Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 60: The Seventh Day of Harvestmere, Part 2, and What Followed After
"It's chaos for the most part out there, Majesty, and that's the truth."
Anora was sure it was, but the truth was a rebuke to her, to the Arl of the Denerim, and to the City Guard. A handful of Orlesian agents had struck terror in the heart of Denerim, killed and wounded a large number of Fereldens, and looked to be getting away with it. She had sent a messenger to the commander of the city gates to let no one out, but for all she knew, the assassins had already fled. She did not know what was worse: that they should escape from her, or that they should remain hidden in the city, planning new devilry.
And it could only get uglier. Rumors of the attack were spreading, and there had been retaliation. A young Orlesian merchant had been beaten and raped in the Market District by a mob looking for an easy target. Houses suspected of harboring Orlesians had been attacked and set afire. That last was intolerable, for fire could easily spread out of control.
They had five prisoners in custody, and two of them were unconscious and not expected to survive. Anora remained at the Arl of Denerim's estate, both for her safety and because there was so much to do here.
There was a grim tally of dead and wounded. Anora knew she must have been the prime target of the assassins. They had failed in that, but the blow was still a damaging one. Five Fereldan banns were dead on the scene: Loren, Reginalda, Grainne, Walden…and Bann Ceorlic, too. Alfstanna, like Arl Urien, might die yet.
There were no wounds found on Ceorlic, nor did he bear the signs of poison. It was possible that the man's heart had given out in the terror of the moment. Without a competent Healer, who could say? He was, one way or another, quite dead. His heir was somewhere in the Free Marches.
Others had died, too: wives and sons and daughters of members of the Landsmeet. Some of those wounded would die, and some would never be the same: lamed or disfigured.. Bryland was griefstricken about his sister, and beside himself with worry about his little boy. Where was Wynne?
The guards she sent to the Palace came back with servants, healing herbs, and linen, but no Healer.
"Majesty," one of the the guardsmen said urgently, "We could not find Mistress Wynne. We have a witness that she was taken away earlier in the day."
"Taken! What do you mean? Where is this witness?"
The witness was a cleaning maid named Meggy, terrified at being taken before the Queen. It was some time before she could manage to speak.
"If it please your Majesty, I was washing the window above the south door, when I saw that lady step out to walk around to the Wardens' Compound where she'd been staying. We were told she was supposed to be here, and that we were not to trouble her. All the same, we did see her. They said—" the girl's voice dropped to a whisper, "that she was a mage."
"Go on, Meggy."
"Well, I saw the Templars standing on either side of the door, and they were Templars, after all…."
Anora raised a brow, waiting.
The girl said, "One of them raised his hand up high, and when the lady went through the door, she fell down. Then they grabbed her and started dragging her away. She must have done something wrong, because one of the templars bashed her head with the pommel of his sword and she lay still after that."
Anora's eyes grew larger. Her gaze hardened into a glare. The girl trembled.
"How many of them were there?" asked Anora.
A pause, and the girl looked at the ceiling in thought and counted on her fingers.
"Four,' she said, satisfied with her arithmetic. "There were four of them. They were big."
"Could you recognize them?"
"They were Templars, Your Majesty," the girl whimpered. "They had their big helmets on."
Wynne might be injured. She might well be dead. Anora swallowed her fear and rage, and dismissed the girl. She then summoned two knight of the royal guard.
"Go to the Cathedral," she ordered them. "Request, in my name, that Mistress Wynne, the Healer assigned by the Grey Wardens to attend me, be released to your custody immediately. Tell the Grand Cleric I would consider it a very great favor, as there are dozens of people wounded here at the Arl of Denerim's estate: wounded by Orlesians assassins and by her Templars, in their haste to flee the scene. If she says no, tell her there will be consequences. The first of them is that if I cannot see Mistress Wynne, then I insist on seeing her—the Grand Cleric. At once."
She had always thought herself so clever. She had scoffed at Father's ranting on the subject of Orlesians, thinking him behind the times, but what had he said that was not true? Father had told her—he had warned her again and again that the Chantry was in the pocket of Orlais. The Chantry had betrayed Ferelden and collaborated during the Occupation. Individual priests might be fine people—like Mother Ailis—but the Chantry leadership's loyalty would always be to Orlais. It would be interesting to hear what the Grand Cleric said.
