Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 57: Winter is Coming
Ostagar stank.
The crumbling fortress was two thousand years old, but there was hard use in it yet. Tevinter legions had kept watch on the restless south here, holding back the barbarian tribes. Now Ostagar held back the darkspawn.
The valley floor below the bridge was filled with log barracks and ringed with defensive works. Ballistae were positioned up on the heights and down on the lower bastions. It had been some time since the darkspawn tried a frontal assault on the fortress itself.
Ostagar had probably stunk in the Tevinters' day, too: magic could only do so much to gloss over the squalider aspects of life. Now, men, elves, dwarves—dogs and horses—mage and mundane alike—they all contributed in their own ways to the odor of latrines and kennels and stables; of woodsmoke, wet leather, oiled steel, home-brewed liquor, and burnt porridge.
Bronwyn crossed the bridge impatiently, Scout at her heels, her boots pounding a quick rhythm on the ancient stones. She felt agitated, restless, vaguely angry; she felt like she was going into battle. Soldiers looked up at her approach, saw her helmet, recognized her.
"—Commander…"
"—Glad you're back, Grey Warden…"
"—Good day to you, my lady…"
She nodded to them all. Loghain was meeting with Alistair on the other side of the gorge, in a structure built under the broken vaults of the old hall. It was cobbled together of fallen stone and heavy logs, but it was better situated for overlooking the valley and its fortifications than the room they had used in the Tower of Ishal. It stood where they had taken counsel, the night before the Bloomingtide Battle, when Duncan fell. Now of course, it had a sound roof of pine shingles to keep out the weather.
More buildings were going up. Winter was coming to the south. It was now the beginning of Harvestmere. They could expect snow by Firstfall. The supply convoys were coming in regularly. They must stock up; they must. What would happen to the army if the snow were heavy enough to make even the Imperial Highway impassable?
Much as she dreaded it, Bronwyn also wished that the Archdemon would just get it over with it and make its appearance. She was weary of its threats in the Fade; weary of its smug gloating. Better to face the monster that walked her dreams in the light of day, sword in hand, and endure whatever came of it.
The guards at the big hut saw her coming and opened the door, announcing her. Bronwyn strode in, glanced around the rude log interior and then stalked toward the three people at the long table. Scout trotted in, tail wagging, and went directly to Loghain.
Alistair was already up, smiling broadly, delighted to see her. She was gathered up in a clanking bear hug that left her breathless. She laughed, feeling the sharpest edge of her anger slipping away. The left side of Alistair's head was bandaged heavily. Bronwyn remembered Oghren's words about the recent battle.
"You're back!" Alistair let her go, and looked her over. "You're all right? What happened?" He noticed the elaborate horn slung across her chest, and whistled. "Where'd you get that? Looks expensive!"
Astrid was up, too; also smiling. Not as unguardedly, true; but it was still sincere and friendly.
Loghain remained enthroned in his chair on the opposite side of the table, his face carefully, discreetly expressionless. He rubbed Scout's ears, talking softly to the dog. For a moment, Bronwyn's unfocused anger flared again. She removed the little bear gut pouch from inside her tunic and tossed it onto the table like a thrown gauntlet.
"Here's your Ashes, by the way."
Why was she so angry with him? Loghain looked her over carefully, and seemed pleased to find her unhurt. He gave Scout a pat and reached for the packet, while Bronwyn was distracted by Alistair's questions.
"Did you see it? Really? Did you see the Urn?" His grin was white; enormous. "Wow...Andraste's real Ashes..."
Astrid, more calmly, asked, "Did you have any trouble?"
"Some." Now that it came to it, Bronwyn felt some discomfort at telling them what had happened. "The Ashes were heavily guarded. There was a High Dragon…and Cullen was killed."
Alistair's face crumpled, the joy blown out like a candle. Loghain frowned, but said nothing. Bronwyn, with bitter resentment, wondered if he remembered who Cullen was.
Astrid took her by the hand, and led her to a chair. "Tell us," she said, putting a cup of cider in front of Bronwyn.
So it all came out. Bronwyn forced down her irrational rage, trying to tell the story more sensibly than she had to her comrades. The watching eyes at Sulcher, the ambush, The Reavers and their inhuman strength, Haven and its lunatic dragon cult, Genetivi's miserable fate, the vast Temple, the caverns and the dragonlings, Kolgrim and the "risen Andraste," the Shrine and the Gauntlet. She was brief about all of it, and about the Gauntlet she was not descriptive, except to mention that "the Guardian knew everything about us. Everything."
She said nothing about her friends and their own reward of Ashes. They had agreed amongst themselves not to speak of it, and Brownyn would keep her word. Nobody needed to know that there was more than one pinch of Sacred Ashes to be had.
Then there was the fight with Kolgrim and his minions. The horn was Kolgrim's, she explained, and used to summon the dragon. Alistair looked like he wanted to ask questions, but Bronwyn forged ahead, afraid that if she did not speak of it now, she never would. So she told them of the battle with the High Dragon, and how Cullen fell. Loghain leaned forward, hawk face intent, gleaning every word she uttered about how they slew the creature. Scout whined a little, sensing his Bronwyn's distress, and came over to put his head in her lap.
"That was clever," Astrid nodded. "Attaching the bomb to the wing joint …that was very clever. Detonating it when it was in the air—also excellent. You let the fall and creature's weight do half the work for you."
"More than half," Bronwyn confessed. "We were making no impression on the thing at all. Our swords were as useless as straw against it, until it was down and stunned."
Alistair was slumped in his chair. "Cullen…that's horrible. Do you think he suffered?"
Bronwyn stared at him rather nonplussed, and it was on the tip of her tongue to ask him, "What do you think? He was bitten to death by a dragon!"
"It was quick," she said sharply, thinking that however it quick it was, it probably seemed like forever to Cullen.
There was a long silence, while she drank thirstily, feeling foolish and emotional and off-balance. She buried her left hand in Scout's thick fur, needing the reassurance.
Loghain let her drink, and then said quietly, "I am very sorry for the loss of your Warden, but you must realize that it could easily have been the lot of you. I'm astonished that you found and retrieved the Ashes. Now, of course, we must get them to Anora."
