Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 48: Funeral Games
The world had changed in an instant. The men and women crowding around the king's deathbed stared at each other helplessly, wondering what they ought to do.
The traditional cry on these occasions was to hail the successor.
"The King is Dead: Long Live the King!"
But Cailan had named no heir. A void gaped where men's loyalties should lie. Some still cared for the king they had lost.
"Maker receive him," croaked Elric Maraigne. "There will never be another like him."
The King's Friends murmured fervent agreement. Meanwhile, Wulffe whispered to Bryland, "Does this mean that Fergus is King?"
"Could be," Bryland whispered back, his eyes on Loghain and Bronwyn, speaking urgently and quietly to each other. "Maybe not."
"Get Wynne out of here," Loghain ordered Bronwyn, in a thread of breath. "Get her out of the Revered Mother's sight. Hide her with the Wardens and get her out of camp before daylight." He moved toward the priest, his voice commanding. "Revered Mother...if you would lead the intercessory prayers...? Shall we send for the archpriests and the incense-bearers?"
Distracted by the formal demands of death, the Revered Mother did not see Bronwyn take Wynne by the upper arm and push her discreetly from the room. Then, too, she was too taken aback at the presence of Alistair.
"My lord!" she whispered, scandalized. "Surely you will not sully the King's passing with the presence of a bastard! Do you mean to have the nobles acclaim him as the successor?"
"Sshhh," Loghain hushed her. "Revered Mother, I had no such intention at all. The Landsmeet will deliberate the succession in due course. Alistair was here as a Grey Warden, an order the King looked on with special favor. I believe he meant to reward them further, but it was too late. Let us allow the boy to mourn. We have much to do..."
"Quick!" Bronwyn muttered to the older woman. "Upstairs!"
"But the King..." Wynne protested, still grieving for the charming young monarch.
"The King is dead, and the Revered Mother was on the point of having you arrested when Loghain caught her attention. We need to get you out of Ostagar and off to Denerim to care for the Queen."
"I'm supposed to report to the mage's quarters..."
"Everything will be in such confusion tonight that no one will notice. I'll have Anders get your things. Whom do you trust among the mages?"
Wynne drew herself up. "I trust them all!"
Bronwyn clicked her tongue impatiently.
Deflating a little, Wynne said, "Very well. I trust Petra in particular. Not Keilli, though. She's convinced that we're all accursed."
"All right. You can sleep in the Warden's room. We'll get you tucked away. Anders can talk to Petra—spreading the awful news, you know..."
A mob of Wardens awaited them at the door to their quarters.
"Wynne?" Tara asked. "I thought you were looking after the King..." Anders caught her eyes and the two exchanged shocked looks.
"Well, what's going on?' Oghren demanded. "And why is she-" she pointed at Wynne- "here?"
Bronwyn shooed them back into their quarters, and shut the door.
"The King is dead," she said tonelessly. Over the questions, she said, "There will be a Landsmeet in three months. Meanwhile, the King's will was that the Queen will rule until the successor is chosen. Wynne is here because Teyrn Loghain ordered me to take her away from the Revered Mother, who seemed on the brink of making nasty accusations against her."
"Against Wynne?" Anders was incredulous.
"Wynne?" Tara echoed.
"But Wynne is an exemplary mage!" Cullen protested.
"You know that, and I know that," Bronwyn shot back, "but in these circumstances people will be looking for a scapegoat. She was there. Tara," Bronwyn asked the elven mage. "It's an imposition, but please take Wynne into your corner for the night so no one can see her if they poke their noses in."
"She can sleep there, of course," Tara said kindly. "Zevran and I can certainly be apart for one night..."
"I am crushed," swooned Zevran, hand on heart. "My world is tottering. Speak for yourself, bellissima, but I submit to your cruel caprice, and shall endure Oghren's snoring once more."
"Zevran, take her over there now," Bronwyn ordered, "and the rest of you have not seen her! Is that understood? And I need to speak to the Wardens privately."
There were nods and murmurs of assent, and those not Wardens departed. Cullen nodded, too, but his brows were knit in perplexity.
Bronwyn gestured the Wardens closer and lowered her voice.
"We sent her out of the room and tried the Joining. It failed. The King was too far gone. He started choking and Loghain called for Wynne. She tried to revive the King, but it was useless. The Revered Mother seemed to think Wynne was at fault, I'm afraid."
"At the worst," Leliana said gently, "she'll only be sent back to the Circle."
"Oh, really?" Anders challenged, his handsome face twisted in an unaccustomed sneer. "After being accused of killing the King? You think she'll live that long? You're very optimistic. Of course, you've never been a mage in custody. A mage suspected of murder...or regicide? It shouldn't be that hard to make sure an old woman dies in pain..."