She sat down abruptly, feeling exhausted. What would become of her, without Wynne's healing spells? Another, terrifying thought flitted through her mind. How much did the Chantry know about Erlina and her poisons? The Grand Cleric, she suspected, knew something about Cailan's plan to put her aside. What else did she know?
Some of the walking wounded, like Bann Sighard, had gone home to their houses here in the city. Others, like Arl Bryland's little boy, were too hurt to move. Arl Urien himself had taken to his bed—and not to consummate his marriage. His wound was either going bad, or it had been poisoned. Habren had been stowed away, like an unwanted pet, in an upstairs chamber, and locked in for her safety. A few servants had crept out, and were now trying to clean the site of the attack. The wedding presents—some of them badly damaged—had been taken to a strongroom.
Anora knew she must get a message to Father. This was the worst time possible—and the Orlesians no doubt knew it—but she needed Father and some of his troops back in the capital as quickly as they could manage it. If she were to have it out with the Grand Cleric, and if things went wrong…well, the Grand Cleric commanded a very large armed force of her own.
The ciphered note was written, and then the courier summoned and entrusted with the message. He was sent off with instructions to get to Ostagar as fast as fresh horses could carry him there. Another courier was sent to find Teyrn Fergus. Wherever he was, he was closer than Father.
The room spun, and Anora put her head in her hands, feeling drained. Wynne's spells had kept her from realizing how badly damaged she was. If she already felt so weak, what would she feel like tomorrow?
It would be a provocation, but if Wynne did not soon make her appearance, Anora might offer blanket amnesty to any secret mages in Denerim, offering them protection from the Chantry in exchange for their services.
The Chantry….
If the Grand Cleric would not come to her, Anora would go to the Cathedral.
Ser Blayne Faraday, the commander of Gherlen's Halt, had just experienced a miracle. He was not dead, as he had expected to be only hours before.
The infiltrators had been clever, and got into the outer keep disguised as merchants. Once there, they had ruthlessly slaughtered the guards on duty and had launched a surprise attack on the inner keep: an attack that had almost succeeded.
Was this a declaration of war? The attackers were clearly Orlesian, and clearly well funded. They were not, however, given support from the Rock—or at least not visible support. De Guesclin had sent no messages, and had not replied to the herald sent by Faraday.
The chief means of Faraday's salvation was now sitting opposite him at his table, wolfing down mutton hash with every sign of relish. Faraday had never met Ser Norrel Haglin before—never really heard of him either—but Haglin had saved his life, and the lives of the survivors of the Halt.
"We'll have to send another courier after the first," he remarked, "or Loghain will think the Orlesians are invading."
"Maybe they are," Haglin grunted. "Maybe they're being cagey about it."
"No papers on any of them, and the leader's dead. I have my men mounting some heads on the walls, facing the Rock."
Haglin grunted again, this time in appreciation. "Sound idea. Show them what to expect, the bastards." He sighed and sat back, thinking it over. "I'm supposed to be on my way to Ostagar, but my men need time to rest, and the wounded—" There was little point in speaking of his dead. He had lost seventy-seven men in the engagement, and over a hundred were unfit to march. The fact that the Rock had not come out in force to support the attack was intriguing. Perhaps the Empress did not want all-out war; but simply wanted to make trouble for her neighbor when it was already racked by darkspawn and civil unrest.
Faraday shook his head. "I don't mind saying that I'd prefer if you could see your way clear to stay here for the time being. I'll explain in the message to the courier. Loghain's got a big dwarven army supporting him at Ostagar, brought to him by the Wardens. The Cousland girl was here back in the summer after arranging it."
"The Girl Warden," Haglin said. "Never met her, myself. Knew her father, of course."
"Fine girl. Has the greenest eyes you ever saw. My couriers tell me she brought in some of the Dalish clans to scout for the army." Faraday did not divulge other gossip related by the couriers. Something was going on between the Girl Warden and the Hero of River Dane. What with the King's death and the uncertainty about the succession, loose talk was unwise. Who knew who the next king—or queen—would be?