"They need to be well protected," Bronwyn said. "Replacing them might be something of a problem."
He thought that over. "Two days ago you could have traveled with Bryland and his escort when he left for his daughter's wedding. There will be a supply train returning north soon. Perhaps that would do." He was dissatisfied with that, but could think of nothing better. If this was a cure for Anora, she should have it as soon as possible, but they could not risk it going astray.
"Who's taking it to her?" Alistair asked.
Well, that was the question, wasn't it? Bronwyn had already given it a bit of thought.
"We'll need to send Jowan. The Queen knows and trusts him, and he and Wynne can work out between them the best way to administer the Ashes. I'd send Anders, but if Wynne can't cure the Queen in the ordinary way, then I presume Anders couldn't either. No. It should be Jowan. And they know him at the Compound, too."
"Not alone, surely," Loghain said. "Though, to be blunt, I'd prefer you not send the Orlesian."
Bronwyn smiled tightly. "I have had proof, time and again, of Leliana's courage and loyalty. I consider her a dear friend... and a sister. Though perhaps she had enough of travel at the moment. Perhaps Carver Hawke. They will be stopping in Lothering, and it would give him a chance to see his family. While they're in Denerim, I'll have them present my wedding gift to the Arl of Denerim and his new Arlessa."
They talked a little longer: mostly about the subterranean attack a few days before. It had given the camp something of a scare. The Wardens and dwarves were checking out the remains of the tunnels. There was a possibility that the ones they knew of were not all there were.
Abruptly, Loghain said, "And now I need to speak privately with your commander, Wardens. We'll meet again when your people return."
Alistair blushed, and then gave Bronwyn a naughty grin. Bronwyn only gave him a mock-haughty look, as Astrid pulled him out the door. Scout sprawled lazily on the floor by Bronwyn's chair.
"Warden Astrid is an excellent staff officer," Loghain remarked, once the door was shut. "A very sound soldier." He gave Bronwyn an odd, inscrutable look, then rose slowly. "Must you wear that ridiculous helmet everywhere?" It was the wrong thing to say, he knew, as soon as he said it.
"Yes, I must," Bronwyn said, standing her ground, still unreasonably irritated with him. "It saves time. Everyone knows who I am, and I don't have to waste my breath arguing with people about my identity."
Loghain removed the helmet gently, and set it on the table. With a careful hand, he smoothed her ruffled hair. "I already know who you are. Why are you angry with me?"
She hardly knew herself, but the words burst out of her without conscious thought. "You weren't there! You didn't see how bad it was! I've lost a Warden, and we weren't even fighting darkspawn! Scout was almost killed!"
He took her in his arms, glad to comfort her. She was so young; so impossibly young. A quick, awkward kiss; and then a longer, sweeter, surer one. It is was unfortunate, but he could not take her here: anyone might walk in at any time. And they were both in armor, and it would take forever to take it off and then put it back on. Tonight, though…
"I'm sorry I wasn't there," he said, with unfeigned sincerity. "And don't imagine that I'm ungrateful. I suppose all we can do at this point is hope the Ashes cure Anora, but you've done more than anyone could…more than I have any right to expect. And I'm sorry for your Templar. He was a brave man. He was the one who threw you up onto Flemeth's back, wasn't he?"
"Yes." So he did remember Cullen. It soothed her anger quite a bit. "But I don't want to talk about that place anymore. Maybe someday. It was too much like the sort of thing you dislike—fantasy and make-believe, but horribly real. Imagine meeting dragon worshipers in this day and age! Anyway, it's done. I've asked my people not to talk about it—especially not the location of the Temple or the village. The Divine would order it occupied and have all the villagers massacred. And stupid fortune hunters would get themselves killed, rather than coming south to join the army. Yes, enough of it. I want to talk to you about Arl Teagan."
He drew her closer, and let her rest her head against his jaw. Embracing a woman in armor took some care, but was doable, unlike more serious intimacies. He had learned the art long ago with Rowan.
He told her, "Alistair came to me with a letter from Teagan. The worthy arl mentioned your visit, and pleaded with Alistair to assert his 'rights.'" Loghain chuckled. "The boy was desperate for me to find a way for him to get out of it."
"I told Teagan that Alistair is no fit claimant for the throne. The Landsmeet will never accept an unacknowledged bastard."
"Teagan was also peevish about your 'understandable bias in favor of a brother.' Did you tell him you were supporting Fergus?"
"Not exactly," Bronwyn smiled to herself, "but I said my brother would do his duty. As it happens, a letter from Fergus arrived while I was gone. I brought it with me. It might be of some interest to you."
He pushed her away to arms' length, trying to read her expression. She produced the letter, and laid it in his hands.
"For brevity's sake," she said, "I shall translate the code. We are welcome to all the kingdoms of the earth, as long as we leave Highever to him."
Loghain's eyes blazed with a cold blue flame of triumph, but Bronwyn was oddly disturbed by her own words, remembering her father's phantom in the Gauntlet.
"…you reach for an earthly crown, but the kingdom you must conquer is the kingdom within. That is the one realm that will be yours in eternity…"
But Loghain was kissing her again, mouth hard on hers, and her father's voice faded, and was forgotten.
"We have much to do," he said afterwards. His expression was unusually tender. He cupped her cheek in a calloused hand, and gave her a brief smile. It changed his face so much that Bronwyn's heart caught; it was a fleeting glimpse of the young rebel he had been, long ago. She smiled too, more so, when Scout thumped his tail in drowsy approval.
Bronwyn said, "So my cousin Bryland has already gone north. Fergus reminded me to send Habren a present, lest she hate me forever."
Loghain snorted. "Wise advice, especially at this time. Bryland's going to sound Urien about it all, but we still needed to find out where your brother stood. I'll send a courier to Bryland to bring him up to speed. Let's talk to Wulffe later. If we have Gwaren, Highever, South Reach, and West Hills, it doesn't matter what Teagan says—or even if Urien dislikes it. Obviously, though, it's best to have a consensus."
"Of course."
"And then," he frowned. "There's the matter of the wedding."
Bronwyn regarded him blankly. Surely he did not expect her to rush to Denerim to attend Habren's nuptial rites? All things considered, she would just as soon be fighting darkspawn.