"Anders..." Cullen said, reddening.
"Enough!" Bronwyn said, stepping between them. "Wynne is not going back to the Circle. Her healing expertise is needed in Denerim. Urgently. She is leaving in a few hours. If I have to, I'll conscript her. We are going to keep her here and tell absolutely no one about her. Anders...go to the mages' quarters and have Petra pack Wynne's things up—discreetly—and give them to you."
Anders grinned at the prospect of tricking the Templars once more. "On my way!" He shot Cullen a cocky grin and slipped through the door.
"Really," Cullen objected, "there is surely no need..."
"Yes there is," Bronwyn replied instantly. "Wynne is needed. The Queen needs a first-rate Healer. Do you want to leave the Queen's care entirely in Jowan's hands?"
Cullen straightened, his eyes wide. "Jowan is caring for the Queen?"
"Is she having a baby?" Brosca wanted to know.
That remark was the spark that stirred interest into a blaze. Everyone crowded in, full of questions. Bronwyn put up her hand.
"This is a matter of deepest secrecy. The Queen needs the services of the best Healer in Ferelden. We Wardens are going to make sure Wynne gets to the Queen. No one can know that the Queen needs her or that Wynne is going there. There are a great many people who have a malicious interest in seeing that it falls out otherwise." She turned to Carver.
"Find your brother and bring him here. He's downstairs with the King's knights. Don't say anything indiscreet. Just a word in his ear that I require his presence immediately. He was going to leave tomorrow morning, anyway, with some letters for the Queen and for my brother. I always intended for him to accompany Wynne. They will leave a little earlier than we planned."
"Right you are," Carver said eagerly, and darted away.
"And Adaia,' Bronwyn sighed. "I haven't forgotten you. I'd like to have your Joining as soon as possible, but perhaps tomorrow would be better, when we're not all running about like mad folk. Don't lose your vial."
A knighthood, Adam Hawke reflected, was a fine thing: but without lands and coin to support it, the title was a largely empty honor. Mother would be thrilled to spread the word in Lothering, but that was just about all the King's last official act was good for.
He had been close—so very, very close—to glittering success. He had saved the King's life…however briefly… and certainly would have been given generous, material rewards. Possibly the Queen…
True. There was the Queen. Only to remain in power for another three months. How should he refer to her now? "Queen Dowager?" A stuffy title for a famous beauty—and still young…
No. That sort of thinking would lead nowhere. Raising his eyes too high could ruin everything.
Well, he still had Lady Bronwyn's letter of recommendation to the Teyrn of Highever. A good fall-back plan, certainly.
He was not the only one looking like he'd lost his best friend. The King's companions had enjoyed the prestige and advantage of royal patronage. That was over now. The band of friends and rivals would break up, as each of them hunted out a new place in the new world.
And Alistair was still here, slumped in a corner. He was looking pretty depressed, as well. Maybe the Wardens had been hoping for a deathbed bequest. Bronwyn wasn't so upset, was she? Actually, where was Bronwyn? Maybe off to tell the rest of the Wardens... Why didn't she have her second do that?
Teyrn Loghain was still in serious conversation with the Revered Mother, discussing the plans for a funeral and associated rites. Adam supposed there was no chance of getting a letter of recommendation from Loghain now. The man was too busy for such a minor concern. It was a rather comical show, though: he kept talking steadily about the arrangements, while the Revered Mother wanted to blame the mage who had been taking care of the King. Rubbish, of course. The King had clearly died of the Blight sickness, caused by that too-close encounter with the ogre.
Thinking of the ogre made him shudder. Was there any way he could arrange for a long, hot bath in this place? He had been close to the ogre himself, though none of the creature's various fluids had come in contact with his bare skin. The squire who had helped him remove his armor had worn gloves.
From what Adam could see of the body through the doorway, they would have to dispose of it sooner rather than later. Adam was a little surprised that Loghain was still talking to the Revered Mother, rather than ordering the pyre. Of course, there were more than a score of mages in camp. They could incinerate the remains without the time and trouble of a pyre. He bit back a malicious grin. Wouldn't that absolutely make that old prune's head explode?
"Adam!"
He looked up. Carver was just outside the door, held back by the guards.
"I tell you, I have Warden business in there," he told one of the exhausted, stolid soldiers.
"You don't look like the Girl Warden to me," the man shot back. "No one else goes in at this point."
Carver gestured hugely to his brother, mouthing the words, "I've got to talk to you!"
Well, there was nothing to be gained by remaining here. Even some of the other knights were edging away. Some were talking casually with the noblemen in the room, jockeying for favor and appointments. Nobody had dared approach Loghain yet. He was too busy and looked too...distraught.