The puppy was very tired, and bruised along the left ribs where a strange-smelling man had kicked him. The man had bad manners, not understanding that the puppy was hungry and had traveled a long way, searching for his Boy. No one had ever begrudged him food before. At Home, the puppy was given the best of everything, and ate from his own plate by the Boy's side. People were always giving him food. The Boy's littermate, whom the puppy liked almost as well as his Boy, slipped him treats under the table . The Boy's sire was generous, too, and his bark was always friendly.
The females of the pack were not so pleasant. The old one only ignored the puppy, or complained that he was dirty, which was a wicked lie, indeed. The young female who covered her natural, ready-to-mate smell with strange flower odors hated him, but was higher-ranking in the pack than the puppy. He could not bite her, and so he gave her a wide berth, and never tasted the treats she tried to offer him: the ones that looked juicy and bloody, but smelled of bad things.
His Boy had gone away and left him with the lowest-ranking members of the pack; the ones he was not allowed to growl at or bite, but who were otherwise beneath his notice, unless he wished to find a snack. Bored, the puppy decided to find his Boy, and had slipped away from Home, with the foolish humans running after him, yelling nonsense. The trail was easy to follow, but many strange people crossed his path. Some saw him and wanted to make friends, barking in a friendly fashion and rubbing his ears pleasantly, but they were not his Boy. Some small people wanted to play, and that would have been amusing, had the puppy not been on an important mission.
He licked his chops. The human had succeeded in kicking him, but the puppy had made off with the plucked chicken. It was quite good, though the puppy preferred his food cooked, just like the Boy's.
He met some other dogs, too; but they were uncouth, and their talk was entirely composed of crude threats. The puppy prudently quickened his pace to evade them.
At last he reached a wide courtyard that reeked of horse. The pack's horses had been here, but the Boy had left them and gone in through the big door. The puppy trotted to the door, and waited until it was opened. All doors opened eventually.
Once it did, it took no time at all to find the Boy, or rather the inside door that kept them apart. He whined and nosed until that door, too, opened.
"Killer!" Corbus jumped down from his chair and ran to meet the barking puppy. "Shh!" he told the mabari, very seriously. "We have to be quiet. Lothar's hurt."
When Bronwyn met with Alistair to tell him what intelligence had been gleaned from the elven assassins, he was fairly horrified at the punishment she suggested.
They walked along the crumbling stonework of Ostagar Bridge. As the weather turned colder, the green moss on the south side of the stones had withered and turned brown. A chill wind, presaging winter, cut through the mountains. The two Wardens talk in quiet voices, not wishing to be overheard. Even so, plenty of soldiers leaned close as they past, hoping to hear more about the upheaval that had shaken the camp.
"What?" Alistair stood staring at Bronwyn for a long moment, and then shook his head. Then he came close and took her by the shoulders.
"Grey Wardens protect people. They don't give them to the darkspawn, no matter what they've done."
Rage soared up to the top of Bronwyn's head again. Did Alistair not understand what these assassins had tried to do?
"They don't care that I'm a Grey Warden! Or you either, for that matter. Those wicked fools don't care about the Blight. All they cared about was murdering Loghain and me."
"But they didn't."
Alistair gave her a hug, and Bronwyn first punched his shoulder, and then resigned herself to the fact that hitting him on his armor was ineffective. She half-heartedly hugged him back.
She growled, "Calling them 'wicked fools' is almost a compliment. They were quite happy to give all of Ferelden to the darkspawn, as long as they accomplished their mission. One of the women won't talk at all, one managed to kill herself, and the two others still don't see that they did anything wrong aside from being caught. It's all part of the Great Game, to them. They know they lost, but they don't see the Game as evil in itself."
"Do we know the Empress sent them?"
"If you mean: did she give them their orders personally?—of course not. That was left for underlings, but I don't doubt the mission originated within the highest circles. The younger one is the most talkative, but of course she was only told what she needed to know. She did say that she had nosed out that the seventh of Harvestmere was to be a 'great day for Orlais.' It's possible they're up to something else, but all we can do is send a courier to Anora to tell her what happened and that we're all right."
"No more about dumping them in the Deep Roads," Alistair told her sternly. "You know that's wrong. Every Warden knows that's wrong. You might get some of us to do what you said, but we'd always remember it."
"Loghain will insist they be executed. They don't deserve any mercy."
"Who does?" He reached for the little silver Sword of Mercy she wore around her neck. "I'm flattered that you wear this, what with all the fine jewels you've got now. Just remember that it's more than just a trinket."
