They're nothing more than animals."
"That's true, but—" his friend Lord Braden advised him, "—the King thinks a lot of them. It's a lot of nonsense, of course, but it wouldn't do to go against him…"
"—And they're armed to the teeth," Lord Jonaley pointed out. "They're animals, right enough, but they're wild animals, Vaughan, not tame brutes like the ones at home who've at least learned to live indoors."
"Ha!" Vaughan agreed, barking a laugh. "Well said, Jonaley! Nothing more than wild animals. Just so. One can hardly blame Loghain for making what use he can of them. If they are here, and set to fighting darkspawn, they can't be murdering or thieving elsewhere! The darkspawn will thin them out a bit."
"That Keeper of theirs is a pretty thing," Braden remarked. "I wonder if Dalish women give good sport? I daresay they go at it like rabbits. If we hang about near their camp, we shall probably be able to watch them!"
Vaughan laughed heartily at the suggestion. Jonaley merely replied. "Perhaps so…but they're armed to the teeth…"
"Carver!" called Alistair. "You've got a visitor!"
"Ooo! A visitor?" smirked Oghren. "Is she pretty?"
"She's a he," Alistair replied, coming into the Wardens' quarters. "I don't know about pretty." He raised his brows at Carver. "He says he's Adam Hawke and your brother; and he looks a lot like you, so he probably is."
Carver slumped despondently, trying to blend into the corner where he was sitting, sharpening his eating knife. Adam was here, trying to ruin everything. As usual.
"How wonderful to have a brother," sighed Leliana. "I wish I'd had a brother…or a sister! That is what I like most about the Grey Wardens. We are all like a big family, yes?"
"Better than my family," growled Carver. "Couldn't you tell him I was on patrol?"
"No," Alistair shot back. "And I agree with Leliana that it's a pretty special thing to have a brother."
Who at least admits it, he thought to himself. Cailan was perfectly polite to Alistair, but it was because he was a Grey Warden. There was always a wall between them: the wall that declared, "I am the King, and I have no equals."
Carver grumbled, but got up, tucking his little knife away. Adam was waiting, just outside the door. He must have done some fancy talking to get into the Tower of Ishal and all the way to the Wardens' quarters. Adam could always talk anybody into anything, of course. Everybody loved Adam. He was wearing a light leather vest that somehow looked debonair and expensive, though Carver knew it was a mercenary's castoff, carefully polished and repaired. Everything looked good on Adam. It was the perfectly muscled arms, probably.
"Carver!" Adam said, seeing him. "We've been worried sick about you!" He saw the people in the room coming to have a look at him. "Won't you introduce me to your friends?"
"No." Carver glared at him, remembering all the times that his friends had met Adam and somehow become Adam's friends instead of his. The Grey Wardens were his friends, and he was not giving them away to Adam.
"Don't be childish," Adam said, ignoring him. He smiled charmingly at the Wardens, and gave them a wave. "Alistair, isn't it? I'm Adam Hawke, Carver's older brother. We hadn't heard from him in a while, and our mother asked me to come to Ostagar to see if he was all right."
Alistair responded to the infectious smile, and took the offered hand. "Good to meet you. Carver's been great. Not everybody's here, but over there is Leliana and that's Morrigan. And over there is Oghren. Most of us are out right now, but before you are the Grey Wardens' finest. More or less."
"Excuse us." Adam Hawke said abruptly, steering his brother down the hall and away from the quarters. Carver went, but shrugged off his brother's heavy hand. They paused, glaring at each other.
"So it's true?" Hawke asked, his brow furrowed. "You've become a Grey Warden? Carver, you should have talked to me before taking such a drastic step!"
"Why?" Carver demanded. "When I left with the army, you knew I wanted to make my own way in the world. The Wardens are my friends, and they think I'm good enough to join. They're important people. Did you know the Warden-Commander is Lady Bronwyn Cousland, the sister of the Teyrn of Highever? She's really been really nice to me. I get to call her 'Bronwyn,' just like all the other Wardens. I like being here. I'm doing my bit for the war, and I don't have to hide from the Templars, or watch what I say."
"You haven't even asked about Mother and Bethany," Hawke said, shaking his head. "Carver, what have they done to you?"
"They've accepted me! And I'm not the tag-along little brother to them. I can't go on living in your shadow, Adam!" He rubbed an irritated hand over his hair and said, "After all this is over, I'll come home and see everyone."
"That might be harder than you expect," his brother told him, jaw set. "Mother wants us to move to Kirkwall. She's afraid of the darkspawn."
"We're holding the darkspawn!" Carver said, indignant.
"For how long?" Adam frowned, leaning back against the wall. "Now that Father's gone, she's been thinking about going home. Uncle Gamlen will probably put us up at the family estate. She's tired of living in country cottages, always on the run. The Amells are a noble family, and Mother misses the kind of life she knew as a young girl."
Carver snorted. "What did she think was going to happen when she ran off with an apostate? And how does she know that our uncle wants anything to do with her? Didn't her own parents disinherit her?"
"She thinks he's forgiven her. She wants to go home. She wants to be somewhere safe: somewhere that doesn't have armies of darkspawn two days march away."
"She'll never be safe: not with Bethany living with her. If she wants to be safe, Bethany should turn herself in to the Circle of Magi—or, you know what? She could come and join the Grey Wardens too! They have mages! That Morrigan—the really gorgeous brunette—she's a mage, you know. And she was an apostate, and lived on the run all her life, just like Father and Bethany!"
"Is that what you want for Bethany?" Adam asked coldly. "You want her in danger, facing soulless monsters, facing a horrible death? Nobody in his right mind wants to be a Grey Warden! It would absolutely kill mother to lose Bethany, too!"
"She hasn't lost me!" Carver insisted. "How can you expect me to stay home and sit by the fire all my life? I'm sick of being a farm laborer, working from sunup to sundown, bringing home a pittance and handing it over to you, and then you doling out some coppers for spending money if I'm a very, very good boy. Is that what you want for me? To be a mindless peasant, grubbing in the dirt until my back gives out?"