Yes, the Teyrn looked distraught. Of course the King was his son-in-law, and he had practically raised him. The man was probably wondering what would happen to him, now that the son of Maric Theirin was gone. Who would be King? Would he appoint a different Commander of the Armies? That seemed a very, very bad idea to Adam.
"Adam!" Carver yelped. "It's important!"
Sighing, Hawke bowed to the powers in the land, and edged sideways from the room. So much for his brush with royalty.
The news was spreading through the Tower of Ishal and out to the door to the army. Some important-looking dwarves were coming up the stairs. Hawke doubted that the surly guardsmen would try to keep them out.
"What is it, Carver?"
His brother pulled him along, taking him upstairs. He leaned close to whisper.
"Bronwyn wants to talk to you. There something she needs you to do, and it's not just carrying a letter."
Well, that was all right, then. Plan B was working out, it appeared.
"You can take two of our horses," Bronwyn said crisply. "Wynne may not know how to ride, but she'd better learn quickly, and she can heal herself, of course, if she's saddle-sore. Teyrn Loghain and I are entrusting you to carry out our orders. Wynne may be accused or threatened if she stays here in Ostagar, but she is needed in Denerim. The Queen's life may depend on it. There are those who would prefer that you not succeed, for many and varied reasons."
All the Wardens were listening breathlessly.
"I think you should tell him the whole story," Astrid spoke up. "I think all the Wardens should know what happened when we were in Denerim."
Bronwyn frowned at her. "I told Alistair, of course..."
"Told Alistair what?" Leliana asked, with not-so-smothered excitement.
Did she dare trust them? Bronwyn shivered, hoping that she was not deceived in her companions. "It is best that the Wardens not be directly involved at the moment, since it would smack of political intrigue. However..." she paused. "All right. When we were in Denerim, I foiled an attempt to murder the Queen. More or less. Her Orlesian maid had been poisoning her for some time, trying to make the Queen's death look like a natural illness. We really don't know who else was involved in the plot, other than some Orlesian agents."
Leliana was looking at her, in wide-eyed horror, a name on her lips. Bronwyn gave her a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
"At any rate," Bronwyn continued, "I left Jowan with her, ostensibly doing some dragonslaying research, but really to treat her for the poisoning. Teyrn Loghain knows, of course. Obviously we need the Queen alive and healthy. Her physical collapse now would mean chaos throughout Ferelden when it is at it's weakest. Wynne is the best choice to care for her."
"Of course the Queen must be saved," Cullen muttered. "But a mage should have a trained Templar escort! For her own safety, if nothing else..."
"Oh, Cullen!" Tara threw up her hands in exasperation. "You said yourself that Perfect Wynne is "an exemplary mage."
"She is!" Cullen defended himself hotly. "But if she goes traveling about the countryside, people might think she's an apostate! They might take the law into their own hands! She might be arrested by other Templars! And if she were to be frightened, or unduly stressed..."
Hawke looked the tall ex-Templar in the eye. "I know about mages. A lot about mages. I am perfectly capable of traveling with a mage and keeping her safe. I've done it before. And nobody will know she's an apostate."
Carver stood at his brother's side. "And that's something we expect the Wardens to keep quiet about, too!"
Cullen peered at Hawke, a little confused. "You are not..."
"No, I'm not a mage," Hawke snapped. "But I've known mages all my life. Not all of them are abominations in the making!"
"That's enough!" Bronwyn broke in. "Adam is taking Wynne to Denerim. He will deliver her to the Queen, along with some letters. If Wynne can cast Haste, that would be most desirable. Get something to eat and some rest. Carver will pack your things, and we will awaken you before dawn. The Queen may have tasks for you, Adam; but as soon as possible I want you to ride north and find my brother. He needs this news, as well."
Everyone pitched in: Carver and Astrid retrieving Adam's armor and weapons; Brosca, Danith, and Adaia making a run to the kitchens for food for everyone. Supplies for the journey were assembled and packed neatly. A convincing disguise for Wynne was assembled. Meanwhile, Adam wolfed down his portion of bread, cold meat, and cheese, and washed it down with weak ale.
"We'll make for Lothering using the hunters' trails," he told Bronwyn. "We can stay overnight with my family. At that point we should be able to use the West Road. It's well thought-of to have Wynne wear something other than mage's robes..."
"And she can't go about carrying a staff!" Tara pointed out. "Maybe you could wrap it up with a bundle of tent-poles..."
That made everyone laugh a little.
"Not a bad idea," Bronwyn said briskly. "Look here, if everything is going well, I've got to get back to the nobles and rescue Alistair, if nothing else."
