Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 40: Queen of Schemes, Queen of Swords
Jowan wondered if he would have had better luck in the mages' library at the Circle Tower. The royal library had a number of books about Nevarra, but they were mostly political histories. He might learn quite a bit about the powerful Pentaghast clan, but not about how they had actually killed dragons.
That was how the Pentaghasts had made their vast fortune: by leading campaigns, Jowan read, against the dragons. While the campaign rhetoric was rich with fulminations against the dangers of the creatures posed, it appeared the hunters were doing it mostly for gold and glory. Dragonbone was immensely valuable, and was recycled and reprocessed from owner to owner, generation to generation. Later references in the book seemed to indicate that dragons had once again become a threat along the Orlesian-Nevarran border, and no one seemed to be having much luck against them.
Were dragons making a resurgence? It would certainly seem so. The Divine had named their own age the"Dragon" due to an unexpected sighting after a long period in which dragons had been thought extinct. Jowan pondered the matter, sitting in the pleasantly quiet room, dust motes dancing in the light slanting down from high windows. The place reminded him a little of the Circle, but was better appointed and better lit. The tables were not defaced with hundreds of years of graffiti carved into them, and Jowan occupied a comfortable chair, rather than a hard, wobbly bench. The librarian was polite and helpful to the Warden, and had heaped a stack of books about Nevarra at Jowan's elbow.
Maybe he should read more about the border issue. The Nevarrans and Orlesians were at odds, and had been for hundreds of years. In fact, you could almost say that Orlais had invaded Ferelden in order to bolster its eastern strength, while the north was under attack by Nevarran encroachment. The Bannorn was famously fertile country, and the Orlesians had wanted the Fereldan breadbasket to support their troops. Over the past few hundred years, the Nevarrans had built quite a coalition in the western Marches. Everyone there hated the Orlesians. According to this book, the Nevarrans had recently taken yet another city, Perendale, from the Orlesians. Jowan checked the date of publication. Well, 'recently' meant eight years ago.
At any rate, something was up with the dragons. Jowan flipped through the pages to the later chapters, looking for anything referring to them. Yes. Something was definitely up. It looked like there had been attacks in the countryside both in Nevarra and in Orlais, and attempts to put the dragons down had met with disaster. Did the Queen know about this? Was this why the Orlesians had made peace with Fereldan after the Rebellion was successful? Maybe between the Nevarrans and the dragons, not even wealthy Orlais could manage yet another war.
Flemeth had not been a real dragon, of course: just a shape-shifting mage. And yet…he fidgeted in the polished chair, biting his lip. Shape-shifters supposedly reverted to their true shape after death. Flemeth had not. A huge dragon corpse had sprawled out on the little hill where Flemeth died. Teyrn Loghain was having it methodically stripped of everything useful: bone, scales, hide—especially the precious wing hide—tendons, fire glands—everything, really. It was gruesome, considering that it had once been a woman, but Teyrn Loghain was a ruthless man. And a thrifty one. Fresh dragonbone was very nearly priceless. Why had Flemeth not reverted to human form? It was a puzzlement.
He picked up another book, thinking it over. The word "campaign" struck him. Calling the efforts of the dragon hunters "campaigns" made it sound like there were significant forces involved. More than fifty people had taken part in the killing of Flemeth, and that had not felt like too many. A lot of them had been archers, and their arrows did not seem to have done a great deal of good, but people were already discussing new poisons and exploding arrowheads. If there had been darkspawn there, or—Maker save them!—another dragon on the scene, they would have been in serious trouble. And not many people would jump on a dragon's back, unlike Bronwyn Cousland, who would, and had.
The mages had done much better than the archers. Jowan smiled faintly, feeling pride in the accomplishment. He suspected that enough mages, working together, might be able to bring down a dragon on their own. But it would take a lot of mages, and the Chantry did not like the idea of mages associating in large numbers, especially when curses were being cast. The College of Magi occasionally met in Cumberland. These conferences were attended by only Chantry-approved, elderly enchanters, and at that, they were heavily policed by Templars. Only a Blight could have produced the mob of battlemages down at Ostagar. Jowan wondered how many would find a way to escape the Templars and live as apostates, when the Blight was over and won.
Every single one of them, he hoped fiercely.
He had been crazy and reckless, but escaping the Circle had been the right thing to do. Beyond all expectations, he still had Tara, his best and oldest friend. Anders was treating him decently, as long the issue of Blood Magic was never mentioned. Morrigan was no more scornful of Jowan than she was of nearly everyone else. He had been fantastically lucky that Bronwyn had allowed him to join the Wardens. And she never watched him, or made him feel like a monster. The Wardens, henceforth, would be his home. And the Warden compound was hands down the best home he had ever known.
He skimmed through the book in his hands. War with Orlais…mighty Pentaghast clan…'a family built on dragonbone'….the deeds of King Tylus… Nothing new here. Heaps of genealogical charts, and capsule biographies of the kings and queens. He yawned, and picked up the next volume.
Tara, Danith, and Zevran made it to the Alienage without difficulty. A few people looked at them askance, but the guards recognized the Grey Warden insignia. Others on the street simply looked away in disgust, muttering that "knife ears should be locked up with their own kind." The walk was not a long one, along the broad King's Way. The tall, imposing homes of the wealthy and noble lined the route. Tara and Zevran amused themselves by speculating on the people who owned them, and debating which one would be the nicest to live in. Danith shuddered at the thought of living anywhere in this city on a permanent basis.
The guard at the Alienage gate gave them a hard stare, but let them pass. It offended his sensibilities to see armed elves without arresting them, but two of them were wearing those griffon tunics.
"Grey Wardens, eh? They take all sorts," he grunted. "Get on with you, then."
Tara smiled charmingly at him.
They passed through, and immediately the stink of the city, already strong, nearly knocked them down. There could not have been a greater contrast to the mansions they had passed. Here, a confusion of random boards were discovered to be houses, so precariously assembled that it seemed that they might collapse at any moment. There was no logic or order to the place: walls poked out at crazy angles, roofs rose and slumped away.