"You're being ridiculous! Of course I don't want that! We'll all go to Kirkwall. We'll live with Uncle Gamlen and find some sort of positions there in the city. The Amell name is well-known there. We can live like nobles, and Mother can spend the rest of her life in comfort."
"Everybody knows that Kirkwall is crawling with Templars," Carver growled. "You're taking Bethany there? How long do you think your dream of being a nobleman is going to last? Until the Templars kick in the front door?"
"They don't kick in the front doors of noble houses," Adam said, his tone superior and contemptuous. "Bethany would be better protected there." He took a deep breath. "Look. If you're absolutely determined to throw your life away, I can't stop you. We're leaving Lothering in twelve days. We'll take ship in Gwaren. If you want to see Mother and Bethany before we go, come to see us. Otherwise, this is farewell, probably forever."
"You want to go—so go," Carver sneered. "You're supposed to be the great fighter, but I don't see you standing up for Ferelden. I guess I understand now. You want to be a noble, and you can't be one here. Go off to Kirkwall, and be Uncle Gamlen's poor relation, if that's what you want. I'll come and see Mother and Bethany. And I'll tell them the truth: they're safer staying in Lothering than traveling through the Brecilian Passage and then taking a long and dangerous voyage through pirate-infested waters, to arrive in a strange city mostly run by the Chantry." He added bitterly, "And I am not throwing my life away. I'm making it mean something." He left without another word, not trusting himself to look at his brother again.
He slammed the door of the Wardens' quarters behind him.
"So much for having a family," he muttered. "They're leaving for Kirkwall in twelve days. I need to go see my mother and sister. "
Alistair was unsure what to say. He remembered all of Duncan's teachings: how the Grey Wardens renounced title and family; how the mission came before all. Still, if his mother was only two days away and was leaving the country forever, he would want to see her. Suddenly he thought of Fiona, living her lonely life among the Wardens, keeping her secrets; and he felt close to weeping.
"Of course you can go. Not alone, maybe. We'll work something out, I promise. Teyrn Loghain is taking some of us on patrol for a day or two, When we get back, we'll talk it over."
The King was still sleeping off last night's celebration when Loghain's scouting expedition left Ostagar.
Loghain had been prepared for the King to celebrate the elves' arrival at length. While the King was in his cups, Loghain went quietly about, speaking to key people; asking them to refrain from drinking so much that they would be indisposed the following morning.
The darkspawn had been quiet for ten days now. It made him uneasy. Had something changed? His scouts were not giving him the information he needed. Either they were turned back after spotting large parties of darkspawn, or they never returned at all. On his detailed map of Ostagar and the Korcari Wilds was an ominous red circle to the east. That was where the first Wardens on the spot had seen a wide hole in the earth, big enough for an ogre to squeeze up through. The two men had not been able to get close, but had reported that the darkspawn were enlarging it the opening, busy as ants on an anthill. What was it like now? Was it fortified? Was the Archdemon there?
It was time for a sweep of the Wilds, and for that he needed not a mere scouting party, but a fairly strong expeditionary force.
Furthermore, he needed to see things for himself, as far as possible. Interpreting other men's observations was tricky. There was no substitute for personal reconnaissance. He spoke to Bryland at the feast, and persuaded the man to limit his intake, since he would be in temporary command in Loghain's absence. He informed the King of his intentions just as Cailan was attempting a flirtation with an oblivious Keeper Merrill. As he expected, Cailan listened to him with half an ear, and agreed to anything he wanted as long as Cailan was left alone.
The gates of Ostagar swung wide, and they moved out into the fresh breeze that came with the red sunrise. It was good to be on the march again with Thanovir and Maynriel. They had brought a dozen of their youngsters along, prime archers and trackers. Lord Ronus Dace and his second, Frandlin Ivo agreed to join them, accompanied by mixed company of their own men and the Legion of the Dead. Sergeant Darrow headed a score of picked soldiers from Maric's Shield. Keili, the young Healer who had attached herself to him, walked along with the soldiers. They were used to her now, and accepted her to a certain extent. What reservations they had seemed to stem more from her youth and frail physique than her magic. Nobody objected to being healed, of course.
And, of course, there were the Wardens.
It was useless to wish that Bronwyn were here to share the adventure with him. He was more enamored than any man of his age had a right to be. He missed her, and wished her good fortune in her journey north. He could picture her plotting with Anora, and the image warmed him. He hoped they got on together.
Instead, he had Alistair, cheerful and admirably sober. The boy had learned at least one thing from the fiasco of the great battle last Bloomingtide: and that was not to risk all the Wardens in one place at one time. With him were the Orlesian bard and the Healer who looked enough like him to be his brother and a son of Maric. Their new boy and the big Qunari were here, too. The rest must have remained at camp.
Young Carver was pestering Alistair with questions.
"—but I hear you were raised by Arl Eamon of Redcliffe—"
"Did you hear me say that?" Alistair replied, with mock astonishment. "Actually, I was raised by dogs: big flying dogs from the Anderfels. Smelly and drooly, and devout Andrasteans, every one of them."
Carver made a face. "Can't you be serious about anything?"
"It sounds serious to me," Anders declared, straight-faced. "Being raised by flying dogs is seriously funny."
A sweet trill of laughter from the Orlesian. "I miss having Scout with us. He is so big and dependable. I had not understood about Fereldans and dogs until I met him. When I was young and living in the house of Lady Cecile she had a dog, but it was a horrid little lapdog that yipped until my head ached, and always bit at my ankles. She called it…Bonbon."
Loghain winced, picturing the little abomination all too clearly. Orlesians bred their dogs in all sorts of perverted ways, and he had seen Orlesian ladies with those creatures, feeding them sweetmeats while Fereldans starved.
"…One day," Leliana went on, smiling at the memory, "Bonbon leaped out and bit my leg. I thought it was a rat, and I kicked as hard as I could. Bonbon flew through the air—" she smirked "—and never troubled me again."