The late hour, sorrow, weariness, confusion: all these worked in their favor. The King's remains were infected with Blight sickness and could not be returned to Denerim for a state funeral. Tomorrow the laborers would be set to work on a suitable pyre, and the funeral would be held at sunset. Loghain told the senior officers that there would be a council in the midmorning to consider their options in the light of today's loss. Bronwyn gently encouraged everyone to get their rest, the better to face the morning.
"Revered Mother," she urged the old woman. "Tomorrow will be a terribly taxing day—for you especially."
"Very well," the priest agreed reluctantly, "If the King must have his rites here in the Wilds, it behooves us to make the best we can of them. I want that mage brought to me tomorrow morning." She turned to the Templars looming outside the door. "See to it!"
Bronwyn's face was a careful blank. She did not look at Loghain. If all went according to plan, Wynne would be halfway to Lothering before her absence was noticed.
And based on the whispers she was catching, there was enough blame being cast about without the inclusion of one elderly mage, anyway. Suspicion had fallen on the elves, for not fighting well enough at King's Mountain. Loghain did all he could to silence that kind of useless talk. And he sent Bronwyn around to smooth ruffled feathers. It helped if both of them were visible and calm.
The dwarves were doing their bit as well. Cailan's death actually did not mean all that much to them. He had been a pleasant, friendly host and a cheerful companion, but he was not the reason they had come. They were here because of a treaty with the Grey Wardens, which was still very much in effect.
Bronwyn encouraged the remaining knights to talk about the battle as well. The King had fought bravely, and had exposed himself in a battle with an ogre. Some of them had private views about Cailan's running after an elf girl, but talking about it would reflect badly on the king himself.
"It's too bad the elves sent us the sort of girl the King fancied," Elric commented glumly to Ser Landry, as they left the king's quarters for the last time, "but I don't think they did it on purpose."
Before dawn, Sten and Cullen went out to saddle two of the horses, and loaded them with bags and packs. A short time later a young man in leathers and a helmeted soldier wrapped in a cloak climbed onto their mounts. They trotted away into the darkness, accompanied by a big mabari.
"Couriers going to Redcliffe," the young man told the guards, waving a pass with Teyrn Loghain's seal.
At the first long curve in the road, Wynne cast Haste on horses and hound, and they headed north at tremendous speed.
Worn out by the sorrows and stress of the previous night, the Revered Mother slept late. Thus it was many hours before she was informed that Senior Enchanter Wynne could not be found anywhere in camp.
"I demand that you send troops in search of the apostate!"
Loghain was unimpressed, and did not intend to let the Revered Mother dictate his troop dispositions ever again. It was quite bad enough that she was disrupting the morning's briefing.
"I do not know that she is an apostate," he said coolly, "only that you seem to have misplaced her. She was fond of the king, and greatly affected by his death. Perhaps she has taken a long walk to compose herself."
"'Affected by his death!'" sneered the Revered Mother's right-hand, Sister Polycarp. "Gloating over murdering him, more like!"
A burst of murmurs and shocked whispers. The elves leaned close to each other: the grizzled old trackers explaining the oddities of the shemlen religion to a horrified Merrill. Her protests were inaudible, but her sad eyes told the story.
Bronwyn spoke up mildly. "I assure you that she did nothing of the sort. The King died of Blight sickness. I was there and you were not. I am Warden-Commander of Ferelden and have experience in such matters. The Healer attempted to do the impossible: cure a man so afflicted. No one has succeeded in the course of this campaign. Wynne has saved the lives of countless soldiers-—ncluding my brother, the Teyrn of Highever. Making wild and unfounded accusations profits us nothing."
Sister Polycarp was deeply offended, but Bronwyn gave her a cool stare, unmoved the priestly huffing and puffing. Between the Revered Mother's interference at the Bloomingtide battle and these vicious accusations, she was very much of the opinion that the presence of the Chantry at Ostagar did more harm than good. One must not provoke them, of course. Their arm was long...
"Enough of this!" Loghain interrupted the growing noise. "There was no murder. Everyone in the King's quarters saw the Blight sickness in him. The darkspawn killed him. We do not need to accuse one another."
Piotin Aeducan shrugged. "I saw the body, and the Teyrn has the right of it. The Taint killed the young king. You've got to be careful when fighting the darkspawn. We've all got to be careful."
"Perhaps," the Revered Mother suggested, her manner smooth as cream, "It would be best if the rest of mages were returned to the Circle of Magi, where we can be sure they will harm no one."
This was not a popular point of view, to the priest's chagrin. A glance around the council showed her disapproving frowns and shaking heads. The mages' unnatural powers had won friends for them here in Ostagar.