"Well," Tara sighed, "I knew that elves were poor. I suppose I didn't quite understand what that really meant. It's better than Dust Town, Danith. The casteless among the dwarves don't even have the sun and the sky!"
"I thank the Creators that I have never seen that place," Danith said briefly, "thought I am told that I shall, someday. It is difficult to conceive of anything more foul that this!"
"Within their own houses, however humble," Zevran countered her, "they are free. I think that is better than to be a slave, in however luxurious a Palace—or whorehouse," he muttered to himself.
Danith stalked over to a rancid pile of offal cast carelessly under a window. "It is not a matter of only two choices," she said coldly. "Freedom is always best, even the freedom to starve and die, but must they live like this? Have they no dignity? No pride?"
"That I cannot tell you, my halla," Zevran smiled. "I know even less of alienages than I do of the forest."
A gust of wind stirred the rubbish in a lazy whirlwind. It died away, and the alley was silent.
"Where is everyone?" wondered Tara. "I thought the Alienage was supposed to be crowded."
Zevran frowned. He had been wondering the same thing. This place was wrong. He murmured, "The people are inside. They are watching us. I feel their gaze. We are a frightening trio, are we not?"
Danith pushed on, scowling. Elves lived here? It seemed impossible that anything could live in this place, but no, behind one of the hovels she caught the glimpse of something green—a little vegetable patch, struggling to grow amidst the dismal shadows.
The alley meandered on, grey and rotting. Beyond a projecting wall, it widened, and they turned the corner.
"Oh!" Danith cried out, involuntarily.
It spread its luxuriant boughs before her: tall, majestic, dark-green and rooted deep in the earth. It was a Vhenadahl, the Tree of the People. It looked down on this filthy place, proclaiming that yes, elves lived here, however sad and degraded. Danith felt near to weeping.
"That's a beautiful tree," Tara observed innocently. "It's the biggest tree we've seen in all Denerim. At least they have that!"
"Yes," Danith repeated dully, "at least they have that…"
Zevran whispered the lore of the vhenadahl to Tara, or as much as he knew. Tara nodded thoughtfully. She wondered if she had been right to come here. Danith was so upset by it all…
"Pssst!" Someone hissed at them from the shadows. "Pssst!"
Danith frowned, peering closer. Zevran grinned. Tara said, "Hello, little girl!"
A pretty, dirty child of eight or nine peeked shyly at them. "You're going to get in trouble! You need to hide!"
Zevran and Danith glanced about them sharply. Tara asked, "Why? Why are we in trouble?"
"Don't you know anything?" The little girl pointed to a parchment nailed to a wall. "I can't read, but that says that elves can't carry weapons—especially swords. If the guards catch you, they can kill you right there and then!"
Zevran smiled winningly. "I see no guards. I see no one but ourselves. Where are the elves?"
"Mostly gone," the child told him frankly. "Gone away to find work. Valendrian and Shianni think they're silly."
"And you have not gone—because you are too young to work?" wondered Zevran.
"No. I can't go," the child said, "because I'm waiting for Mother. She's hasn't come back from Highever yet."
"What do you mean?" Danith asked sternly.
"Mother is Lady Landra's lady-in-waiting. Lady Landra is very generous, and gave Mother a beautiful dress to wear when she attends her. Mother put it on so I could see her in it. Only…Lady Landra doesn't like her ladies to have children, so Mother sent me to stay with relatives in Denerim. She used to send money, but I haven't heard from her in the longest time. But she's coming back: I know she is."
Tara whispered, "Maybe Bronwyn knows this Lady Landra."
Danith nodded, eyes fixed on the beautiful little child. How could elves neglect their own like this?
"We shall ask her. Where do you sleep, child?"
"The hahren lets me sleep at his house, now that the orphanage is empty. I have my own corner!" she said proudly.
"You have a hahren?" Danith asked, absolutely stunned. How could a proper hahren allow…all this?
"Yes," the child told them, glad to grant ignorant grownups her important knowledge. "Valendrian is the hahren. He's very nice. He understands about waiting for Mother."
"I would speak with this 'hahren' Valendrian," Danith declared, very grim.
"What is your name, little beauty?" Zevran asked the child.
"Amethyne. My mother is Iona. Have you seen her anywhere?"
"Alas, no," Zevran replied. "Let us introduce ourselves, and then visit your hahren. I am Zevran, this is Tara, and this is Danith of the Dalish. Tara and Danith are Grey Wardens, and I suspect your hahren would indeed like to talk to us, since we can give him news of Melian Tabris."
"He'll be upset to see you carrying weapons. He doesn't like it when elves get hurt, and you'll get hurt if the shems catch you."
"We're Grey Wardens." Tara smiled at her. "Do you see our special clothes? That means we're allowed. Let's go see Valendrian now."
The child slipped out of the shadows and took Tara by the hand. "All right, but if the shems come, I'm going to hide. I'm good at hiding. It doesn't say anything about Grey Wardens in the signs."
The signs were indeed posted at regular intervals and printed in black block letters. "Elves found with swords will die upon them."
Danith ripped one down and trampled it underfoot as they followed the child.
Tara went on with her gentle questioning. She was used to talking to the little apprentices of Circle, and realized that she had missed being around children. "When you're mother left for Highever, did she leave you with the…hahren?" She whispered to Danith, "What's a hahren?"
"An elder of the people. One who is considered…." She forced out the word as if it tasted sour. "wise."
Amethyne was already answering, "No. I stayed with Maranni and Lodor, but when they left to find work, the hahren said I couldn't go, because I had to wait for Mother. So then I went to the orphanage, and that was nice because I had lots of friends; but one night big shems came, and they took everyone—grownups and children and all. I hid under my bed and made myself as small as I could. In the morning, I was the only one left. That's when the hahren took me to his house. We took my bed from the orphanage and put it in my special corner, and I've been there ever since." She pointed. "There's the house!"