She hissed with annoyance, but could not meet his mild brown gaze. Had the Guardian of the Gauntlet foreseen this? Were all his admonitions in preparation for her to be just and honorable even—and perhaps especially—when her own life was threatened?
"Duncan told me once—" Alistair spoke in the soft voice he used when talking about his mentor. "He told me that there was this thief in Orlais who killed a Grey Warden. Commander Genevieve could have had the man executed, but instead she conscripted him to take the dead man's place!"
"Oh, Alistair!" Bronwyn groaned with laughter. "Tell me you're not seriously proposing putting those women through the Joining!"
He made a face. "I suppose not. Being a Warden is an honor, not a punishment! But Commander Genevieve did it. Duncan told me about it when I gave him a hard time about poor Daveth. You remember him—the one who died at your Joining?"
"I'm hardly likely to forget that!" Bronwyn replied tartly.
"I guess the point Duncan was making was that when you become a Grey Warden, it's sort of like being born again. Nothing wrong you did in your past life matters. What matters is being the best Warden you can be."
Bronwyn snorted, and then punched Alistair's shoulder again. She had heard him on the subject of Duncan before, and while she did not share Alistair's admiration for the man, she had no desire to spoil Alistair's fond memories of the only man ever to be a true father to him.
On the other hand, there was a rough justice about the idea of subjecting those assassins to the anguish and peril of the Joining that pleased her. Not that they could be trusted in the least. If she were to undertake such a scheme, the assassins would have to be watched carefully. These were not random street thieves, who might well be glad of a Warden's stipend and a roof over their heads: these were dedicated agents of the Orlesian Empire. It was unlikely they would forego their primary mission merely because they also felt an overwhelming urge to kill darkspawn.
Alistair was right, of course; most of her Wardens would be scandalized at the idea of execution by darkspawn. Not all: she was almost certain that Astrid would back her. However, there were ways and ways. The women would have to win their vial of darkspawn blood—dangerous enough even in the best of times. If they succeeded in that, the Joining might well still be fatal. If they became Wardens…well, Bronwyn would have to find a mission for them that they could perform without endangering other people. Probably a mission involving fighting a great many darkspawn.
And best of all, Bronwyn herself would gain a reputation for high-minded mercy. A reputation she might not at all deserve, true; but she would gain it nonetheless. The idea really was worth considering. Perhaps Loghain should sentence them to death first, and then…
"Give them a choice?" Loghain snarled. "Are you mad?"
"No," Bronwyn said, her mind intent on the prospect. "I don't want to conscript them. When you sentence them to death, I wish to give them the choice: death, or life as a Grey Warden. That way they cannot say, even to themselves, that they were coerced. And Loghain, I assure you, even were they to run away this very night, they will someday end their lives in the Deep Roads."
He hated that reminder of how the Grey Wardens had circumscribed the limits of Bronwyn's life. Surely something could be done about it eventually. But they were talking about the assassins.
"So…" he considered. "A bit of theatre to entertain the troops. Not immediately, though. Conscript your fifty Wardens beforehand. Besides, I want to question these women a little longer." Unexpectedly, he smiled. "Forget them for the moment. I have a present for you."
Bronwyn was quite pleased, and immediately envisioned a glittering betrothal ring. The chest Loghain pointed to, however, was rather too big to contain nothing but a ring.
Inside was a suit of armor. Loghain, Bronwyn sighed to herself. This is a totally Loghain sort of present.
And it was amazing armor: dark red in color, and chased with gold. Was it enameled? No, it was…
Bronwyn stood up, blinking.
"This is Flemeth, isn't it?"
Loghain considered the question. "Well…yes, mostly. It would have a scandalous waste not to make use of a High Dragon. You think your witch will object to this disposal of her mother's remains?"
Bronwyn burst out laughing, and pressed her hand to her mouth, trying to stop. To her surprise, Loghain laughed a little, too.
She said, "It's awful, if you think about it. Flemeth's bone and scale and skin… Still, it's absolutely magnificent armor. Is this Master Wade's work?"
Loghain came over to admire it. "Yes. I told him that it had to be completed by the Landsmeet, but apparently he was inspired. It arrived in today's supply train. Wade had your measurements already, but I had that mage girl of yours measure your armor just to be certain. And I even had him make a ridiculously old-fashioned Grey Warden helmet for you."