"Wedding?"
He scowled at her, at once amused and vexed. "Yes. Our wedding. If we are to present ourselves to the Landsmeet as a couple, we have to actually...be a couple."
A wedding. Bronwyn's heart sank. What girl did not dream of a wedding? There was, however, no way that her wedding could be anything resembling her youthful dreams. She had always imagined a noble event at Denerim Cathedral, surrounded by friends and family, attended by the King and Queen.
How many of those people were dead and gone? Her guest list was grown sadly thin. Her father was dead and would not give her away. Her mother would not be there, iron will wrapped in velvet tact, to see that everything was perfect for her. Oriana would not kiss her and whisper secrets. Oren would not make silly faces and call her "Auntie."
Very likely, not even Fergus would be there. He was far away in the north, setting Highever in order. She had no kinswoman available to stand up with her and strew the bridal bed with flowers—if there were any flowers to be had this time of year.
Her only kinswomen close enough to count were her Bryland cousins: fussy, elderly Werberga and Habren, the soon-to-be Arlessa of Denerim. The image of Habren performing such a role was almost enough to put Bronwyn off the idea of marrying altogether.
Loghain was still looking at her, waiting for a response. "Yes. I see," Bronwyn managed. "The question is: when and where would be best? We could be married here in camp, I suppose, and the army might like it, but it wouldn't do us much good with any of the banns in Denerim."
"Bryland wants to put forward the idea of having the Landsmeet at South Reach. Urien won't like it, but it might be best."
"Urien won't be the only one. People are creatures of habit."
"People are fools, most of the time," Loghain sneered. "but I grant you that the stay-at-homes won't want to be any closer to the darkspawn than they need to be. Speaking of which: we need to strike hard against the darkspawn, and soon. We need to keep them at bay while we bring the nobility into line." He began pacing the floor, head down, deep in thought. "At any rate, we need to be married before the Landsmeet convenes. The actual wedding could be only a few days beforehand; however, we need to announce the betrothal fairly soon, to give substance to our claim."
"That announcement," Bronwyn sighed. "will be a public acknowledgement that we are seeking the crown."
"Yes," Loghain smirked. "Be ready for the storm to follow."
He needed to brief his trusted lieutenants and those of his sworn banns who were not already in his confidence; she needed to tell the Wardens. She shrank a little from the thought, but only a little. Alistair was always going to be the hardest to convince, and Alistair already knew her plans. Would the others care? Would they be offended? It was not as if she would be deserting them.
"I will not be stepping down as Warden-Commander, not while the Blight lasts."
Loghain approved—and seemed unsurprised.
"Fair enough. The Blight is the greatest threat. Besides, if we need an administrator in Denerim, we have Anora."
Bronwyn thought that over, trying to ignore a faint stirring of unease. "You mean…keep her on as…? No. You want to appoint her Chancellor of the Realm..."
"Why not?" Loghain shrugged. "She's been doing the work for years. She knows all the Court and City functionaries. She knows the ambassadors. Yes. It's unconventional, but why not make good use of her skills? She'll have the title of Queen-Dowager to give her status. She'll be happiest, doing what she does best; and you and I can deal with the darkspawn. Unless you really want to trade the armor for silk and swan about the Palace?"
"Not while there's a Blight," Bronwyn said slowly. "But I may, someday. And there's the issue of inheritance. Fergus is my heir. He has a right of blood equal to my own. I won't have him set aside."
"And Anora is my heir," Loghain answered, his eyes hooded. "And I expect to receive the Crown Matrimonial."
There. There was a capital demand. Bronwyn was prepared for it.
"I expected no less, but Fergus is next in line after the two of us."
"You will want this in the marriage contract?"
"Absolutely."
A stiff, uncomfortable silence. Loghain gave her a long look, and Bronwyn braced herself for a fight. The Crown Matrimonial for Fergus as heir to the throne. At the moment, Loghain's expression reminded Bronwyn very disagreeably of cunning peasant freeholders she had known in Highever, forever looking for ways to get the best of a noble. The fight, however, did not materialize. Loghain cocked his head and then spoke briskly.
"We'll talk more of this, of course. I'll have my clerk start drafting the marriage contract. The first step is to secure the crown. The Landsmeet would no doubt be appeased by Fergus as the next heir. Still, Anora will want a secure place, either in the capital or in Gwaren. You can't expect me not to want her taken care of."
"I know that you must consider your daughter's honor and prestige, but let us see first if the Ashes will restore her health. If all goes well, I think Chancellor is a great honor."
Loghain kissed his difficult, proud young warrior again before she left, and then ticked through what else must be done. He must meet with Cauthrien and the other captains, he knew; but first he must see to his correspondence. There were two letters to write, and his clerk could have no part in them. If the courier were quick and clever, he would intercept Bryland before he reached Denerim. And Bryland would see that Anora got her letter as well. He sat before the parchment, considering what to say and what to conceal.
Bryland—
Bronwyn is back in Ostagar and safe, her mission successful. No darkspawn west of the Lake, which is a relief, of course. A letter from Fergus Cousland arrived for her. She tells me that he has renounced his claim to the throne in her favor. Bronwyn insists that he be heir, however. Perhaps this is for the best. She has agreed to the Crown Matrimonial. We will announce the betrothal fairly soon, but after your return to Ostagar. Sound out Urien, and find out where his loyalties lie.
L
He set it aside, and then pulled out another sheet of parchment.
My dearest daughter—
Bronwyn is back in Ostagar. She has the item, and it will be coming to Denerim, heavily guarded. We have high hopes. Very soon we will announce our plans to wed, and then to cliam the throne. I will be granted the Crown Matrimonial. Both of us will be deeply involved in the war in the south, and so I have suggested a central, vital role for you. As Queen-Dowager, you shall rule the kingdom as Chancellor in name as well as in fact.
Fergus Cousland has written to Bronwyn, renouncing his own claim to the throne for the moment. He will, however, be named as her heir in the marriage articles. It will, as you know, give us all the votes from Highever and Amaranthine. Forgive me for writing to you like a hard-headed politician, but I urge you to consider a marriage with Cousland. If Bronwyn and I have no children, he would be king, and you would once more be Queen. If you like, it can be made a condition of our alliance.