"You kicked a dog?" Carver asked, horrified. Loghain snorted a reluctant laugh. It wasn't like it was a real dog. Perhaps the bard was not as bad as he thought.
"Warden!" he called, looking back at Alistair. The boy flushed guiltily, but a faint grin lingered. The expression was so like Maric that Loghain stared for a moment. How had this boy grown to be so like his father, when he had never known him? Cailan was not like Maric at all. Nor did he resemble Rowan in the least, for that matter.
"My lord?" Alistair asked, moving up to speak to him.
"Walk with me," Loghain said. "And let me know the moment you sense darkspawn."
"Well," Alistair said, "around Ostagar we sense them all the time, but it's like a faint noise in the background. We know they're around, and within a day's march or so, but they're not in the next room, so to speak."
"Then let me know when they knock on the front door. All right?"
"Yes, ser. My lord." The boy looked like he wanted to say something else, so Loghain tried not to look too repressive. Maric would have been chattering a mile a minute by this time, forcing answers out of Loghain.
Instead, it was clear that Loghain would have to do the talking. He pulled out his map and showed the red-circled portion to Alistair. "How much did Duncan tell you about that first scouting mission back in Drakonis?"
"Quite a bit. And I heard more first-hand from Belarion, who was one of the Wardens who went. They camped by the old Warden outpost, and kept sensing darkspawn really strongly. The next day they found this huge thing like a sinkhole, swarming with the brutes." He pointed at the map, and asked "May I?" At Loghain's nod, he pointed to a small square, indicating a building. "That's the old outpost. You see it's only about a quarter-day's march from the fissure. There's not much there anymore, but at least there are walls, and bits of a roof. It's where we first met Morrigan. She took us to her mother—I mean—Flemeth, who'd been keeping the Warden treaties safe." His shoulders hunched, as a shadow passed over his face.
"She did that for her own purposes," Loghain told him sternly. "Not for any altruistic reason. She wanted the Wardens to feel indebted to her. Does—" he made himself use the witch's name "—Morrigan—know why?"
Alistair shook his head. "Whatever she wanted, it died with her. Good riddance. She always gave me the creeps."
Loghain huffed a laugh. "You weren't the only one."
"Really?" Alistair asked, curiosity overcoming his reserve. "You met Flemeth? I mean, other than the other day, when we killed her?"
"Long ago," Loghain said, "when I was on the run with Maric. We were guests—prisoners for a time—in her hut. She pretended to tell us our futures." He waited for the boy to quiz him about it, but Alistair only nodded, his face closed off. Loghain realized, with an unpleasant shock, that Alistair believed he had no right to ask anything about his father. Or perhaps he really did not care about a man who had not taken care of him. How could he rebuke him for that? Placing Alistair with Eamon was a mistake. Loghain had told Maric so at the time. Eamon was a bizarre choice for guardian, considering that he was the brother of Maric's wife. He stole another look at the lad.
On the other hand, if Maric believed it more important to protect Cailan's rights, he could not have chosen better. Who else would be so likely as the blood kin of the royal heir to keep the bastard child down? Had Alistair been given to the Couslands or to any of the great nobles, for that matter, he would have been raised, inevitably, as a secret rival. Loghain glanced at him again. He might even have been married off to Bronwyn by now, though that would be tantamount to a challenge to Cailan. It was hard to imagine this diffident young lad as a schemer, but there were be plenty who would have been glad to do his scheming for him.
"She told Maric," Loghain said, after a time, "that there would be a Blight, but that he would not live to see it. I thought it was ridiculous at the time, since there hadn't been a Blight in over four hundred years anyway. It was the sort of thing any sham fortune teller could come up with."
Alistair considered this. "She liked to pretend to be all-knowing, but since we know that there are still legendary Old Gods out there, it was only logical to say there's going to be a Blight someday. Saying it wouldn't be in his lifetime would have been a good guess. What did she say to—" he stopped abruptly and grimaced. "Sorry, my lord. I was just being nosy." He pointed at his face. "See the nose?"
Loghain smiled wryly. "I do. You want to know what she predicted for me. She told me I would betray Maric. Repeatedly. I think it's fairly clear that I did not."
"Well, that's good, isn't it? It proves that she wasn't all-knowing and all-powerful after all. She just liked to tell people depressing things and make them feel bad about themselves. I never liked her anyway." He laughed in his self-deprecating way. "Not that she would care. I sort of thought she liked Bronwyn a little, but they talked privately when we found Teyrn Fergus, and whatever she said really upset Bronwyn. Anybody could see it. Bronwyn wanted to get away from her as fast as she could."
"Sensible girl." Loghain would have paid good coin to know what the Witch of the Wilds had said.
"But this is not so bad!" cried Leliana, exploring the ruins of the Grey Warden outpost. "This could be fixed, yes? Some good dwarf masons, a little cleaning…I think it has possibilities!"
Anders chuckled, catching Alistair's eye. "Women."
Sten took Leliana seriously. "The curtain walls should be rebuilt. It could indeed be made defensible against a middling force of darkspawn, depending upon the number of projectile weapons available to the defenders."
It was just the place to rest and have a midday meal. Alistair examined the site. The last time he had been here, they had been distracted by Morrigan. It was an interesting place. He liked the idea of the Wardens have a hideaway of their own, not beholden to a King for house-room in his Palace. This was really not a bad little stronghold. Leliana and Sten were right. He was no expert in fortifications, but it seemed to him that the surrounding marshes were a defense in themselves. Maybe when the Blight was over, it would be nice to spend time here, where Wardens could hunt and fish… and practice their rites in private.
Absently, he munched his rations, testing the mossy stonework, startling a storm of bats from a dark, crumbling lower chamber. The weather was holding well. They could just—
He hissed. The ever-lasting scratchiness of darkspawn suddenly spiked, like a needle in his brain.
"Teyrn Loghain!"
Leliana felt it too. "Darkspawn!" she cried.