He lifted it from the chest and set it on her head, rolling his eyes as she drew her sword to see her reflection. The wings fanned back dramatically, and the helmet did not feature a simple nasal, but a half mask that surrounded her eyes and protected her nose. The designs and gilded edgings were superb.
"There now," he murmured. "You are a true warrior queen."
Bronwyn told Morrigan about the armor first, and in private. She was rather nonplussed when the witch broke into a wild cackle of laughter, and then she laughed herself, a little ruefully.
"So you are not offended—"
"If you go about wearing Mother? 'Tis all one to me… No, I confess it. I am amused at the idea. A peculiarly just kind of revenge. Perhaps I should demand a share of the dragonhide from the Teyrn! 'Twould be quite the inheritance!"
The chest of armor was brought to the Wardens' quarters, and exclaimed over. And then Bronwyn had to put it on, so she could be exclaimed over again. She did some exclaiming herself, for the armor fit her as no armor had before. The thought of wearing it outside the following day was rather daunting, since she would attract more eyes than if she walked naked through the camp.
So, instead, she wore it down to dinner, so everyone could get their gossiping over with; and in that magnificent armor, she made her official request to the leaders of the armies for Grey Warden levies: twenty from the dwarves and humans, and ten from the Dalish elves. The candidates were to be brought to her the following morning for her approval.
As the afternoon progressed, Anora grew more and more worried about her physical state. Wynne had warned her against overexerting herself, but today's events had made it impossible to do anything else.
Her messengers to the Cathedral were back rather soon, with bad news. The Grand Cleric was unavailable, having need of a nap after the horrors at the Arl of Denerim's estate. Revered Mother Gertrude, her assistant, did not know this "Wynne," the Queen wrote of, and so was quite unable to be of assistance. Perhaps, in a few days, the matter could be sorted out.
"I told them, Your Majesty," her officer insisted. "I told them that was no sort of answer, and that people were dying here. I gave her your message, just as you ordered. The priest said she was very sorry to hear about the wounded, and that they would be prayed for directly." He saw the wrath building behind Anora's eyes, and repeated, "I told them..."
"Gather your men," Anora said crisply. "There is no time to lose. And have my carriage brought round. You will escort me to the Cathedral. I am going there myself."
A few days! Anora fought down panic. As weak and ill as she felt now, how would she feel in 'a few days?' The Grand Cleric must be made to see reason, and she must see it before it was too late.
She told Bryland where she was going, and refused his escort.
"No, my lord. You are needed here. Someone must reason with the Grand Cleric, and someone must maintain order in the city."
Bryland looked at her with the grimmest expression she had ever seen on that pleasant man's face.
"If the Grand Cleric," he said slowly, "is denying my son the services of a Healer capable of saving his life, she and every priest and every brother and sister in Ferelden will answer to me. Yes, and every Templar too, swords and helmets and all. Perhaps it is I who should reason with the Grand Cleric."
Anora wondered for a moment if he was right, and then decided to hold to her original plan.
"The Grand Cleric can hardly refuse me to my face, and I wish to deal with her peaceably. I expect to return shortly. However," she lowered her voice. "If the Grand Cleric cannot produce my Healer, I have resolved to offer amnesty to apostates here in Denerim. The Grand Cleric presumed too much when she sent Templars to arrest my personal Healer."
The carriage arrived, and Bryland handed her in, unconvinced and concerned. "I advise you to take a larger guard, Your Majesty. Those Orlesians might still be out there in the streets."
In the end, she took a sizable company with her, and set off to beard the Grand Cleric in her den. The crowded bridge slowed her down, armed guard notwithstanding. There was unrest in the streets, but plenty of townsfolk cheered her as she passed. Even upset as she was, Anora made an effect to wave and smile. It was actually a good move, she thought, to show herself unafraid, and to assure the people that she was safe and unharmed.
When she finally arrived at the Cathedral, it was very late in the afternoon, and when she saw the number of Templars stationed at the doors, she began to wonder if she had not been a little—impetuous. The doors, in fact, were shut. If the Grand Cleric refused her admittance, it would be an insult...a blow to her prestige...even a humiliation. She was here, though, and could not turn back. She sent a herald ahead to announce her, and stepped down, determined to find out what had become of Wynne.