Your loving father,
Loghain
Adaia returned to the Tower to find that that the wayfarers had returned. It was a shame about Cullen, but she had not been close to him. She was very relieved to see Tara and Zevran, though.
"Such a lot a loot we got," Tara whispered to Adaia. "Though we should have got more to pay for poor Cullen."
Silver chalices and gold plates; jewels and coin in plenty. And Arl Teagan had given them all noble garments when they stopped at Redcliffe and stayed at the castle. Adaia uttered a hoarse squeal of delight at Tara's new finery.
"What a beautiful dress!" She ran work-roughened fingers over the silken velvet and pressed it to her cheek. "This is lovely! Who would have thought a great arl would have something to fit an elf maiden?"
"It was probably something for a human girl. Who knows how he came by it? The servants at Redcliffe said Arl Teagan has cupboards and cupboards of grand clothing, and bolts of fine silks beyond count. The old Arl's wife put every penny the arling had on her back. Arl Teagan gave clothes to us all, and to his young cousin, too. I heard he sent silks and velvets to that cousin of Bronwyn's who's getting married."
Adaia rubbed her cheek on the velvet again, hoping that Tara might give her her second-best dress, now that she had this. Wistfully she remembered her own dress on the day of her wedding, the only fine clothes she had ever possessed: fine white wool and bright embroidery on the gown; shiny bronze studs on the belt. It had not lasted a day before it was torn and bloody. Even the boots had been ruined. "Can I see what everyone else got?"
They spent a pleasurable time admiring Leliana's blue and lavender ensemble, and Zevran's dark yellow doublet. Danith pretended to be uninterested, but her eyes were drawn to the rich colors and graceful lines. Even Morrigan granted the clothing her cool approval. Anders thought that perhaps the Wardens should check Redcliffe Castle again—very thoroughly—for possible darkspawn infiltration.
"In the cupboards," he mused. "Wouldn't want the darkspawn to disguise themselves as noblemen."
Leliana sighed. "Laugh now. Before Brosca comes."
Morrigan muttered to Anders. "The dwarf girl is better off without that stiff-necked fool. Anyone could see he thought himself too fine for her."
Leliana hissed an angry breath, ready to take it up with the witch. Adaia dreaded the idea of a fight among her friends, and burst out with more clothes talk.
"What about Bronwyn? Didn't she get anything?"
When Bronwyn returned to the Wardens' quarters in the Tower, she found them talking about clothes, of all things.
"So let us look at this gown of yours, Bronwyn," Leliana urged her, as the companions admired the loot of Haven. "I have ideas about it."
"I heard it was red," Adaia said eagerly. "I love red."
Bronwyn had folded it very carefully and wrapped a clean shirt around it. She pulled it out of the saddlebag, and laid it out on her cot. All the women—and quite a few men— came to admire it.
"A good color for you," Anders said. "Very bold."
"You should wear it tonight!" cried Adaia.
Bronwyn shook her head. "It's too chilly for this. I'd shiver all through dinner with nothing on my shoulders!"
Leliana admired the gown, too, but in a business-like way. "Yes, yes, the silk is superb. Heavy…soft…a fine hand to it. Nonetheless, the style is hopelessly antiquated. Even in the days of Queen Rowan it would have been out of fashion."
"If it came into her possession during the Rebellion," Bronwyn laughed. "Fashion would hardly have mattered to her."
"That is so," Leliana conceded, "but it could explain why the Queen did not bother to take it with her after she was crowned. A sentimental relic of her adventures. Still, I think something can be done with this. The long train…no one wears them anymore. That is a good thing, since the worst wear shows here. Some little snips of the shears, and a new hem, and so!"
Zevran was intrigued by the project. "The style is Antivan. I recognize it. I fear, Noble One, that only very old ladies wear it now, which is a pity, since I like a fine pair of shoulders on a woman."
Bronwyn shrugged. Her own arms and shoulders were not parts of her body that she particularly cared to show off. Exercise and endless combat had left them scarred and sinewy. Very good for riding and fighting, but not particularly pretty.
"Better to cover them up," she said. "Besides, it's too late in the year. I nearly froze, wearing this at Redcliffe."
"That is easy!" said Leliana. "Have one of those dear little capelets made…perhaps in black velvet. They are so in vogue now, and it will be warmer with winter coming. Yes, black velvet, with a high collar. And fastened with a big brooch…" She dug through the loot and found a brooch of gold, fashioned in the shape of a dragon encircled by its own tail, whose eye was a ruby cabochon. "This one! No one would see the old neckline that way, and it would be very dramatic. With a very high collar, to set off your long neck!"
Bronwyn let Leliana talk, amused and diverted by the talk of fripperies and fashion. Still, there was something in it. She would have to wear something other than armor at the Landsmeet—or that Warden gown—and it would not do to appear shabby or out-of-date. Perhaps, Loghain's words to the contrary, she should send Leliana north with Jowan with some commissions.
Astrid and Alistair arrived. They had taken a walk around the camp and stopped to talk with some acquaintances. They found their friends earnestly exchanging fashion tips.
"I can sew," said Adaia. "If I had some black velvet, I could make that capelet."
Leliana was quite intrigued by the project. "I sew as well, and it would not take more than three ells of fabric. Between us, we could accomplish it. Surely someone in this camp of thousands has some black velvet. We shall make a search. I might put some boning in the collar to make it stand up."
Astrid was amused, and remembered the chest in her old rooms at the Royal Palace of Orzammar, filled with garments of fine surface silk. There had been a gown of pale blue, with a sheen like an opal. Her favorite gown. Bhelen had probably given it to his concubine...Brosca's sister... The thought wrung a wry chuckle from her.
"Piotin Aeducan probably has some black velvet. He likes to be fine, and he favors black. Mind you, he'll want a good price."
And there was the plunder to admire. Some choice pieces had been claimed by those on the spot, but quite a bit remained. A fifth would be the portion of the Wardens, and sent to the Compound. Others pieces would be shared out to everyone. Bronwyn set aside the some big gold sacramental items: a chalice and a pair of candlesticks to enrich the Compound. Then she pondered over a shallow bowl hammered out of pure, soft gold in the form of a flower. She really must send something to Habren for her blasted wedding present…
After some trading and bartering and endless talk. Bronwyn got the bowl for Habren and the dragon brooch for herself. If she was going to present herself as a Queen before the Landsmeet, she must look like one; and she could not very well dress as a Warden at that particular gathering.