These were skilled and seasoned warriors, and so there was not chaos, but order, as the differing troops took their positions and the archers readied their arrows. Darkspawn howled and chuckled, coming closer, drawn to the Wardens like metal filings to a magnet. They were charging, without art, without subterfuge, up the hill to the north, and they were met by Dalish arrows.
And Leliana's. Loghain noted the woman's accuracy of aim and economy of motion. No wasteful flourishes or pointless posturing. Arrows were drawn, nocked, and loosed in a single, fluid motion. She was not unworthy to draw bow beside the Dalish, and that, Loghain believed, was praise enough for any archer. Then the surviving hurlocks rushed them.
It was nasty, brutish, and short. Darkspawn took a lot of killing, but that was just what the scouting party was able to deal out. An ogre lumbered toward them, bringing up the rear, and was blinded and stumbling by the time he met the party's swords and axes. Anders and Keili moved in, healing any wounds or injuries immediately.
"Alistair!" Carver yelled, pointing triumphantly to a tiny flask. "I got that vial of darkspawn blood you wanted!"
Alistair, Anders, and Leliana facepalmed simultaneously. Loghain hid his smirk. Leliana hurried over to scold the boy.
"He's Joining tonight," Alistair muttered to Anders. The mage nodded, with a wry smile.
No one else had noticed Carver's indiscretion. "Are these darkspawn an isolated band," wondered Lord Ronus, "or are they an advance guard?"
"I wish we could see past those hills," Alistair complained, pointing to the north. "I suppose we'll just have to go there."
Loghain frowned. They were in a sound, defensible position here, and would not be further on, on the treacherous marshes. While he was considering it, Anders whispered in Alistair's ear.
"What? Well, why didn't you tell us this before?" Alistair bit his lip and approached Loghain, lowering his voice. "My lord, I need to tell you something…privately."
Loghain watched the tall mage fidget and make faces. He stepped aside with Alistair, and gave him a sharp nod.
"We can get a scout past the hills pretty fast. It appears…" Alistair's tone grew biting, "…that Morrigan is not the only shape-shifter among the Wardens. Anders says he can do a raven. It's how he and Morrigan got into the Circle Tower to steal Flemeth's grimoire. But he doesn't want anybody else to know."
Anders responded to Loghain's suspicious glare with a light-hearted shrug, and an innocent, "Well, what can I say?" spreading of his hands.
Loghain jerked his head at the crumbling outpost. "Get him out of sight and let him do it."
While the archers were collecting their arrows and the warriors were wiping their blades, a large black bird rose from behind them and winged swiftly to the northeast. Loghain furrowed his brow. Anders was an odd creature. No doubt he was right to keep such a skill to himself, for the Chantry labeled any magic that made it harder to control mages as "evil." In this case, it was extremely useful, and Loghain refined his idea of a mage in every unit in the army to include shape-shifting scouts. There were too many times he could have used a bird's-eye view before going into battle. He had never had the least desire to be a mage, himself, but this one ability would be…intriguing.
A heady thrill of magic shivered over his skin. It was that girl again.
Alistair took his whetstone to his blade, wanting to fill up the time until Anders returned. Things were not going so badly. Teyrn Loghain seemed to think well of his swordsmanship, and had not said anything critical about the Wardens' party. He had even unbent a bit, and told him a story about his father—of course, without actually saying that Maric was his father.
What would it have been like, if the King had acknowledged him, and had brought him to live in the Palace? Teyrn Loghain would have been a fixture from his earliest years. Like an uncle…sort of. What would it have been like to grow up in comfort, taught by the best tutors, studying Orlesian and Arcanum, and learning about border disputes and trade agreements; and all the rest of the things that made his head ache just to think of? Would he even have been the same person? Would he have become someone convinced he had the right to treat people however he liked? A man like...Bann Vaughan…or really, like his brother sometimes.
Probably. Maybe. It was hard to say. Not all nobles were noble. On the other hand, some of them were. Nor were all oppressed elves thieves, nor all dwarves greedy. Maybe he would have been the same Alistair, only with better clothes.
Carver had finished his bread and hard cheese and was coming over, with that look in his eye.
"Really." Carver whispered. "What was it like, growing up in a real castle?"
"Wait until Bronwyn gets back," Alistair advised. "You can ask her what it's like to grow up in a real castle. I lived in the stables. It was nice and warm there."
"But—"
"Carver," Alistair said kindly, "I'm a bastard. You do understand what that means? It means that nobody wants to be embarrassed by having you around. I lived in the stables, and when I was old enough, I was sent to the Chantry, where I was taught to read and write, because nobody could be bothered before then. Then, by great good fortune, I was recruited into the Grey Wardens over the Grand Cleric's protests. It was the best thing that ever happened to me, I kid you not."
"But if Arl Eamon was your fath—"
Alistair cut him off. "Not talking about this with you. Not now, not ever. Conversation over. I think you need to go stand over there by Sten now. This is your Senior Warden talking."
"Oh. All right."
To his dismay, Teyrn Loghain was looking at him. Frowning, as usual. The Teyrn beckoned him over, and Alistair went, mentally dragging his feet, hoping that Loghain was not going to want to talk about his questionable birth.
He, of course, was not that lucky.
"The stables? Really?"
Alistair made his face bland and inquiring. "Why not, my lord? I made myself useful there, and only annoyed the Arlessa a few times a day, instead of constantly."
"I don't think that Maric intended—" Loghain paused, seeing something hardening in the young man's face. He spoke more quietly. "Even if you mother was a servant, Eamon should have—"
"She's not a servant," Alistair interrupted, sudden anger boiling over, remembering the looks, the jokes, the filthy names the boys had called him, the things they had called his mother… "My father kept her a secret too. Even a servant would be better than an elf, a mage, an Orlesian... and a Grey Warden."
Loghain stared at him blankly, and then realization struck the older man. There had been a young woman along on Maric's lunatic outing to the Deep Roads over twenty years ago. "Of course! The elf! I should have known…" He looked at Alistair, as if seeing him for the first time. "You said 'she's not a servant.' Are you saying your mother is still alive?"