It was in a place where the alley bent and widened, and was just opposite the great and shady vhenadahl.
"Ha!" laughed Zevran. "The privileges of leadership. The hahren has the only pleasant view in the Alienage!"
Danith put a gentle hand on the bark of the vhenadahl, thinking back on the history of the elves, grieving that it had come to this for so many of their people. With a frown, she followed Tara and Zevran to the house of Valendrian.
The child opened the door of the humble dwelling without ceremony and called out, "Hahren! There are people to see you!"
He looked like a proper elf to Danith's eyes, though he wore the rough clothes of poor shemlens: his eyes wise and filled with the knowledge of the things that many years bring. The lined face brightened with pleasure at the sight of new elves for him to meet.
"You are most welcome!" the elderly elf said in a mild, low voice, worn by years of smoothing over the troubles of life in the Alienage. "I see that one of you at least is a cousin from the Dalish clans. And…" he looked again at Danith and Tara's tunics. "You…are Grey Wardens?" he asked, in awe. "That is a noble thing. May I know your names?"
With cool reserve, Danith said, "Andaran antish'an, hahren. I am Danith Mahariel of the clan of Marethari, now a Grey Warden."
"You are most welcome."
Zevran nodded with formal grace. "Zevran Aranai, late of Antiva. I am not a Grey Warden, but I have the honor to fight beside them." The hahren studied the handsome young elf, his fine armor and weapons, and his air of assurance with some perplexity. Perhaps things were very different in Antiva, but this young man was not much like any elf Valendrian had ever met.
"But I'm a Grey Warden!" Tara laughed. "Tara Surana, formerly of the Fereldan Circle."
"Surana!" Valendrian repeated in surprise. He thought a moment. "…Tara…Surana? You have come home, child. I know your parents. They grieved deeply the day the Templars came to take you away. How happy they would be to know you are alive."
Tara's face fell. "Are they dead? I'm sorry, but I remember almost nothing. I was told I came from the Denerim Alienage, but I was just four years old when I went to the Circle, and that's pretty much all I remember."
"Your parents were not dead when they left to find work. That was two…no…three months ago. Tirian and Layli Surana, with their daughter Nessa."
Tara was amazed. "I have a sister? I have parents? That's so….wonderful! Tell me about them."
"They are good people. Tirian is a tireless worker, and Layli is a kind woman and a wonderful cook."
Zevran laughed, "That does not seem to have been passed down, alas."
"Oh, you!" She turned eagerly to Valendrian. "Tell me more please. Does Nessa look like me?"
"Your hair is darker, but there is a family resemblance. But come, let me offer you refreshment, and we shall talk in comfort."
He led them to a simple but clean table, and while they seated themselves, he bustled around, with Amethyne's eager help. It did not take the him long to bring them steaming tea in his best earthenware cups. It was flavored with elfroot leaves, and with it he served crisp sweet biscuits: the kind that would keep well, so he would always have something to offer guests.
He sat with them, with a weary old man's sigh but a ready smile. "So Tara Surana has returned home, bringing friends. This is a happy day. We must share this news with the people of the Alienage!"
Tara smiled back. He reminded her of some of the elven Senior Enchanters at the Circle.
Valendrian gestured at them to go ahead and eat. He said, still full of wonder, "And now you are a Grey Warden. Everyone will be proud to hear it. I knew Duncan. He came here from time to time, seeking out likely youths and maidens."
"It would be difficult to do any recuiting today," Zevran remarked. "There are fewer people of the Alienage than I expected."
"It is true. Word came of well-paying work to the north. It was done so secretly that I spoke against it. In my experience, when a thing is too good to be true, it really is. Many were too desperate for to be reasoned with, however, and they listened to the humans. I told them they would do better to go south and serve the army, but they feared the darkspawn."
"Darkspawn are certainly something for a reasonable person to fear," Tara said easily, "but we have other news for you. Melian Tabris is with the Wardens in Ostagar. She uses the name Adaia, but she told us her real name."
Valendrian's eyes lit. "Melian is alive? That is wonderful news. I must tell her father, Cyrion. I must tell Shianni…"
"They have not gone after this 'well-paying work in the North?'" asked Zevran.
Valendrian shook his head. "Cyrion would not go while there was hope he would hear the fate of Melian. Shianni would not go, because Bann Vaughan had arranged for this mysterious 'work.' She fears anything to do with the man, and in this I believe she is right. At least the Bann is far away now, but—" His eyes widened in distress.
"Yes," Tara told him. "He saw Adaia—I mean Melian. He saw her and was very angry, and insisted that she be rendered to him for what he calls justice. Our commander, however, defied him, telling him that Grey Wardens were beyond his reach. There was a quarrel, which Teyrn Loghain seems to have resolved on the surface. Our commander ordered the Wardens in Ostagar never to leave Melian unescorted. We take care of our own."
"As should all elves everywhere," Valendrian agreed, very pleased with his visitors.
Danith was not so pleased. She rose and paced back and forth, peering about the little house. Simplicity she could not disparage. This house at least was clean, though the furnishings were poor and plain. She said, "Words are all very well, but it does not seem that elves are caring for one another here!" She whirled on Valendrian, scowling. "Why is there refuse in the streets? Even a savage shemlen disposes of his waste!"
Tara blushed for her friend and for the hurt look on Valendrian's face. The old man did not raise his voice, but spoke gently, as if to a child.
"Because it not the first, the tenth, nor the twentieth day of the month. Those are the days the contracted city crews come to haul away waste and nightsoil. Only the city crews, whose contract is held by the Bann of the Alienage, are permitted to haul and dispose of trash, and to carry nightsoil from the privies. It is sold as fertilizer to farmers outside the city, and a portion of the proceeds goes to the Bann. There are heavy penalties if an elf is caught dumping trash, either within the city or into the sea. A small amount of waste is used to fertilize our own gardens, but it must be done discreetly, lest the Bann's men destroy the plants as punishment."