The patrol returned at twilight. Brosca was so undone at the news of Cullen's death that everyone was ashamed of having spent the afternoon in trivial pleasures. Leaving Bronwyn to deal with Brosca, Alistair took Sten and Jowan aside and got the report from them; and then went to Loghain with them to discuss their findings—or lack of them.
They had not seen any darkspawn, which in a way was even more ominous than running into the horde. Where had the creatures gone? Had they disappeared into the earth again? What was the Archdemon planning? They had much to think about, but Bronwyn was too involved with Brosca to be any part of the discussion at the moment.
Tara hung back a little, uncomfortably aware that Cullen had preferred her to Brosca. Was she hard-hearted? Should she be ashamed of her own happiness? It wasn't her fault that Cullen had followed her around like a puppy, because she had certainly given him no encouragement at all. She gave Brosca a pat, and a "sorry," and then retreated to her cubbyhole with Zevran.
Leliana gave Brosca a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek, and murmured comforting words about Cullen's courage, eyes glimmering with sympathetic tears. Perhaps they were more than merely sympathetic, but Leliana, whatever she felt, was not speaking of it.
There were other kind words and gestures. Oghren muttered something incomprehensible, and shoved a stone bottle of home brew into Brosca's hands. Dwarves sometimes understood each other best, for Brosca seemed grateful. Bronwyn was left to talk with her, and heavy going she found it.
"When he came back, we were going to be together. I know we were," Brosca sobbed out, her sturdy back shaking. "The day he left we kissed, and it was special. We both knew then that it was meant to be. He just needed time to get over Tara. I could do that. I could give him time…" Her voice broke. "Did he talk about me?"
Bronwyn took a breath, and uttered the comforting lies she had prepared on the quiet nights afloat on the Lady of the Lake.
"Cullen did talk to me about you," she said. That much at least was true. "He smiled, and told me all about how you kissed. He said such good things about you… that you were a good comrade… so brave and cheerful…wonderful, really. He was only concerned that with all the dwarves in Ostagar you might find someone else while he was gone."
Brosca's nose was running. She wiped it on her sleeve, and shook her head. "Never! He was the one for me! I'd known a lot of men who called themselves noble in Orzammar, and mostly they were just big shitheads; but he was the real thing. He didn't need a title to be noble. He was decent and honest and…and…high-minded. He was so damned good-looking that he was good-looking enough for both of us. I never met anybody like him before, and I never will again." She uncorked the bottle and took a long swallow.
"Don't give up on your future, Brosca," Bronwyn said, squeezing the girl's brawny shoulder, ashamed of her lies, but dreading how the truth would hurt this girl even more. "Don't give up. Cullen wouldn't want that. A man who gives his life for his friends doesn't want them to be unhappy. "
"'m not unhappy," Brosca insisted, wiping her nose again. "m' fine. I've got friends and I've got darkspawn to fight."
"Look," Bronwyn said, showing Brosca the gleaming amulet. "We were given these on the journey. This was Cullen's. I thought he'd like you to have it."
The dwarf girl seized it and put it around her neck immediately. "Thanks. I'll never take it off again—not even to wash. Did he have any last words?"
Bronwyn did not permit herself to shudder, remembering those awful agonized screams. She forced a smile, and said, "No. It was over in a flash. He didn't even have a chance to know he was dead."
"That's good," Brosca muttered, a little consoled, fingers tugging at the amulet. "That's always the best way." She took another drink.
Loghain was glad to see Bronwyn out of armor at dinner, though not thrilled that her only gown appeared to be in essence a Grey Warden uniform. Didn't the girl have anything else?
Probably not. He would be wise not to say that to her face, or it would make it even angrier than criticizing her helmet. He knew that the girl had escaped Highever with only the clothes on her back—which were not exactly clothes, but armor, anyway. Aside from shirts and breeches she had scavenged here at Ostagar, what else would she have? The Grey Warden gown at the Warden Compound was a twenty-year-old hand-me-down from Commander Genevieve, but it would be easier to remove tonight than her chainmail.
She had been traveling and fighting constantly since Bloomingtide. Not being an insipid spendthrift like Habren Bryland, she been too busy to waste her time at a dressmaking shop. She had her priorities straight, certainly, but Loghain suspected she might not object to wearing a fine gown now and then. Rowan certainly had enjoyed it, when the opportunity came her way.
She looked very nice, at any rate, and he was glad to have her sitting next to him once more. Had she lost weight on her Frostback adventure? She needed to eat more.
"Courtesy of Bann Teagan," he said to her as she sat down. The mess servants were setting bowls of dried-fish stew before them. "He sent us a good lot of provisions along with Alistair's letter. Nothing fancy, but not bad at all."
"Looks good," she said. "I'm starving." It was far better than the snack she had had in the Wardens' quarters. She applied herself seriously to the food before her, and let Loghain do the talking.
"We've been lucky with the harvest. The Bannorn has had a good year, though the freeholders aren't pleased at the share that goes to the army. It's much same everywhere, as the wagons from Redcliffe indicate. Didn't Teagan feed you when you saw him?"
"He fed us heaps, and it was all wonderfully elegant. But that was two days ago, and I'm hungry again. This bread is really not bad. The bakers seems to have finally figured out the camp ovens. Aren't you going to finish that cheese?"
"Yes, I am," he said repressively. "But I am not eating like a dragon—like a famished wolf."
"You can say 'dragon' in front of me. Just not to Brosca. I just broke the news about Cullen to her. She's taking it hard."
Loghain glanced over to the dwarf girl, who was pale and silent, sitting between the Orlesian bard and the other dwarf. "It hasn't affected her appetite, at least."
Bronwyn glared at him. "Of course not. She's a Warden. It doesn't mean she's not grieving."
He took another look at the Wardens' Table. "The dragon folk apparently dressed in style. Did they capture all the guests at an Orlesian masked ball?"