His voice just for the Teyrn's ears, Alistair took the plunge and said, "When Warden Riordan came to warn us that the Orlesians were trying to kidnap us, Fiona—my mother—was with him. She didn't tell me she was my mother until later: she said Bronwyn figured it out and talked her into confessing. I'm awfully glad she did. It made it better to know that I wasn't—that my father hadn't—oh, Maker, I was glad to know that my father hadn't raped my mother or even just bullied her into submitting. I know about nobles and servant girls. I've seen it from the servants' side, and the thought made me sick. Anyway," he said hurriedly, his courage and anger failing at Loghain's expression, "it was the greatest thing in the world to meet my mother. The Wardens made her give me up. She didn't want to, but she didn't have a choice. If she didn't do what the Wardens wanted, she would have been forced back to the Circle and then I would have been dumped on the Chantry's doorstep. So Duncan helped her and she brought me to…my father. And he sent me to Arl Eamon. She didn't mean for me to grow up in a stable either, but it's fine now. It all worked out for the best. I'm a Warden, after all."
Loghain took a breath. And another. It was oddly painful that Maric's son looked upon being a Warden as the best possible outcome for him. "Maric would never have forced himself on a woman. He never had to. He was charming…" He could see that the boy was unconvinced.
"Lots of nobles think they're 'charming,' my lord," Alistair shot back. "Probably Bann Vaughan thinks he's 'charming,' too. I can tell you that something you never want is to be the only man in a room with four women when one of them is talking about what Bann Vaughan did to her. I thought they'd skin me alive. But that doesn't matter. My father and mother cared about each other, even if only for a little while. She cared enough about me that she didn't want me to be a prisoner of the Orlesians."
"Not a very loyal Orlesian, then," Loghain remarked.
"She's a Warden, my lord," Alistair said, "and besides, from what she told me, mages and elves have no particular reason to think Orlais is all that wonderful."
At last Bronwyn's curious adventure at the Orlesian border made sense to Loghain. She and Alistair had been saved, not by the fabled Grey Warden brotherhood, but by the boy's mother. Loghain struggled to remember the young mage's face. An elf with short-cropped hair was all he could come up with. Most elves were good-looking, and she would have been the only young woman Maric would have seen for over a month. They would have bonded over deadly danger in the Deep Roads. For Maric, that would have been more than enough.
"Look!" Alistair whispered urgently, "It's Anders!"
Out of the northeast winged a sharp-edged shadow, black against the sky. Loghain was annoyed that this interesting conversation was at an end… for now. He was not sure what to make of this personable young warrior: this unacknowledged prince. If the day came when Cailan had to be deposed, would Alistair be a suitable candidate to take the throne? Nothing indicated that he had the least interest in being king. And he was, after all, the son of an elf, a mage, an Orlesian, and a Grey Warden. But he was also a son of Maric.
Anders made his discreet appearance from the shadows of the outpost, and Loghain and Alistair talked to him for some time. The mage had seen a great deal of interest and was provided with parchment and sharpened charcoal. Soon he was busily sketching the vast cavity he had seen.
"And I saw more than the one opening," he told them. "There are two others within a few leagues of each other. They're smaller, but the darkspawn are out there working on widening them. There's also a lot of movement to the east that we might need to check out."
They would have a few days' work before them, Loghain decided. It might be possible to thwart the darkspawn by destroying or damaging their access points. However, they must be cautious. His fear had been that the darkspawn had found Ostagar too well defended, and had decided to erupt somewhere else, like Gwaren or South Reach or a few miles from Denerim: some place where no one was prepared for them. He needed to sit down with the dwarves and study their maps of the Deep Roads at greater length, and place lookouts at vulnerable spots, where the darkspawn might most easily tunnel up to the surface. It might even be possible in future to lure a large force out of the Wilds, and destroy the darkspawn piecemeal. Anything that would weaken the Archdemon when it eventually made its appearance was very much to be desired.
Adaia funneled the sticky, sharp-smelling fluid into the flasks on her worktable. Afternoon light slanted through the windows of the workshop, and glittered through the brightly-colored, noxious liquids Adaia worked with.
Dworkin Glavonak, the dwarves' mad inventor, nodded approvingly. "A nice steady hand, lass. Like me." He grinned maniacally, sifting powdered lyrium onto a silverite tray. His lips moved as he counted to himself. Adaia had learned to tune him out. Dworkin always talked to himself. He came over and peered at her ingredients. "Enough for another batch. Try more madcap this time. A quarter-weight."
He went back to his own task, muttering happily to himself. Adaia found it very peaceful here. It was quiet at the Tower, too, since Alistair had taken some of the others and gone scouting with Teyrn Loghain. Adaia felt not the least regret in not being asked to go with them. She felt like a fish out of water in the Wilds.
There was a knock at the door.
"Get the door, lass."
A young elf boy was there, pert and restless. "Message for Master Glavonak. Arl Bryland needs to see you right away!"
"I'm busy!" Glavonak shrugged, "Sod all nobles anyway…"
"He really wants to see you," the boy insisted. "Something's gone wrong with one of the engines, and he needs you to figure it out."
"Ha!" cackled Dworkin. "Didn't he ask that smooth-talking brother of mine? I'll show him who the Master Engineer is!" He dithered a little longer over his mortar and pestle and scales, distracted by his work.
"Master!" the boy reminded him of his presence. "Arl Bryland!"
"All in good time…" Dworkin continued working, making notes and humming to himself. Adaia smirked. He was a funny fellow, but he had been kind to her, and had no more love for nobles than she herself. He had some very good ideas about protecting oneself too, and Adaia felt safer already. Arl Bryland could go hang, for all she cared. Virtuously, she went back to work on her acid bombs. Some of the flasks were smaller and rounder. She worked with those, filling them carefully with the compound, enjoying the sound of Dworkin's humming.
Time passed, and the boy fidgeted anxiously. Adaia felt a little sorry for him. He was probably expecting coin for delivering the message—and Master Dworkin—to the Arl.
"Maybe you'd better go, Master," she urged. "We don't need Arl Bryland angry with us."