Danith's eyes blazed, and she struck against the wall with her fist.
"That is monstrous!"
Valendrian gazed at her with compassion, having a lifetime of experience with angry young elves railing against the ways of the world.
"It seems unreasonable," Zevran agreed, smiling wryly, "for an elf to be punished for putting his own shit on his own garden. However, noblemen are not widely known for their reason."
"That is very true," said Valendrian, pleased to see that the young man was so level-headed. "However, it would be wrong to describe all shems—even all noblemen—as greedy and irrational. There are all kinds among them, as there are among elves."
"Like Bronwyn, our commander," Tara put in eagerly. "She's very fair and very generous with all us, whether human, dwarf, or elf. And she's noble. So is her brother, Teyrn Cousland. He's the one who stepped in to protect Melian. Afterwards we all agreed that Melian needed to get out of Denerim, since the Alienage was locked fast and we couldn't get her back in."
Valendrian gave her a nod. "I am glad Melian is with friends, no matter what their race. Amethyne," he called the little girl to him. "Do you know the house of Cyrion Tabris?"
A quick nod.
"Then," said the old man, "go to him and tell him to come at once. We have good news of his daughter. If Shianni is there, bring her, too."
"Are you going to tell them to hide their swords?" Amethyne asked the hahren. "I warned them they'd get in trouble."
"No one is going to bother Grey Wardens," the old man assured her. "Now off you go to Cyrion."
When the child had gone, Valendrian remarked, "That is something of a falsehood. Many may not recognize your tunics, and there are those some who will always wish to bother an elf. However, the world is what it is." He smiled slowly. "Before Cyrion arrives, Tara, it may interest you to know that you and Melian Tabris are second cousins. Cyrion and your mother are first cousins. Shianni is also your second cousin. I can show you the records if you are interested."
"Oh, yes!" she said eagerly. "I'd love to know about my relatives! I've never had any before..."
"In the Alienage," Valendrian smiled ruefully, "we may lack many things, but we never lack family."
"Some do," Danith put in. "That child—Amethyne—is her mother dead?"
"I do not know," Valendrian admitted. "We heard of the terrible bloodshed at Highever, but no word has come of Iona, or from anyone in the Alienage, for that matter. I have attempted to get word to friends there, with no success. I think it likely that she was killed, but while any hope remained, I could not permit the child to be taken to an unknown fate by Bann Vaughan's men."
"What about the children being taken from the orphanage?" Tara asked. "Why would they take them?"
Valendrian looked at her gravely. "I believe it is obvious that it would be for no good purpose. Amethyne was able to hide. The rest of the children and their caregivers were not so fortunate. It was done quietly, under cover of night. We did not even know they were gone until Cyrion went there the following day to perform some repair work, and found the place abandoned, but for that one child."
There was a bustle at the door, and a young woman called. "Hahren?"
Valendrian rose to lead his visitors in. "Cyrion…Shianni…we have wonderful news. Melian is alive and well."
"Tell me everything," begged Cyrion, looking like a drowning man offered a rope to cling to.
Brief introductions were made, and as Cyrion was delighted to hear that Tara was close kin, she became the spokeswoman. She told them Melian's story from the night the girl had been trapped outside the Alienage.
"—So she's with us, and working at Ostagar, and she would have sent her love, but we didn't know until we were already on the road that we would have to make a stop in Denerim."
The red-haired cousin, Shianni, was openly crying.
"I thought I'd screwed up again, and got her captured— me going off to try to talk sense to Elva and those other idiots."
"She was captured," Tara told her, "but Bronwyn and Teyrn Fergus intervened. What with everything, since we couldn't get her back into the Alienage, it was best for her to leave Denerim with us. Vaughan is down in Ostagar now, and he tried to have her arrested, but Bronwyn wasn't having it. She told Teyrn Loghain that Adaia—sorry, Melian—was a Grey Warden recruit and nobody could touch her. And she didn't care what Vaughan said she'd done! Melian stays with us in the Grey Warden quarters: her cot is right next to mine. Bronwyn ordered that one of us walk her back and forth to her job at the workshop. So she's fine. She misses her family, of course, but she's fine."
Cyrion and Shianni wanted every detail of Adaia's appearance, health, diet, and activities. They were interested in Tara, too; though her life in the Circle was as mysterious to them as if she had been living on the moon since she was taken away.
"Who is this Bronwyn you keep talking about?" asked Shianni.
Tara stared at her. "She's the Warden-Commander. She used to be Lady Bronwyn Cousland. She's the sister of the Teyrn of Highever. She's great. She saved my life. You haven't heard of the Girl Warden?"
"The Girl Warden?" Shianni scoffed. "That's just a story!"
Valendrian smiled slightly, and sighed.
"My dear young lady," Zevran said suavely, "I assure you that the Girl Warden is quite real, and in Denerim as we speak."
Shianni stared open-mouthed at Zevran, undone by the accent, the looks, and being called a "dear young lady." Valendrian wondered if the handsome stranger was married. While the hahren was not sure how well being an elven warrior paid, the young man certainly had the appearance of one able to support a wife and family.
Tara told them more. "Danith here is teaching Melian—and me, too—all about Dalish customs and elven language. It's so exciting being among elves from other backgrounds. We're all learning so much!"
Shianni stared even more, and blurted, "but the Dalish-" She was about to say "are a story!'" Clearly, things that she thought only made-up were true. Which meant that things that she had been sure of were false. It was very confusing. "I like your tattoos," she finally said to Danith. "Is it true you live in the woods and eat raw meat?"
Danith narrowed her eyes. "Live in the woods? Yes. Eat raw meat? No. Well—only when absolutely necessary."
"But how do you cook if you don't have any houses or pots and pans or anything?"