"The mages," Bronwyn replied, equally smoothly, "are obligated by treaty to assist the Grey Wardens in defeating the Blight. They have worked wonders, healed the sick, strengthened the weak, and destroyed scores of monsters. The Wardens will continue to require their services until the Blight is defeated." She smiled mildly and apologetically at the Revered Mother, hating her in her heart.
"Thank you, Warden-Commander," Loghain ended the discussion. "The mages will stay and do their duty. We will do ours. Now to today's orders. Lord Piotin..."
Scouting expeditions were to go east, southeast, and south, sweeping broad areas of yesterday's battlefield and the neighboring areas, seeing if the darkspawn presence was quashed for the moment. There would be Wardens in each group, and the plans were painstaking and meticulous. Loghain would have liked to have gone himself, but it was impossible. He and Bronwyn must be here to prepare for the funeral. He had already commanded that only the Wardens were to handle the King's body, out of respect, and also out of the need to prevent further infection.
Loghain sent them all about their business, a little impatiently. He had enough to worry about, without the Chantry causing trouble. Morale was low with the king's death, at least among the human portions of the army. Once again, it was left to him to hold things together in a crisis. And he himself was under attack. Cauthrien's inquiries among Bann Loren's men had led nowhere. No one knew the would-be assassins, or where they came from. They were strangers, volunteers who joined Bann's Loren's troops on their journey south to Ostagar. They had not talked; they had not mixed. No one knew anything.
Except for Loghain. He knew that the men had been very professional, and had been only foiled by bad luck and Alistair's quick reflexes. He also knew that with Cailan's death, he would be an even bigger target.
"You're sure you're all right?" Hawke asked, drawing rein to allow the horses a rest. Haste might increase their speed, but a horse had only so much strength. Hunter looked ready for another rejuvenation spell, tough as the dog was. Still, at this rate they would be in Lothering in a few hours, even without the advantages of the Imperial Highway. He had thought it best not to attract attention, which their unusual speed would certainly do. He would take Wynne home with him, and there they would have food and shelter. Mother and the girls knew how to be discreet about mages. With luck, Uncle Gamlen was still bedridden.
"I'm fine," Wynne said patiently, removing the heavy, uncomfortable helmet. "I have ridden a horse before, young man! Not often and not recently, I'll grant; but I'm managing. We must get to Denerim as quickly as possible."
She tucked the fluttering cloak in closer, feeling a little undressed without her mage robesand weighed down with the unfamiliar weight of steel weapons and armor. In a saddlebag, neatly folded, was a nice gown of blue-grey wool. Warden Leliana had been most generous.
"We won't be far behind the official couriers," Hawke judged, "Not at this rate."
In his saddlebag was the correspondence: the private letter from Teyrn Loghain to the Queen, and his letters to the Arl of Denerim and the Commander of Fort Drakon; the private letter from Lady Bronwyn to her brother the Teyrn of Highever, and another from her to Warden Jowan.
Inside his jerkin, Hawke carried two precious documents: his letters patent of knighthood, of course; and an official letter of transit, signed and sealed by Loghain himself, giving him (and whatever companions he had) leave to travel at will through Ferelden without question or hindrance. It was his pass through the gates of the Palace and into the Queen's presence.
He put his hand on his chest to reassure himself that it was still there. That was the one piece of parchment that he must not lose.
His private interview with the great man himself had been brief enough, to be sure. Lady Bronwyn and her dog had lounged in the background. Loghain had not looked her way but the once, and Hawke, who prided himself on his powers of observation, instantly knew that the gossip about them was true. The Hero of River Dane…and a Cousland…
Was Loghain going for the Crown? The Couslands were the next in line, after all. While the King had never officially named an heir, everyone knew that, absent a child of the King's, the Couslands were the heirs presumptive.
Hawke wondered uneasily if he was already committed to their cause, simply by being their courier. Perhaps not, though. A newly-made knight was a small affair in this game of kings and crowns. However, if he were to get an early foothold with the new regime, he—and his family—could not help but gain by it.
"There it is!" Bronwyn cried in relief, as her fingertips found the Joining cup where it had rolled under the bed. "I'd forgotten about it completely!"
"Hardly something we'd want anyone else to find," Cullen agreed. He looked anxiously at Alistair, who was silent and depressed. Cullen had heard the faintest, strangest rumor about Alistair, and his friend's demeanor today seemed to confirm it. He knew all the right portions of Chant of Light to say over the dead, of course. Alistair and he recited them together, taking comfort from the beauty of the words. Afterwards, they bathed and anointed the King's poor Blighted body as best they could, and wrapped it in the fine linen shroud.