Bronwyn saw that he was looking at Tara and Zevran in particular. "No, that's from Teagan. He has heaps of clothing. Most of it was Isolde's, but there were some other items. I suspect the doublet Zevran has on is something Teagan wore as a boy. And some of the extra silks have been sent to Denerim for Habren's wedding present. How nice for her."
"You were not a recipient of Teagan's largesse?"
"Oh, he gave me a gown, but it needs a bit of work." She waved down a servant. "Another bowl, please."
"I'm glad to hear it. It might not be politic to wear your Grey Warden garb to the Landsmeet."
She took another bread roll, and it disappeared in seconds. "Believe it or not, that did occur to me. I'll try to make something of the gown Teagan gave me, but I suspect I'll need some other things. My Wardens can take an order to Denerim for me."
Arl Wulffe arrived, and flung himself onto the bench with a grunt. "Fish stew! Just the thing! The south hills were clear, Loghain. Bronwyn, my dear lass...good to see you!"
"And you. You look well."
"I'll be better for some hot food. What news from the west?"
"No darkspawn, and Arl Teagan sends his greetings."
Loghain leaned around her back, and said quietly, "Let's talk privately after dinner. Bronwyn had a letter from Fergus."
"All right then. Bronwyn, do you suppose that Warden-minstrel of yours might give us a song?"
"Generally, the problem is stopping her once she starts."
"Pretty woman. Always fancied redheads, myself."
Leliana was pleased to have a chance to perform, and whispered to Alistair, "I'm so glad I'm wearing my new gown." She left to fetch her lute straightaway, and was back in moments.
Bronwyn waved her over, and whispered, "Not the song you sang on the boat, though. It's lovely, but it's likely to do Brosca in."
Leliana smiled ruefully, and nodded. The hall stilled, eager for entertainment, as she strummed an introduction.
THERE were two sisters sat in a bower;
Binnorie, O Binnorie!
There came a knight to be their wooer,
By the bonnie milldams of Binnorie.
—
He courted the eldest with gloves and rings,
But he loved the youngest above all things.
—
The eldest she was vexèd rare,
And envìed she her sister fair.
—
Upon a morning fair and clear,
She cried upon her sister dear:
—
'O sister, sister take my hand,
And let 's go down to the river-strand.'
—
The youngest stood upon a stone,
The eldest came and push'd her in.
—
'O sister, sister reach your hand!
And you shall be heir o' half my land.'
—
'I shall not give you hope nor hand,
For I am heir of all your land.'
—
'O sister, reach me but your glove!
And my sweet William shall be your love.'
—
'Sink on, nor hope for hand or glove;
Sweet William shall surely be my love.'
—
Sometimes she sank, sometimes she swam,
Until she came to the miller's dam.
—
Out then came the miller's son,
And saw the fair maid floating in.
—
'O father, father, draw your dam!
There 's either a mermaid or a milk-white swan.'
—
The miller hasted and drew his dam,
And there he found a drowned woman.
—
You could not see her middle small,
Her girdle was so rich withal.
—
You could not see her yellow hair
For the gold and pearls that clustered there.
—
And by there came a harper fine,
That harped when nobles came to dine.
—
And when he looked that lady on,
He sighed and made a heavy moan.
—
He made a harp of her breast-bone,
Whose sound would melt a heart of stone.
—
He took three locks of her yellow hair,
And with them strung his harp so rare.
—
He went into her father's hall,
And there was the court assembled all.
—
He laid his harp upon a stone,
And straight it began to play alone.
—
And then the harp sang loud and clear,
'Oh, farewell, my father and mother dear.
—
'Farewell, farewell, my brother Hugh,
And farewell William, sweet and true.'
—
And then as plain as plain could be,
Binnorie, O Binnorie!
"There sits my sister who drownèd me,
By the bonny mill-dams of Binnorie!'
The Hall was silent, entranced. Leliana struck a chord, and said,
"And the harp snapped and broke, and never sang again."
Enthusiastic applause: shouts of "More!" As Bronwyn predicted, once she started, Leliana was as hard to stop as a ogre going downhill. No one complained. Wulffe was enchanted, muttering, "Aye, sibling rivalry is a terrible thing. Sounds like the Perrin girls..." He then asked what that song was that Bronwyn told the girl not to sing, because he wanted to hear it.
"Not tonight, if you think it will trouble one of your people, but later. I'll make it worth her while, too."
And then Leliana got them all singing along with one they knew: "The Wild Rover," with its chorus of "No! Nay! Never! Fists pounded the rhythm on tables; boots stamped on the floor; hundreds of battle-worn voices shouted in unison. Oghren loved the song, and got up on the Wardens' table to bellow along. It felt for a moment like the Tower itself was shaking.
"Then it's "No, nay never!'"
(Thud, ump, ump ,ump, crash)
'No, nay, never, no more!
Will I play the wild rover,
No, never, no more!"
It was all they could do to get Wulffe to come along with them to Loghain's quarters. Others were summoned: Bann Stronar, Ban Thorne, and Bann Carlin. It was a start. The mess hall was making so much noise they did not see them leave.
Scout followed up the steps, slipping through the door after them. The door shut on the song, and the nobles settled down to serious business. Bronwyn found that they were already prepared for the news. Scout sat by Bronwyn's chair, keeping an eye on the men.
"So..." Bann Thorne nodded sagely. "I can guess what this is about. King Loghain and Queen Bronwyn. You have my support, certainly. Plenty of people will think it's the right thing at the right time."
"Is Arl Bryland with us?" asked Bann Carlin.
"He is," Loghain said crisply, "and all his vassals."
Wulffe asked, "And what does Teyrn Fergus say to all this, Lady Bronwyn?"
They were being rather formal, so Bronwyn took the lead from them, "My lords, my brother has written me, giving me his blessing to take the crown. He is embroiled with setting Highever to rights at the moment. However, we have agreed between us that he is to be my heir."
"I like that," Stronar nodded. "Fergus as the heir presumptive? Yes, I like that."
Wulffe said, "Loghain's to be granted the Crown Matrimonial. But yes, Fergus as the heir of the two of them. Making Fergus the heir straight from the beginning makes clear that he's in agreement with this. We've got both teyrnirs, and two arlings —three if you count Amaranthine, which Fergus is ruling directly now. That should be more than enough."