"Hmph," he scoffed. "Nobles. They're the same everywhere!" Reluctantly, he set his mortar and pestle aside. "I shan't be long." He followed the boy out, still humming.
Adaia went back to work, frowning over her flasks. The simmering kettles kept the workshop pleasantly warm. She was so focused that she hardly heard the soft step, coming closer; or the creak of a leather-clad arm coming up behind her…
She could still put up a fight, even though there were two of them. Acid pooled on the floor from the broken flasks: acrid fumes dispersed throughout the room. They pinned her arms and gagged her, but she kicked back at an attacker's knee. He grunted at the sharp pain, and his fist smashed into the side of her head, stunning her briefly.
"I'll kill you, knife-eared bitch!"
"Quiet!" Jonaley hissed at the unlucky Braden. "Quick! Wrap her up in this, and we'll throw her over the horse!"
Adaia spat furiously as the length of coarse sacking descended over her. They bundled her up in it, half-smothering her. She could see light, a dirty brownish yellow, as she blinked against the bristling fibers, but she was disoriented, hardly knowing where they were carrying her. The gag stuffed in her mouth was nasty. She bit at it, raging and fearful.
The air changed: she was outside, and tried to make some sort of noise. Abruptly, she was lifted up and flung over the back of a horse, her nose crunching against the flanks, cushioned only by her shroud-like wrappings. She struggled, futilely trying to wriggle off. The two young noblemen were laughing, excited and sly, like boys doing something they know could get them into trouble.
"Hurry up!" Jonaley complained, as Braden looped a rope under her and tied her to the saddle. The rope dug into her arm painfully. She would be badly bruised when they let her off the horse.
They were leaving Ostagar. They galloped out, shouting and hallooing at the guard like the drunken, bumptious wastrels they were. It must be the south gate, for Adaia would have recognized the sound of shod hooves on the bridge spanning Ostagar Gorge. No. They were heading south, into the high forest.
Her mind raced as she bumped and flailed, slipping back and forth, tugged and yanked by the rope binding her. The horse was galloping on earth now, not stone. She must find a way to escape them or to fight them or to stop them. Master Dworkin would return to find her gone. He knew she was supposed to wait for a Warden to escort her, but he might think she had stepped out to the latrine, or that Brosca had come for her earlier than usual. Yes, it was Brosca's turn this afternoon, and surely she wouldn't be late. When she found Adaia gone, she would give the alarm.
But that would be too late. She could not expect people to save her. No one had ever saved her. It was save herself or nothing.
All too soon, Braden was reining the horse in, and the dreaded voice of Vaughan was greeting his friends, smug and full of anticipation.
"Ha! You've got her! I've been waiting at least an hour!"
"You'll enjoy your present the more, Vaughan!" Jonaley called back. A few slashes with a belt knife, and Adaia was shoved roughly from the horse.
"And now you get to unwrap it!" laughed Braden.
He was using a knife. He was using a knife, and he was not being very careful with it. Adaia hissed as the blade slid along her leather armor, and she gave deep thanks to Bronwyn for finding armor for her and making her wear it. If she had to put up a fight, it might save her life.
The next few minutes were as ugly as she had always imagined they would be. The sacking was ripped away from her head, and her heart nearly failed her at the sight of Vaughan's gloating, fleshy face. Her expression must have displeased him.
"Doesn't know her place, does she?" he sneered, hauling her to her feet. He backhanded Adaia casually, saying, "You look as ugly as a three-copper whore, knife-ears. And that's more than you're worth. Get over here…"
They were in a clearing, surrounding by trees on three sides, backed up to the side of a hill. She searched the landscape desperately, looking for options. A foot was out to trip her. She went down, heels of her hands burning as they scraped across the stony ground. The men kicked at her, joking among themselves, as if she were not a living being at all, but a toy to be played with.
"We'll bend her over that," Vaughan declared, gesturing vaguely. "I chose it just for her."
Adaia glanced up quickly. They were kicking her toward a fallen tree.
"We can tie her hands behind her if she makes too much trouble," suggested Braden.
Adaia knew that once they bound her, she was as good as dead.
"I want that armor off her," Vaughan said. "Too good for a tart like her."
"She won't be needing it anyway," Jonaley agreed, nudging her between her legs with his boot. "Move along there, whore. No high-born lady to protect you now."
"She won't even know what happened to you," Vaughan assured her suavely. "Poor Bronwyn will realize that she was taken in by a little knife-eared ingrate who ran away the first chance she had."
Sickened, Adaia knew they had been waiting for this chance. Bronwyn had gone north; half her friends had gone with Teyrn Loghain. Would anyone even come looking for her?
"I brought some wine," Braden remembered, heading back to his horse. "Wait for me."
Adaia moved quickly, with a swift crabwise motion, ignoring the pain in her arm. She needed to get her feet under her and run. Braden was moving away, and when he came back with the wine they would be distracted…
"Wait…" Braden called, bottle in hand. The other two men stopped their sport for moment to look his way. The young nobleman asked, "Did you hear that?"
A pause. "What?" Vaughan snapped, annoyed at the delay.
Glass exploded, shards glittering in the mild southern sun. Wine splashed like blood, spattering Braden's fine doublet. Everyone froze. The heavy arrow went on, thudding into the underbrush.
A harsh chuckle echoed off the hills: a gloating ha-ha-ha that Adaia recognized in an instant of pure panic.
"Darkspawn!" she shrieked. The horses, smelling the foulness, reared and screamed. More arrows whizzed past. Adaia glimpsed Vaughan's face: a comical mixture of outrage and terror. He was looking this way and that, probably for men to order to protect him. There was no one but himself, his two drunken friends, and a battered elf girl.
Who was running, just as fast as she could. Between the shouts of the men and the screams of the horses, the darkspawn had no time for her at all. In the distance, she could see the Tower of Ishal, and she fixed her will on it, hurdling a log, her feet hardly seeming to touch the ground. The screams and shouts and chuckles faded, blending into the bird-calls of the forest. Adaia ran on.