With more patience than she knew she possessed, Danith briefly explained about aravels, the landships of the Dalish, and how the Dalish took pride in living simply.
Shianni tried to take it all in, overwhelmed at the idea of a life on the move, without the security of four walls and a roof: without the protection of the Alienage gates.
"But…aren't you afraid?" she finally asked.
Danith shot back, "Aren't you? You live surrounded by and under the power of hostile shemlens. Every hand is against you. Shemlen nobles harm you as they please. You have no Keeper to lead you, for the shemlen priests take care to have them removed from among you."
"A Keeper?" wondered Shianni. "What's a Keeper?"
Zevran almost spoke, but Danith answered ruthlessly, pointing to Tara, "There is the one who should be your Keeper, but who was stolen from you. She—or one of more years, who would be training her, just as our Keeper Marethari is training Merrill."
"But she's a mage!" Shianni gasped. "You live with mages? I mean-" she backtracked, with a little apologetic smile at Tara. "You seem really nice and all, cousin, but everybody knows that mages are dangerous!"
"Shianni," Valendrian said gently, "your cousin is a Grey Warden. It is allowed for her to travel freely. She has had years of training at the Circle, and knows how to use her magic wisely."
Tara wished that Knight-Commander Greagoir could hear this hahren's glowing assessment of her qualifications and abilities. She nearly burst out in laughter, imagining the sober Templar's head—exploding.
Sighing happily to herself, she said, "Shianni, there are all sorts of different ways for mages to be trained. The Dalish train their own without the Circle, and they seem quite expert to me. The Circle exists mainly so shemlen Templars can bully and oppress mages. It's a pretty awful place. Being recruited for the Grey Wardens was the best thing that ever happened to me." She thought more about what Danith had said.
"Danith, I hadn't thought about that. It's true, though. Keepers help maintain the elven clans' history, and they lead and protect them. Taking children with magic away from the Alienage—and training people to be afraid of it— is just one more way to control us. I'm trying to imagine being a Keeper. That's too much responsiblity for me!"
"Now, perhaps," Danith allowed. "But I suspect you are already a different girl than the one who was plucked from the shemlens' Tower. Who knows what you shall be, when you come into your own?"
Shianni was still wrestling with the frightening idea of mages living among normal people. "The Chantry says they keep the mages at the Circle for their own good..."
Danith clucked her tongue in annoyance. "How closely my city kin clasp the chains that bind them!"
Valendrian spoke softly. "The last thing elves should do is quarrel among ourselves. Surely we have enemies enough without that!"
Danith huffed, but did not disagree. More tea was poured, and more biscuits handed round. Until they departed, she took no more part in the conversation, but thought a great deal about the child Amethyne, and how she might save her from this dreadful place.
Bronwyn was reading correspondence in the study when the trio of elves returned.
"I have cousins!" Tara told her, bouncing a little, eyes bright. "I have a mother and a father, and a sister! Hahren Valendrian knew who I was!"
Bronwyn set aside the letter from Starkhaven and gave Tara her full attention. "You met your family! How wonderful! I hope they are well."
"Actually," Tara confessed, "my family went north with those work crews. But I found out that Adaia and I are second cousins. The hahren showed me his book where he records all the marriages and births. And I was there! Tara Surana! Apparently 'Surana' is a common family name. And my parents didn't want me to go to the Circle! They wanted to keep me, mage or not! The Templars came and took me by force!"
"I'm glad you found the elves so welcoming," Bronwyn said.
"Very welcoming," laughed Zevran. "If we had stayed much longer, the hahren would have arranged marriages for all of us—especially me."
"Well," Bronwyn pointed out, "you are quite the catch."
"Ah, but I have already been caught by the Wardens, and so am ineligible."
Danith snorted. "It was very dirty," she said, "and the people are oppressed and pitifully ignorant. The hahren does what he can with nothing. He is a well-meaning man, however," she allowed.
"How were your cousins?" Tara asked Bronwyn, conscientiously changing the subject.
Bronwyn shook her head. "It was all very…interesting. I had not really met the two young boys before. They seem nice young lads. Oh-I invited them to join us for their midday meal tomorrow. They are very excited about meeting more Wardens. One of them has a puppy, and will be bringing it with him."
Scout glanced up at the elves, panting happily.
Danith rolled her eyes. Tara was more concerned about making a good impression.
"Do we need to dress up?"
"Only in all the armor and weapons you have. I think the boys would like that best." Her smile faded. "Zevran, you and I need to conclude matters with our prisoner before I go to see the Queen."
"I am with you in this as in all things, Queen of Swords," Zevran assured her gallantly.
"Ooo, Zevran!" Tara approved. "Good one!"
"Commander," Danith said formally, "I realize that you are busy at the moment, but when you are at leisure, I wish to speak to you about some matters that came to our attention when we visited the Alienage today."
"Of course," Bronwyn agreed, rather puzzled. "I am dining with the Queen, but I should be quite free afterward."
"That is well." Danith's face shut down.
Tara whispered. "She was upset. And so was I. We'll tell you later!"
Bronwyn's curiosity was aroused, and she would have preferred to remain and heard what the elves had to say. However, the afternoon was drawing to a close, and with Zevran here, she could no longer delay the inevitable. She had a spy to execute and a Queen to visit, and neither could wait any longer.
"It's time. Scout, stay with Tara."
Within minutes, Bronwyn and Zevran were climbing the winding staircase to the room where Erlina was spending her last moments.
Zevran asked, "May I speak to her alone first?"
Bronwyn shrugged. "If you think it worth your time."
Astrid was lounging comfortably in a chair outside the door, entertaining herself with a book of ancient ballads. On the floor beside her was a tray bearing the remains of a hearty snack.
"There you are!" Astrid greeted them. She jerked her head at the door. "I gave her a sandwich and a cup of cider about an hour ago. I sat in the room and took the cup and plate back when she was done. So she's had her last meal. It was a pretty good sandwich." Since she had no personal quarrel with the elf, she saw no reason not to give her decent treatment. On the other hand, regicides deserved to die.