Everything in the room that bore the slightest hint of Taint must be burned...or at the very least, cleansed with fire. Before the scouting parties had moved out, Loghain had called for Senior Enchanter Uldred, who had carefully seared the Royal Arms Chest and the other trunks and boxes in the king's quarters. The armor, of course, was fairly easily made safe. That would be repaired and preserved, and ultimately returned to the palace in Denerim. All such items were carried from the room and stored elsewhere.
As for the rest...as soon as the Grey Wardens were finished preparing the King's body for his rites and carried him down on the litter, the clothes, the bedding, the bed itself—everything in the room would be incinerated and the stone walls themselves scorched back into purity.
The royal litter was nothing more than a simple stretcher with folding legs, draped in black and purple silk. Alistair held himself together with visible difficulty as he and Cullen eased Cailan's lifeless, enshrouded body onto this makeshift bier of state for the king's last trip down the staircases of the Tower of Ishal.
Bronwyn made a final check of the room, looking for anything they should take with them. In a pouch she carried the jewels found on the King's person: the great seal-ring of Ferelden, his wedding ring, a rich gold necklet bearing a runed amulet. These, too, would be cleansed. Loghain would take charge of the seal. The wedding ring and the amulet would go to the Queen in due course.
She flung open the door, where Loghain and an honor guard stood waiting.
"Make way for the King!" she cried.
Slowly, careful of the turns, King Cailan's body was carried down the steps and out of the Tower. A procession fell into place: the honor guard in front, bearing the royal standard; the Revered Mother with a pair of Templars and two priests bearing censers; then the two strong Wardens, bearing the King. More priests with censers followed the litter. Then Loghain, and beside him Bronwyn, not as Warden-Commander, but representing her brother, the Teyrn of Highever. Behind them were the Arls and banns, the knights and squires-at-arms, the Senior Enchanters and the captains and sergeants and well-wishers. Their allies bore the brunt of the war today, allowing them time to honor their fallen king.
Said scouting parties were due back before sunset, anyway, to allow them to attend the the funeral. The procession moved slowly across the wide bridge spanning Ostagar Gorge, and then descended into the valley, where the pyre had been erected. It was a fine pyre, but it was not what a King of Ferelden deserved, of course.
"But," Arl Wulffe rumbled, "at least this time we have a body!"
"We can put the horses in there," Hawke told a drained and saddle-weary Wynne. A little behind the house was a small outbuilding, not really a stable and too small to be an honest barn. Still, it would shelter the horses for the night—a night that was now coming on fast. Hunter panted happily, veering off to bark at the front door of the house. A yelp of delighted surprise answered the dog.
"That's my sister Bethany," Hawke told her, smiling, his voice low. "She's the mage."
"I see," Wynne answered politely. Actually, she did not. She had no idea what it would be like to live in a family. Long ago, she had come to the Circle from a village not very different from Lothering; but she had been a homeless orphan, a despised beggar child provoked by relentless bullying into a moment of magical retaliation. The boy whose hair she had set afire had not been badly hurt, but the entire village had been terrified to discover that there was a monster among them. Many people hated and feared the Templars, but to Wynne they had been saviors: stern and dutiful, perhaps, but not men who would allow a child to be stoned to death or burnt alive in the barn where the villagers had locked her in. The Circle had given her shelter and meaning. It was home to her, however far she traveled.
Hawke quickly unsaddled their horses, gave them water and forked over some hay. Wynne cast a rejuvenation charm on the beasts, and a healing charm on her own abused posterior. She took up her backpack and followed Ser Adam to the little house. Women were piling out of the door: a sweet-faced woman Wynne's own age, and two attractive young girls. One had a cloud of curly brown hair; the other, shorter girl's hair was dark and softly waving. The mother's name was Leandra, Wynne remembered. The sister was Bethany, of course, and the cousin...oh dear. Perhaps the girl would say her name. Their faces shone with joy at the sight of the young man, too absorbed in him to do much more than glance in brief curiosity at Wynne.
"My darling!' Leandra cried, her arms out to embrace her son. "You're safe!" She turned to Wynne, with a puzzled smile at the woman in armor who did not look at all like a soldier.
"Inside," Adam said quietly, and the women bustled back through the door. He gestured at Wynne to precede him. Pleased at his courtesy, she nodded and entered. It was a quaint little place, though it was poor and small compared with the Circle or the Tower of Ishal.
"Mother, Bethany, Charade," Adam said, gesturing to each in turn, so Wynne could follow. "This is Senior Enchanter Wynne. She is from the Circle of Magi, and has been ordered north on official business. I was ordered to escort her. We'll just be here overnight. Wynne, this is my mother, Mistress Hawke, and my sister and cousin."