Vaughan hacked desperately at the huge hurlock. They were supposed to be safe, here at Ostagar. The darkspawn had been quiet for days. What had gone wrong?
A shattering blow stunned his arm, and his sword fell, sticking point first into the ground. Vaughan gaped at the sight, and it seemed at first that it would be easy to pick it up again, until he looked again and saw bright blood pumping from the stump of his wrist. He shrieked in disbelief.
"Braden! Help me! Jonaley!"
Braden, eyes open and glazed, sagged against a whitewood tree, nailed there by a sword.
More arrows hummed past Vaughan's ear, like angry wasps. One was sticking out of Jonaley's mouth. Redder than wine, blood spurted under his bulging eyes. A tottering, swaying moment, and a genlock rushed up and bowled Jonaley over, squealing as it buried a pair of daggers in the young man's belly.
Vaughan staggered, looking desperately for help. He croaked a last defiance as the grinning hurlock reached back for the beheading stroke.
"Don't you know…who…I am?"
The head struck the ground, bounced twice, and then rolled some distance before the hurlock claimed it. The hunting party finished killing the horses, while the hurlock took a moment to display its trophy on a sharpened stick.
Adaia picked herself up from another fall. She had rolled down a hill, scratching herself in some rashvine bushes. The Tower looked bigger now. Longing for something to drink, she set off again, eyes seeking out the best and quickest path. She must have run miles by now. What would happen to her when she got back? Would she be accused of murdering Vaughan, or at the least, of luring him to his death?
She ran through a stand of dragonthorn, twisting among the gnarled trunks, afraid every moment of hearing darkspawn on her trail. Her breath sobbed in her ears. She had never run so far in her life. How could she, when the world was measured by the length of one filthy alley?
Among the trees, she lost track of her beacon: the Tower of Ishal. She prayed to any listening god, shemlen or elven, that she was not running directly back to the darkspawn.
Another clearing. She ran through the dappled light, remembering the taste of water. Her feet were growing heavy, and now crushed the verdure underfoot with hissing little thuds.
"Adaia!"
The elf left the ground in fright, trying to double back in the air until she saw who was grabbing at her, holding her straight…
"Brosca!"
The dwarf girl was there, face murderous. Behind her was Cullen, frowning and concerned, and Oghren, puffing with effort. Morrigan looked amused.
"You see? 'Twas nothing after all! She made fools of fools. How unsurprising."
Two Dalish trackers leaned on their bows, watching the scene with mild curiosity.
"Stone save us!" the dwarf girl huffed. "You're hurt! I'll kill that bastard!"
Adaia began laughing. "Get in line," she gasped, breathless. "Behind the darkspawn." She guzzled from the canteen Cullen offered her. Water was the Maker's gift.
"Darkspawn?" Cullen asked urgently.
"Up in the hills," Adaia told him, slurping. "They took me up there for their sport, and the darkspawn spoiled their fun. They might be still fighting them, for all I know. I ran."
Morrigan laughed lightly. "And now," she said, "we shall track them and attempt to save their worthless lives. Sadly, I believe, we shall be too late. 'Twould be best, I think, if our little elf's name were not mixed up in the story."
Cullen bit his lip. "That might be possible. Brosca already told Dworkin to keep quiet about the trick." He looked at the Dalish. "This is a secret matter,"
The elder of the two Dalish elves shrugged. "As you wish, Warden. We are pleased to find the asha alive."
"What trick?" Adaia asked, realizing that her legs hurt. She bent down to rub them, but her boots were in the way. It would be wonderful to take them off and soak her feet.
Brosca said, "Dworkin figured it out right away when he discovered that Arl Bryland never called for him. When you weren't in the workshop and he saw there had been a struggle, he came to us. And here we are. Let's go find those bastards. How many darkspawn?"
"I didn't stay to count them. Maybe eight? Nine? A big hurlock and at least two or three archers."
"We should go and check on it. Try to clear them out." Cullen thought a little more, and asked the Dalish, "Could one of you help her back to the Tower? And then tell Master Dworkin she's all right?"
"I can," said one. "And then I shall follow you to find the darkspawn."
The camp was shocked to hear of the death of Bann Vaughan and his boon companions, Lords Braden and Jonaley. Leonas Bryland was particularly stunned by the loss. He had not liked Vaughan, and he had liked him even less as he had come to know him better, here in Ostagar; but Vaughan had been his prospective son-in-law, and Habren had fancied him. It was a setback, certainly. At least the Wardens had tracked down and destroyed the band of darkspawn stragglers that had killed the young noblemen.
Why they were out in the Wilds in the first place was even more problematic. Their clothes reeked of wine. Why would they go somewhere so remote and perilous, when they could get as drunk as they pleased right in camp? Whispers raged that the dead men had been up to some sort of depraved orgy, "all three of them, you see, and that was why they had needed privacy."
Bryland sighed deeply, disgusted by the rumors; and prepared quill and ink to write a letter that would sadly disappoint his daughter.
The Wardens and their allies discussed it thoroughly when Alistair's party returned to Ostagar three days later. It was as exciting as finding the source of the darkspawn, as exciting as Carver's new status as a bonafide Warden. His Joining had gone well, and he had now learned what he could and could not talk about in public.
Carver was glad that Adaia was safe, of course, but was much more interested in his own situation. Yes, the dreams were horrible and the darkspawn blood tasted worse than anything in the world, but he was a Warden now, and he belonged. He had done something that Adam had never even dreamed of.
"So, how about it?" he asked Alistair eagerly. "Could I go home for a day or two and talk to my family? Can I wear your Warden tunic, Alistair? I wish somebody would talk to them, and make them see that it's mad to run away."
"Bronwyn's really good at talking people into things," Alistair considered, "but she's not here. Of course, a bard might be able to help…"
Everyone's eyes turned to Leliana. She gave Carver a warm smile. "I would be happy to go with you, Carver, but I can promise nothing. If your mother is homesick for her childhood home, that is not something to be reasoned away."