"Thank you," Bronwyn said. "Then that is something we need not bother with, though we might want to use the cup again."
Astrid unlocked the room, and Zevran slipped in.
"Do you trust him?" Astrid asked quietly. "Sleeping potions are tricky things. Sometimes they don't work exactly the way they're supposed to."
"That had crossed my mind," Bronwyn said. "I've planned to take additional steps on my own."
"Good," Astrid nodded, pleased that the Commander was such a sensible person.
After a few moments, Zevran was back. "She wanted to keep me talking, but she really had nothing more to say."
"Really?" Bronwyn asked. "A few more questions occurred to me. There is time for a little conversation before we report to the Queen."
She pushed the door open, and loomed over the elf woman. Erlina sat on the edge of the narrow cot, her eyes fixed on the floor. She barely glanced up to acknowledge Bronwyn's presence.
"I would like to speak to the Queen,' she whispered. "To apologize."
"She does not wish to see you," Bronwyn returned crisply. "She does not wish to hear your name mentioned to her ever again. If it comforts you, know that you have succeeded in causing her great harm and pain. However, my expert Healer feels there is nothing wrong with her that he can deal with, given time."
A lie, but Bronwyn was in no mood to allow Erlina the cruel triumph of knowing that she had shortened the Queen's life and ruined her health. It was far more satisfactory to let the treacherous maid believe herself a failure. Bronwyn leaned against the wall, and brought up something had puzzled her.
"You know, the more I considered your plan, the more full of flaws it seemed to me. How exactly did you plan on making Teyrn Loghain submit to the King's marriage to the Empress, and to our new Orlesian overlords? He commands the army, after all."
Erlina kept her face immobile. No one knew about the agents sent to Ostagar. This was the one thing she would keep back. It was the one thing she could cherish in the wreck of her plans and the loss of her life.
Instead, she said, "Teyrn Loghain is only a jumped-up peasant. He is not the King. In the end, the Empress trusted in the loyalty of the Fereldan people to the house of Calenhad. The King would have had the support of the Chantry. And with the death of the Queen, the Teyrn would have had no standing had the King chosen to remove him from command. There are others who would obey, even if Loghain would not. If the Queen died, Loghain would have come to Denerim. He would have been arrested and confined. Later, he would have died of 'grief.'"
Bronwyn was silent, considering this. Erlina held her breath, hoping that the Warden would believe the lie. It was plausible: very plausible. It was just the sort of thing that Cailan would do. Indeed, such a plan had even been proposed to the King some time ago. Probably he believed that it was what would happen eventually.
There was a long silence. Erlina glanced up at the Warden, who was simply looking at her. Frowning. Erlina's heart beat a little faster. She did not want to die, but if she must, she would rather die without pain.
"I know nothing more about the plans afoot," she said pleadingly. "I only know a bit of gossip about the past, from my old bardmaster…"
"Go on."
"This is not the first time inheritance powder has been given to a Queen of Ferelden. When Emperor Florian was dying, he became spiteful."
Bronwyn exhaled, utterly taken aback. "Queen Rowan was poisoned? Are you sure?"
"No. I am not sure. It was only gossip I overheard. I know nothing more about it. It could have been mere boasting. Still, Queen Rowan grew ill and fell into a decline and nothing could be done for her. It took a long time, but she died."
Wondering what to do with this bombshell, Bronwyn gestured to her companion. "That's enough, then. Zevran." She held out the little cup to him and he produced a vial.
"Only three drops would suffice for a peaceful sleep. With half the vial, you will sleep forever," he told Erlina.
Bronwyn gazed into the innocent liquid, and then presented it to the traitor. "Drink it down, and do not try anything foolish."
"I don't suppose…" Erlina faltered, "...that I could speak to a priest?"
Zevran rolled his eyes. Bronwyn said shortly, "No. You cannot. Take the cup."
Erlina's hands were shaking, as Bronwyn set the cup firmly in them. Erlina bit back a sob. Now that the end of her life had come, she was very frightened. "I don't want to die," she choked out. "Please, I don't want to die!" She threw herself on her knees in front of Bronwyn. "I don't want to die!"
"Bella mia," Zevran urged. "Drink it down quickly. It will be over—phffft!"
"No!" Erlina looked up at them, eyes running with tears. "No!" She threw the cup away and began screaming. "No! No! No! No! No!"
Zevran pulled his dagger, and Erlina shrieked and lashed out, hands scrabbling, fingers cut as she tried to push the blade away. "No! NO! No-o-o-o-o-o-o-o!"
"Andraste's nightgown!" Bronwyn shouted, her nerves frayed by the elf's screams. She reached down her boot for her own dagger.
"No!" Zevran shouted. "Stay back! You will soil your gown!"
The door burst open, and Astrid stood there, looking exasperated. "Stone-sodding idiots!" she growled. "How hard is it to kill one elf girl?"
She had her answer in a moment. Zevran moved in expertly, yanking Erlina's arm behind her back to get it out of his way. His hand was a quicksilver blur has he drew his blade across her throat. Erlina stared at them in horror, her screams bubbling and then dying away in a gurgle. She slid down, slumping hard on the stone floor, one hand still raised in a last protest.
There was quite a bit of blood. Bronwyn saw, to her irritation, that she as standing in a puddle of it. Her boots left red tracks as she stalked from the room, shaken and sickened. Erlina had begged her, Bronwyn, for her life, and it was more painful than Bronwyn could have imagined. Had she been alone in there, what might she have done? She had seen her father and mother on the days when they had passed judgement on criminals, and sometimes, when the malefactor threw themselves on the Teyrn or Teyrna's mercy, they were granted it. On those occasions, Bronwyn had thought her parents were being too lenient, but now she understood how terrible it was to hold a frightened, defenseless person's life in one's hand...