"From the Circle?" Bethany asked, her curiosity increasing by the moment.
Leandra studied their guest carefully. This Senior Enchanter Wynne might be traveling on official business, but steps had been taken to disguise her identity. Thus, this official business was clearly secret business. What was Adam caught up in?
Wynne smiled at Bethany. "Indeed, I am from the Circle. I am so grateful to be a guest in your home. We rode very hard from Ostagar, and it has been a difficult few days."
"Then you should sit down," Charade said at once. "Come on, you too, Adam. Sit down. I'll get you something to eat, and you can tell us the news. How's Carver?"
"He's fine," Hawke said, lowering himself to the bench and blowing out a breath. "Thanks," he said, taking a cup of cider from his cousin.
Wynne thanked Charade quietly for her own, and said softly. "Perhaps you should give them your own, very good news first."
It was kindly thought of. Hawke reached inside his gambeson and felt for the big seal. Here was what he wanted to show them. He pulled out the patent of knighthood, and spread it out over the worn table.
"I accompanied a scouting party into the Wilds. Actually, I was with Carver. The King led the party himself. We were attacked by darkspawn and I did the King some service—"
Wynne interposed gently, "—They said that you saved His Majesty from being crushed by an ogre—"
"Adam!" the women cried out in unison. The mother was horrified, the girls proud and elated.
"Yes...well..." Hawke shrugged, rather pleased to have someone else do the boasting for him. "It's true. I saved him...for the moment...and he noticed it. Then, in front of his companions...in front of Teyrn Loghain and Lady Bronwyn Cousland...he made me a knight of Ferelden. Ser Adam Hawke. Here's the seal and the King's signature."
Cries of wonder burst out. Bethany pounded his shoulder in excitement.
"Oh, my dearest!" Leandra nearly sobbed. "I'm so proud of you! I always knew you were destined for great things!"
"Is that the King's signature?' Charade asked, leaning over. 'I'd never guess it. What horrible handwriting!"
"Charade!" Bethany giggled.
"Well...the seal is the important thing. Besides...he'd been wounded and he wasn't well. Something terrible happened. You can't go spreading the news, because you really can't let on that Wynne and I have been here...but you'll hear the official word soon enough. The fact is..."
Leandra was still tracing the precious document, eyes shining, barely hearing him. Bethany could see that something serious was coming.
"What is it, Adam? What happened?"
"The King is dead. He died of his wounds. Giving me the knighthood was almost his last official act."
A horrified silence. Eveyone stared at Adam, and then looked at Wynne for confirmation.
"It is true," she bowed her head. "Not even magic could save him, though I did my utmost. His wounds were poisoned by the darkspawn, and Blight sickness killed that fine and beautiful young man."
Leandra shook her head, deeply glad it was not her own fine and beautiful son who was dead. Bethany sat down hard on the bench beside her brother.
"Then who is King? What's going to happen?"
Charade was frightened. "Is anyone going to keep on fighting the darkspawn?"
"Yes, of course," he assured her. "The army isn't going anywhere. Teyrn Loghain is still in charge."
Hunter whined, doggy eyes on the stew warming by the fire. Charade hastily started dishing it up, while Leandra folded the precious patent and took it away from the table, lest it be soiled by food. The first bowl was set on the floor for the dog, who attacked it ravenously.
Wynne wanted to say something to reassure these people. "The King left a will. There is to be a Landsmeet in three months. In the meanwhile, Queen Anora is to continue ruling. It will be difficult holding a Landsmeet when so many of the nobles are in the army, of course."
Bethany considered that. "Maybe they'll hold it in Ostagar. It would be easier for the Queen and the rest to come south than for the soldiers to leave their posts!"
Adam shook his head. "It's hard to imagine, but you might be right." He dug into his meal, too hungry for politics at the moment.
Wynne smiled wistfully, and dipped her spoon into the savory stew. It did smell very good...
"Risk is the price of glory, but it is a lovely thing to live with courage; and afterwards, leave behind a name of lasting renown. Let our deeds, not mere words, honor the memory of this golden lad. Let us finish this war we are in as he would have it: with unconditional victory. Hail and farewell to you, our King Cailan!"
"King Cailan!" The answering shouts rolled out, a funeral dirge echoing down the valley. Above on the pyre, Loghain concluded his speech, and laid his torch to the tinder and oil that would give Maric's child to the fire. He descended slowly, his face dark and closed.