"The Bannorn is a wayward animal," Bann Thorne remarked, heavy brows gloomy. He bit his lip, and asked Bronwyn. "What about the Wardens? What are they going to say about you taking the throne?"
Bronwyn replied coolly. "My Wardens will support me. The Wardens elsewhere have offered no Ferelden any assistance whatever, and therefore have nothing to say about how we arrange our affairs."
"No assistance at all?" Wulffe frowned. "I'm sorry to say that I doubted you, Loghain. You were right about them. In the Orlesians' pockets, most like."
Bronwyn did not think that was precisely true. However, she saw no point in defending the honor of those who had none.
Other than Riordan and Fiona, was her mental reservation. And what they had done was not to uphold the mission of the order, but for friendship and love.
"Bryland's gone to speak to Urien," Loghain said. "Bronwyn, tell them about your meeting with Teagan."
"After some idle conversation, I thought it best not to confide our plans to him. He's a very decent man, but still grieving deeply for his nephew. He assumed that I was supporting my brother, and while he understood my views, he is not inclined toward a Cousland king. His loyalties are with the Theirins, and he was unwilling to let go of the old royal line just yet."
"Well, he'd better let go," Wulffe snorted. "For they're gone. Who does he want for King?"
Loghain gave her a slight nod. Bronwyn took a breath and said. "King Maric had a bastard who was raised at Redcliffe."
When the amazement died down, Loghain said. "Maric never acknowledged the lad. Eamon raised him in the stables—"
"What!" Stronar gasped. "And Maric permitted it? That sounds pretty dodgy. Did Maric tell you about this boy, Loghain?"
"No," Loghain said flatly. "He never spoke of him. I came across some papers in which Eamon mentions raising a bastard at Redcliffe. However—" he said, raising his hand for silence. "I know the lad. He is not interested in the crown. Teagan wrote to him, and the boy showed me the letter."
"Who is he?" Carlin asked, but Wulffe was nodding his head and rubbing his beard.
"It's Warden Alistair, isn't it? He favors Maric quite a bit. Nice lad, though I can't say I know him well. You believe he's Maric's, then?"
Loghain grimaced. "I think it's possible. Proving it, however, is not possible. We don't even know if the mother was human or elf."
Stronar groaned. "That would go down well! So you're sure the boy isn't going to kick up a fuss?"
"He wants to be a Warden," Bronwyn assured them. "That's all he wants. He confided in me, and I discussed the possibility of a claim with him. He was horrified. He was not brought up as a noble, and fighting is all he knows or wants to know. I told Teagan this. I also pointed out to the arl the utter lack of evidence and the probability that all this claim would do is embarrass Alistair and endanger him. It is possible that the Orlesians already know about him."
Loghain dismissed that. "I'm sure they know about him. Arlessa Isolde likely informed her family and they would have shared the rumor with the Empress. Still, Maric never acknowledged him. If he'd meant for Alistair to inherit anything, he would have provided for him."
"I've certainly provided for my own bastards," Thorne muttered. "I just can't see Maric abandoning his own blood like that, Loghain. I think Eamon made it up. Found a boy with Theirin hair..."
Bronwyn temporized. "Arl Teagan is quite sincere in his belief, but he admits that Maric never directly told him."
"But," Loghain pointed out, "belief is not proof. Teagan believes what his brother told him, and that brother is now beyond swearing an oath before the Landsmeet. Alistair is not interested in pursuing this claim, but you needed to know of his existence if Teagan mentions him."
"Well," Wulffe shrugged. "I don't see why Teagan would care all that much. It's not like the lad is his own blood. Cailan was his nephew, but Alistair is no kin to him at all. Wait...I tell a lie...maybe a fourth cousin or so."
"Actually," Bronwyn said, "I am more closely related to Alistair than Arl Teagan. If he is indeed a son of Maric's, then we are third cousins. I think it is possible, but it cannot be proved. There is nothing in writing that we can present to the Landsmeet. The sooner Arl Teagan drops it as a lost cause, the better."
"I agree," Wulffe said heartily. "Now let's talk about reality. When are you two getting married?"
Thunder rolled in the distance. Bronwyn went to the window to see the clouds thickening to the east. "It will be rain tonight."
The room grew colder. Scout padded over to the warmth of a brazier and curled up to sleep. Bronwyn knelt to give him a good-night pat, and his only response was the flick of an ear. He had had a hard few days. Sighing, Bronwyn got up to rejoin the conversation.
They talked a little longer, solidifying their plans. The betrothal would be announced at Satinalia at the end of the month. The wedding would take place shortly before the Landsmeet, and would be solemnized wherever the Landsmeet convened. Wine was poured, and they pledged faith together; and the others drank solemnly to the King- and- Queen-to-be. Then, with some insufferable winks and nods, the nobles departed, evidently thinking themselves very discreet and tactful. The door opened, and music rose up along the stairs. The door shut, and there was silence again.
"That went well," Bronwyn said, swirling the last of the wine in her goblet. Rain was coming down hard, sheeting the mullioned windows. The thunder was closer now.
"The idea was not new to them," Loghain said. "We'll have the rest of them in over the next few days. The army will support us, no matter what Urien or Teagan or those stubborn fools in the Bannorn say. And we've taken care that there is no one else."
"No," Bronwyn sighed. "Just us. I suppose we're committed now. To everything."
Loghain came over to her, raising a quizzical brow. "It's a little late for second thoughts."
"No second thoughts. This is what must be. I'm just taking in the finality of it all."
"Good. Because there is no turning back now." He took her hand, pressing a kiss into her palm. Lightning flashed outside, briefly turning the window to a harsh white square. Catching by her wrist, Loghain pulled Bronwyn along with him into the dark bedchamber beyond.
On the other side of Ferelden, Fergus Cousland was finishing dinner in the Great Hall of Castle Highever, when he received some excellent news.
"Haglin's agreed to obey the Queen's orders!" Ser Naois announced. His grin dimmed somewhat as he added. "Mind you, the man's not fool enough to turn down a full pardon for himself and his men. He's already withdrawing toward West Hill, and he says he'll be in Ostagar in ten days, Maker willing."