"So," Astrid asked her, perfectly nonchalant. "Are we going to see the Queen now?"
Bronwyn took a breath and fought for calm. "Y-es," she finally answered. "We'll collect Jowan from the library and see the Queen. Yes. Thank you, Zevran. I made arrangements for her-" she gestured, not quite looking at Erlina-"disposal. The maids will clean in here later. Sergeant Quincall is in the guards' day room and will know what to do." She scuffed her boots on the floor, trying to rid herself of the red witness of a woman's death.
Jowan fell into step with them as they passed the library.
"Very nice," commented Astrid, admiring Jowan's new doublet. It smelled faintly of its time in storage, but the embroidered silk was rich and lustrous. Jowan was dressed like a gentleman of the Court, but in Warden colors. A gentleman of the Court, of course, who just happened to be walking about holding a mage's staff.
"Very nice indeed," Bronwyn said. "Was your afternoon productive?"
"Go ahead," he boasted, his smile ironic, "Quiz me about political marriages in Nevarra and how many times the Pentaghasts have held the post of Captain-General or Chancellor. I dare you."
Bronwyn managed a light laugh. "I bow to your expertise. What about the dragons?"
"I still don't know how they killed them," Jowan admitted, "but I know how much gold they amassed from the hunts. I also think the current Pentaghasts don't remember, because there are dragons on the border between Nevarra and Orlais that nobody seems to know what to do with. Of course," Jowan shrugged, "the Pentaghasts are much too powerful and important to spend their time hunting dragons now."
"That is interesting," Bronwyn said.
Astrid thought a little about that. "Yes, it's interesting. Are there any songs or ballads about the dragon hunters?"
"Probably," Jowan said, "Do you think—?"
The captain of the Queen's Guard interrupted this intriguing line of thought, and they were shown into the royal apartments. Bronwyn gave the names of her companions to the velvet-voiced seneschal.
"You will be received in the Little Audience Chamber today," he murmured unctiously.
Astrid looked about her with interest. This palace was big enough, to be sure, but rather dull and plain, when all was said and done. The stonework was competent—and probably dwarven—but uncarved and unornamented. The good chairs and cabinets of wood would have been valuable in Orzammar, but were no better than those in the Wardens' quarters. Astrid knew that Fereldan was a poor country compared to Orlais, and it was made manifest when one compared this place to what she had read of the grandeur of the Empress of Orlais' palace, with its walls paneled with polished amber and malachite.
The Little Audience Chamber was not a bad room. There were some decent hangings to soften the stone walls—mostly depicting mabari. Astrid liked Bronwyn's dog well enough, but the glorification of dogs in Ferelden was simply odd. No wonder people everywhere else referred to Fereldans as Dog Lords.
A low dais supported a pair of thrones: simple chairs of high quality wood, polished to a silken sheen. Behind the throne was a purple velvet arras, with another dog tapestry hung just in front of it. Fireplaces on either side of the room kept it pleasantly unchilled. A pair of tall bronze braziers on either side of the dais contributed light and some decoration. Astrid thought the room could be improved immeasurably by laying a floor of marble tiles over the plain stone.
The arras was drawn aside by a servant, and Queen Anora emerged from a door behind the dais. Everyone bowed as the queen took her throne—the one on the left. A seneschal said quietly, "Your Majesty: the Warden-Commander of Ferelden, the Grey Warden Jowan, and the Grey Warden Astrid."
Astrid straightened and examined the blonde human woman. She had heard that Queen Anora was a renowned beauty, and her reputation was deserved. She was a most comely woman, even had she not been the wife of a king.
"Welcome, Commander," said the queen. Astrid thought she sounded sincere in that. Her voice was pleasant. "And welcome to you, Warden Jowan. To you as well, Warden Astrid. We are grateful for the assistance of our good allies of Orzammar. I understand that 'Astrid' is something of a nom-de-guerre. Am I correct in understanding that your original name is Gytha Aeducan; and that you are daughter of the late King Endrin and sister to the current King Bhelen?"
Astrid bowed again, "Your information is faultless, Your Majesty. I was Gytha Aeducan, and now I am the Grey Warden Astrid."
Queen Anora seemed pleased at her answer, and smiled graciously. Obviously, the queen liked to think of herself as a highly intelligent woman. Perhaps she was. Her illness was not very apparent at the moment, but she did look a bit tired. About thirty years old, Astrid guessed, though her illness might have given her a few years that were not rightfully hers. She was dressed well, but wore no jewels, and her hair was plainly arranged in a pair of coiled plaits. Perhaps this was her appearance for a private audience. Astrid hoped she put forth more of an effort for formal occasions. People liked kings and queens to look the part.
This was Teyrn Loghain's daughter, though Astrid saw little or no resemblance to that towering, glowering, black-haired champion. This woman was tall, but delicate-looking. Not a warrior queen, but a queen of plots and politics; a queen of cunning and scheming and double-dealing. She was apparently well-disposed to the commander, but would bear watching. Her position seemed strong, but was in fact precarious. She had been married to King Cailan for five years and had borne him no children. Now her enemies were trying to depose or kill her. Humans did not follow the customs of Orzammar, and so Alistair, whom Astrid had discovered was a bastard son of the late King, was not the heir, as he would be in Orzammar. It was all very foolish, and all too human. Alistair was a fine warrior, and with proper guidance and training would make a decent leader. He was a far better choice for crown prince than any mewling infant the Queen might eventually produce. For that matter, why did not this woman discreetly take a lover, and make a little princeling herself, if her husband was inadequate? Astrid would certainly have done so in her place. Of course, humans had their Chantry and their sins and their guilt, and tricking the King in that way was probably something the Queen would never consider. More fool she.
"It is my understanding, Commander," Anora said to Bronwyn, "that you intend to leave the city tomorrow afternoon."
"That is correct, Majesty."
"I wish to bid you farewell, and give you some tokens of my trust and esteem. Bring all your people with you before you leave."