Standing among the Wardens, Alistair's face was wet with tears; nor was he the only one. Bronwyn blinked away her own grief. She had not expected Loghain's speech to move her so. He had been angry with the King, she knew; to some degree he must have regarded the young man as a traitor and a double-dealer—as a bitter disappointment. In the end, though, it seemed that he had loved him. The speech was brief but moving; the final words the kind that remained engraved on the heart. She wept for the King, yes; and then for her family, for Delilah and Thomas Howe, and all those laid waste by the unforeseen and unforeseeable storm that had swept through Ferelden.
Leliana was holding hands with Tara and Brosca, and their tears were falling freely. There were throat-clearings and snufflings. Not from Astrid, grave but composed; or from Morrigan, coolly observant. But then, Bronwyn acknowledged, Morrigan had never liked or respected Cailan.
Wait. To her surprise, she noted that Morrigan was wearing the rich gold necklace given to her by the King. That, she supposed, was all the tribute Morrigan was likely to pay him.
"...It is s lovely thing to live with courage..." Bronwyn wiped her face clean and reconsidered the speech. Those words were beautiful, but the reference to the "golden lad" disturbed her. Loghain was not a sentimental man himself; but he knew the power of an appeal to sentiment.
Of course one only spoke well of the dead. Still, Loghain, while he claimed to be a soldier rather than a politician, had learned his share of tricks...
Once again, she was called to play hostess among the nobles, reluctantly leaving her Wardens, but knowing that Leliana understood all about what was proper at these times. The Wardens were being very kind to Alistair. Not all of them knew the truth, but some did, and were giving support without hesitation. There was Anders, patting his Senior Warden on the back, standing by him while the pyre blazed. Cullen was on the other side, murmuring prayers.
The pyre was burning well. Bronwyn kept the cynical smile from her face. No doubt Uldred was helping it along with his useful little spells. What the Revered Mother did not know...was simply none of her business.
Loghain glanced over at her, and she drew close to fill his cup again. There were still not many noblewoman at Ostagar. She had worn her gown to the funeral, but also her sword, and so was dressed both as warrior and as woman. She now wondered what message the nobles were inferring from it. She smiled, and spoke civilly to the representatives of the dwarves and the elves. They had withdrawn to tight little knots. Their own home customs made the immolation of a king foreign and repulsive to them. The dwarves buried their death deep under stone; the Dalish buried theirs in the earth and planted a tree over the grave.
Well, to each his own...
Cousin Leonas clearly wanted to talk to her. She nodded to Loghain, and slipped through the mourners, still holding her silver wine pitcher.
"Yes," Bryland agreed, holding out his cup. "Perhaps a bit more. Look here, Bronwyn, we all need to talk. A nice, frank talk: you, Loghain, Wulffe, me, and a few of the banns. Not here, of course, but soon. We need to have everything ready to present to the Landsmeet. If we don't, the stay-at-homes in the Bannorn will get silly notions. You've written to Fergus, I trust."
"Of course."
"Well, we'll want to know how he feels about it, but maybe you have some insights. He never struck me as consumed by ambition, but I know he'd do his duty if he were called to be King."
"Fergus would never fail in his duty—"
"But maybe he's needed more as Teyrn of Highever right now," Bryland continued, pursuing his thought. "The North is a mess, I know, but maybe we need to make clear that the Blight is our first priority. Maybe the King we need is the man who's leading the fight. Of course, he'll need a proper claim to the throne..."
A chill slithered up her back, a hint of a dark future to come. "I think we really ought not to discuss this now. Someone will overhear us."
"Of course. Of course. But soon."
Thanks to my reviewers: I was absolutely blown away by the response to the last chapter. I so appreciate all your input and insights.
So here's to you: mutive, Menamebephil, Aoi24, Costin, Halm Vendrella, MsBarrows, Herebedragons66, Lehni, Josie Lange, SkaterGirl246, demonicnargles, Juliafied, Zute, dyslecksec, Have Socks. Will Travel, wisecracknmama, JackOfBladesX, almostinsane, Redhand, Cobar713, KnighOfHolyLight, tgcgoddess, karinfan123, Blinded in a bolthole, Pirate Ninjas of the Abyss, Syntia13, Persephone Chiara, Jenna53, Shakespira, Shinkansen, Psyche Sinclair, WellspringCD, Judy, The Moidart, Revan, Enaid Aderyn, Dante Alighieri1308, Remenants, Kira Kyuu, Eva Galana, euromellows, cloud1004, Death Knight's Crowbar, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, Edward Cullen's Girl, ByLanternLight, Silent Storm, graydevilforever, Oleander's One, CynderJenn, mille libri, and Aryk von Straln.
Loghain's words at the funeral paraphrase those of Alexander the Great.
We see Fergus in the next chapter...