"Just try," Carver pleaded. "And it would be great to have you along." Maybe his mother would think he and Leliana were…well… Leliana was gorgeous. And refined. Even Adam would be impressed by Leliana. "Anyway, I should get them some presents before we go. I'll go see the quartermaster right away. Maybe you could come with me and help me pick out something? Could we leave in the morning?"
"Of course. It will be very interesting, going to Lothering again. We shall call on your family and then on the Revered Mother."
"Before you go anywhere, Carver," Alistair said, "We have to be united about Adaia's situation. We're not telling anybody what we know about Vaughan's death, except for Bronwyn. She needs to know."
No one disagreed with that. Carver nodded, impatient to be at his shopping. Leliana patted his hand.
Adaia asked, uncertain, "She won't be mad at me, will she?"
"'Course not!" Brosca said stoutly. "She'll be glad you're such a good runner. Bastard had it coming."
Sten could not hide his contempt for human inheritance customs. "The man was unfit for command, and has been removed by his own stupidity. That is as it should be."
Oghren chuckled, "Aye. No one here is going to talk. Blighter was asking for it, just like Brosca says."
"What should I get my mother and sister?" Carver asked Leliana. "I suppose I should get them something practical for a journey, but I don't want to encourage them to go. And I don't want to get them something that they can't take with them, in case they do go."
"Jewelry is practical in its own way," Leliana advised. "If your funds do not run to gold, silver is always pretty. In a crisis it can be used as money. It is portable, so it can be taken anywhere, or simply worn at home."
They were not the only ones seeking out the quartermaster. A group of Dalish elves were there, dickering with the man. The quartermaster had little experience dealing with elves as customers, other than the odd Warden or two. If he made himself think of these elves as more Wardens, it was not so uncomfortable.
Leliana smiled brightly at the pretty elf woman gazing dreamily at some blue linen, and then realized that this was their leader.
"Keeper Merrill. Good day to you. It's pretty, isn't it?" she asked, pointing as the cloth. "Blue is my favorite color."
"I love blue," Merrill agreed. "All sorts of blue. No," she said to the quartermaster. "I'm not going to buy it. I just want to look at it. Unless someone else wants to buy it, and then it won't be here anymore. That's the point, I suppose. Oh, well. Perhaps I shall, after all. I can hang it from the ceiling of my aravel and it will look like a blue sky…"
"A charming idea," Leliana approved. "Carver, that silver bracelet is nice. Perhaps for your sister...?"
Merrill turned to Leliana, and, apropos of nothing, asked, "Do you think we'll win?"
Nonplussed, Leliana hesitated. "Win? Against the darkspawn?" She paused, and then said firmly. "Yes. We shall win. Sooner or later, the Blights are always overcome. We shall defeat the darkspawn, just as our ancestors did; for good always triumphs over evil."
"That's very comforting," Merrill considered. "Very comforting, indeed. The darkspawn are certainly evil. The question, as I see it, is: are we good?" She gathered the lengths of sky-blue linen to her shallow bosom. "Oh, yes, thank you, Quartermaster. I get coins back? That's very nice." She gazed past Leliana's head, and her smooth brow contracting minutely. "Oh, Creators…"
"Keeper Merrill!" A young knight bowed to her, "The King requests the honor of your presence in his tent!"
"That's very kind of him. He has nice wine." She drifted away in the direction of the royal enclave.
Carver and Leliana caught each other's eye. The Dalish, however, were unperturbed. "The Keeper is well able to protect herself," said one. "The shemlen king will get a surprise if he is overbold."
Of course, Bann Vaughan's death was not soon forgotten, and there were those who were capable of putting facts together. Alistair was called to Loghain's quarters the following morning, after the departure of Carver and Leliana, and to his surprise found himself alone, facing the Teyrn.
"What do you know about the death of Bann Vaughan?"
"I'm not sure what you mean, my lord," Alistair said cautiously, falling back on his childhood ploy of looking innocent and stupid.
That ploy was useless with Loghain, who had raised Anora. "Hmm. Let's see: a nobleman and his friends are found dead by the Wardens. They were up in the hills, drinking wine, not even wearing armor. There is something missing from this picture, don't you think?"
Alistair's face hardened. "The darkspawn killed Vaughan and his friends, not the Wardens."
"I'm not accusing them of killing Vaughan. It's clear that something else was involved. Where's that elf girl? Shall I have her join us?"
"No!" Alistair said sharply. "She's suffered enough!" He glared at Loghain, made brave by indignation. "There's no need to drag her into this. I suppose people would accuse her of forcing Vaughan's friends to sneak up on her when she was alone in the workshop, and making them attack her and kidnap her against her will, and tying her to the back of a horse, and cruelly ordering them to take her up to the hills so they could do what they liked. Or they'd blame her for not saving Vaughan's life when the darkspawn attacked, and for running away instead." He took a breath, hot and flushed.
Loghain look at the boy calmly. He really was terribly easy to manipulate. He might not defend himself, but he would strike back when his friends were attacked, or his mother was insulted.
"That's what I needed to know. Was the girl badly injured?"
Grudgingly, embarrassed that Loghain had so easily got him to spill everything, Alistair said, "Not so she couldn't run. They hadn't got far with her when the darkspawn showed up."
"I see. Keep her out of the public eye, won't you?"
"Er…sure. Right."
"Good. Enough of that. We have work to do." He spread out the map of Ostagar and the Wilds, and the two men were soon engrossed in planning.
Thanks to my reviewers: Josie Lange, demonicnargles, nataliexo, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, almostinsane, phoenixandashes, Menamebephil, Zeeji, draconous, Shakespira, Zute, chocolatebrownie12, Remenants, Costin, JackOfBladesX, Dante Alighieri1308, Lehni, RakeeshJ4, The Moidart, cloud1004, mille libri, callalili, Have Socks Will Travel, Enaid Aderyn, Jyggilag, Judy, Jeen53, Blinded in a bolthole, mutive, BlackCherryWhiskey, Eva Galana, Gene Dark, Angurvddel and fangirl42.