"I shall, Majesty."
"Very well. Then I thank you for your presence, Warden Astrid. You have our leave to depart."
Astrid bowed again, and hid her smile. Anora's last words amused her. In her childhood, Father had explained to her that those particular words, when spoken by a monarch, meant, "I'm busy. Go away." Backing away with scrupulous courtesy, she did.
The servants were also sent from the room, and Jowan cast healing and regeneration spells on Anora. Bronwyn could see the results instantly. Anora was enveloped in a blue glow, and as it dissipated, she took a deep, relaxed breath.
"Thank you, Warden Jowan. I feel, as always, refreshed by your treatment. I cannot tell you how relieved I am that you will be remaining here in the Palace."
When he too was gone, Anora asked, "Have you dealt with that unpleasant matter, Commander?"
"I have, Your Majesty."
"Good. We shall be dining informally in my sitting room. Come."
It was a very nice dinner indeed. It was one of the best dinners Bronwyn had ever had. It was not quite enough food for a Grey Warden, but what there was, was choice.
Bronwyn wondered if the Queen was simply seizing the opportunity to have a dinner like this with another woman. The Queen, as far as she knew, had no close woman friends. The food was too delicate to appeal to the King, at least from what Bronwyn had witnessed of his dining habits. And Loghain…Bronwyn sighed mentally, wistfully recalling fierce strong arms, a man's musk, and moments of wild abandon. Did the Queen have any idea about Bronwyn's relations with her father? Bronwyn devoutedly hoped not. It was simply too embarrassing.
But Loghain would certainly have snorted at the daintily arranged table, the hothouse flowers, the clear consommé, the delicately spiced galantine, and the caille en sarcophage, served with chilled Antivan wine. This repast was definitely designed with high-born ladies in mind. Next came an astonishing dessert: an Orlesian vacherin. Bronwyn almost regretted demolishing the exquisite little basket of meringue, filled with whipped, sweetened cream and ripe summer berries.
"This is marvelous," she said. Perhaps she should not comment on it. Perhaps commenting on it made clear that she was not accustomed to eating this well. Still, the Queen seemed pleased that she was pleased.
"I sometimes wonder," said Anora, "if men even notice what they are eating, other than complaining if there is not enough meat! Your dear mother and I occasionally dined alone, before I was married. It was always very pleasant. Eleanor was so kind to me: so gracious and so full of wise advice. I can hardly describe the extent to which she helped me navigate those first few years at Court."
"My mother was always full of wise advice," sighed Bronwyn. "I wish I had listened to more of it." If she had listened, perhaps she too would have been included in those dinners. She would have been at Court, and not relegated to the country. Everything might have been different. A brief pang of jealousy shot through her, picturing Mother and Anora, dining together, sharing secrets and sublime food. Bronwyn could not remember ever sharing a private meal with her mother... just the two of them alone. It would have been...lovely.
She must not regret the past, which could not be helped. She polished off her dessert, not quite satisfied; and comforted herself with the knowledge that when she returned to the Compound she could cadge a bowl of stew from good old Rannelly.
"I shall give you a letter to my father," said Anora. "I shall tell him of the poisoning and my condition. If I continue to feel as well as I do, I see no reason for him to leave the army. Perhaps that is even what our enemies wished. I see from your expression that I have hit the mark."
Without explicitly mentioning Erlina's name, Bronwyn replied, "Yes. Our source indicated that when he heard of your condition and hurried back to you, he was to be arrested and confined. Later…"
"I quite see." Anora's lovely face grew hard. "Take him my letter. I am all right. I can endure everything I must endure. If he can send me this Wynne, that would be appreciated, but for now Warden Jowan has helped me a great deal. It is generous of you to spare one of your Wardens for my exclusive benefit."
"Ferelden cannot spare you, Your Majesty."
"You may call me Anora, here in my sitting room."
"Thank you…Anora. Ferelden cannot spare you for a multitude of reasons. It cannot spare your father. And if for no other reason, I simply cannot bear the idea of the Orlesians winning, especially by such guile and treachery."
"Does your brother feel the same?"
"My brother is loyal, if that is what you mean. He is loyal to Ferelden, and loyal to you. We have talked, and made our decision. We have some time before anyone even knows that the contract has been delayed. Much may happen in that time. I wish I could have seen Fergus before he went to Amaranthine, but I am certain of his loyalties."
"He gave me a charming present," Anora remarked. She rang a small crystal bell by her place, and the maidservant appeared. "Regan, bring me the music box from the table over there."
It was brought, and admired. Bronwyn had never seen it, as Fergus had bought it for Oriana after Bronwyn had ceased coming to Denerim.
"The Princess on the Glass Hill! I always loved that story, I suppose because Fergus and I were so fond of climbing. It made us appreciate the hero's precarious situation all the more, in that bit of the story when he was trying to clamber up the polished hill and rescue the princess."
"I, too, am fond of the story, because I appreciate the equally precarious situation of the princess! Now," Anora said, setting the little box aside, "tell me everything going on at Ostagar."
Thank you to my reviewers: mille libri, JTheClivaz, demonicnargles, Zute, Dante Alighieri1308, Sarah1281, dyslecksec, Josie Lange, Jyggilag, JackOfBladesX, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, Remenants, SkaterGirl246, The Moidart, Oleander's One, Lehni, Aoi24, Juliafied, Enaid Aderyn, Judy, Thomas Blaine, Marcus Crassus, Blinded in a bolthole, cloud1004, Kira Kyuu, Have Socks. Will Travel, BlackCherryWhiskey, euromellows, Tyanilth, chocolatebrownie12, Merithea, mutive, Kitty Kyinsky, Granoc, Shakespira, Jenna53, almostinsane, Fastforwarmotion, and CervantesOsis.
Caille en sarcophage is quail in puff pastry with truffles and foie gras. (Quail in a sarcophagus)