Fergus sighed. "So much for Haglin. Bastard. I'd rather have killed him."
Adam Hawke lounged easily at the table, feeding his mabari tidbits from their meal. "And his five hundred men? They've essentially surrendered. Let the darkspawn have them!"
Fergus scowled, unsatisfied, and Hawke glanced at Naois. Of course they wanted their revenge, but Hawke thought they should set bloodlust aside and accept that the Queen's solution was for the best.
"Really, my lord," Hawke smiled. "They were supposed to have gone south to fight for Ferelden last spring. Now they will. Even men of that sort can be useful. And the Queen ordered that they march along the west shore of Lake Calenhad, so as not to raise discontent in the Bannorn. The only people they're likely to plague are the hillsmen and then Arl Teagan in Redcliffe, though they'll not make an enemy of him if they have any sense. You said Haglin was loyal in his own way. Let him give his life for his country, so some other poor sod doesn't have to!"
Naois barked an unwilling laugh. The other men shifted restlessly, but Fergus could see they were in agreement. Highever did not need more battles, but peace. At least Haglin and his men had not been party to the Highever massacre.
Fergus put up a hand in surrender. "Have your scouts keep an eye on Haglin for the next few days, Naois. Keep lookouts posted along the Neck, in case he tries to double back. If he's really going, let him go. It's past time Amaranthine sent troops to Ostagar. The Queen's a wise woman."
Very wise. And a good idea, sending Haglin's men out of the way when feelings were still so high. The Amaranthine men would cross the Neck, and take the Imperial Highway southwest along Lake Calenhad. They were to bypass Orzammar, and then report to the commander at Gherlen's Halt, just to make certain they were moving in the right direction. They were then to proceed south and march through the Hinterlands, to join the army under Loghain's command. The journey was three or four days longer than the eastern route down the Lake Road, but it would prevent a large armed force from disturbing the Bannorn during harvest time. And Haglin, self-proclaimed Ferelden patriot that he was, could not possibly object to Loghain's authority. Fergus swore to himself that neither Haglin nor any of his company would ever set foot in the north again.
The Queen's most recent letter was on the table before him, telling him pretty much everything she had told Haglin. Fergus had received Anora's first letter a few days after he had written to Bronwyn, renouncing his claim to the throne. The Queen was unhappy, of course; bereft of her King and husband, even if had not been everything to her that he should. Her letter was very kind; flattering even. She expressed complete faith and trust in Teyrn Fergus, and hoped to have the benefit of his company and counsel as soon as his duties in Highever permitted. He had written back, explaining his difficulties with the renegades, and she had resolved the matter very neatly. A wonderful woman.
In veiled terms, she spoke of her improved health. However, it was as yet not perfect, and she could use a strong arm to aid her. She sounded lonely, as leaders always were. And clearly, she wanted something from him. Fergus was no fool, and understood that she had an agenda of her own. Only natural, of course. Somehow, he seemed to be part of hers. Once the matter of Haglin was cleared up—and if the bastard truly kept his word—Fergus might be able to consider a trip south to Denerim, to see what he could do to serve his Queen.
Word of the death in battle of King Cailan had reached Val Royeaux on the twenty-first of Kingsway—or Parvulis, as civilized people called it. The Empress and her Court went into mourning for the brave young king. The bells in the towers of the Grand Cathedral tolled mournfully. Despite her grief at the loss of one so young and charming, the Empress performed her duties with admirable energy. There were many people to see; many orders to give. With the demise of the king of Ferelden, there was great speculation as to how the poor savage provincials would govern themselves. The line of Calenhad was broken, alas. It was very vexing; very unfortunate. Plans had been made for a lasting, honorable peace, and now...all was over. Quel dommage!
No one, knowing his reputation, could be entirely astonished at how Loghain Mac Tir had brought the darkspawn invasion to a standstill. He was a formidable man, without doubt. Some surprise, however, was expressed at how efficiently the junior Grey Wardens had forged alliances with dwarves and elves. They had even persuaded the Knight-Commander of the Circle to release a number of mages to support the army. The Divine, when consulted, professed herself uneasy, though the Grey Wardens were certainly within the letter of the law. Perhaps the Knight-Commander had grown too old and...welll...infirm to bear his responsibilities any longer.
It was the doing of le Prince Cousland's daughter, apparently: a remarkable young person. While for reasons unknown she had not played much of a role at Court, she had stepped out of the shadows to prove herself a leader. She had quite disregarded the commands of the First Warden to come to Orlais and put herself in the hands of those older and wiser. Many shook their heads, hoping that the young lady's pride would not have too hard a fall.
The other young Warden, it was said, was a bastard child of King Maric himself. How very unfortunate that he had not come to Orlais, where his royal blood could be honored, and he could be trained in the arts of war and peace in a way befitting his rank.
While Wardens were not supposed to involve themselves in politics, nor hold high office, young people could be very impulsive. A Warden King and his Warden consort? Shocking. Romantic, perhaps; but still shocking. Not at all comme il faut. Wiser heads must take counsel, and correct this.
So Empress Celene saw many people; gave many orders. By the first of Harvestmere—ah, no—Frumentum, riders were galloping east and south; swift galleys on the Waking Sea sailed toward the rising sun; and permission was granted for some amusing and completely deniable adventures.
Thanks to my reviewers: Nemrut, EpitomyofShyness, Kira Kyuu, Psyche Sinclair, MsBarrows, Hydroplatypus, demonicnargles, Costin, Rexiselic, anon, Zute, JackOfBladesX, Blinded in a Bolthole, KnightOfHolyLight, euromellows, Jenna53, Josie Lange, mille libri, Aoi24, Gene Dark, Herbedragons66, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, Shakespira, Tsu Doh Nimh, Eva Galana, Pirate Ninjas of the Abyss, Mike3207, SkaterGirl246, Tyanilth, Chandagnac, and Have Socks. Will Travel.
The song has many variants. Chandagnac suggested the Twa Sisters version, and then I modernized the spelling of one of the the English versions, Binnorie. Thanks for the suggestion, Chandagnac!
Quel dommage: What a pity
Comme il faut: In accordance with convention or accepted standards.