Revered Mother Gertrude met her, and seemed civil enough. Anora had dealt with her before and had found her cool but efficient. She was escorted into the Cathedral, along with a half-dozen of her guardsmen, and then was ushered into a private study, while her men waited outside.
"Her Grace is not well, Your Majesty," the priest assured Anora. "Not well at all. She's not a young woman, and the violence today was a great shock to her."
"It was a great shock to us all," Anora said smoothly. Her head was throbbing, and it was all she could do to sit up straight. "I have come from the Arl of Denerim's estate, where there are many wounded. A Healer is needed as soon as possible. There appears to have been an unfortunate mistake. Senior Enchanter Wynne, the Healer sent to Denerim by the Grey Wardens to study records of past Blights kept in the royal library, was accosted by a band of Templars and taken away. Her services are required immediately."
"I regret to inform Your Majesty," the Revered Mother replied, equally smoothly, "that you have been the victim of a scandalous crime. The Apostate Wynne was arrested today, and is suspected of causing the death of your husband, His Majesty King Cailan, by means of the vilest Blood Magic."
Anora's eyes flashed, but she kept her voice level. "I cannot imagine how such an accusation came to be made," she said, "as both my father and the Warden-Commander were at the King's deathbed, and informed me quite positively that he died of Blight disease. So have all the witnesses, in fact. In addition, I was told that Senior Enchanter Wynne did her utmost to care for him. As the Warden-Commander must be considered the final authority on matters pertaining to the Blight, it is obvious that Senior Enchanter Wynne is quite innocent of any wrongdoing. Furthermore, as she is bound to obey the Warden-Commander by the Grey Warden Treaty of Divine 1:15, I fail to see how she can possibly be accused of apostasy. I would like to see her now, if you please."
"As much as I regret to discommode Your Majesty in the slightest," said the Revered Mother, "I fear that is impossible. The apostate was killed trying to escape."
A pause. Anora had tried to ignore the possibility, but the priest's cold words lay heavy in the silence. Anora knew exactly what "killed trying to escape" meant. Wynne, that gentle-voiced Healer, had been hunted down and put to death by the Templars with no more compunction than they would have felt in swatting a gnat.
Anora stared at the smug priest, and then staggered to her feet, overcome with shock and fear. Spots swam before her eyes; her legs did not seem strong enough to support her. For a moment Anora felt she was already dying.
"Murdered, you mean!" she burst out. "Four Templars were seen beating her savagely in the Palace courtyard! How odd, how very odd that the finest Healer in Denerim should be murdered by Templars just hours before the nobility of Denerim was attacked by the Orlesians!"
The Revered Mother rose too. Anora saw her in a blur, the gaunt figure dancing and swaying like the flame embroidered on her robes. The priest's voice came from a great distance.
"Your Majesty is ill. This is likely the work of the Blood Mage as well. We shall investigate it thoroughly. In the meantime, perhaps your Your Majesty should rest..."
Rest. Anora tried to call out to her guard, but crumpled to the stone floor instead.
Anora's courier met Fergus' party on the North Road in the late afternoon—too late to press on to Denerim immediately. The news he gave them was grave: assassins had attacked the Arl of Denerim's wedding. The Queen was safe, but many others were dead, including allies of the Couslands. Bryland's sister had been killed, and his little boy had been shot, and might be dead by now.
"Arl Urien was wounded, too. The bride's all right, as far as I know," the courier said. He gave Fergus the Queen's note, and then was told to join the Teyrn's party. They would gallop for Denerim at first light.
The Dalish brought their ten to Bronwyn first, early the next morning. Merrill introduced them, and the young elves before her seemed resigned to their fate. Bronwyn was sadly reminded of the Legion of the Dead, and how their families bade them farewell and gave them their funeral rites, and then spoke of them as no longer among the living. One of the elves was a mage, in line to be a Keeper herself someday, and Bronwyn expressed her gratitude to the elves in making such a sacrifice. Velanna might prove very useful. The Dalish, Tara had told her, possessed a great body of magical lore that was unknown to the mages trained at the Circle. Velanna might also be able to learn shape-shifting, for which neither Tara nor Jowan had shown any aptitude. Both of them had come to the Circle so very young that their affinity for the natural world had been sundered, perhaps permanently. A Dalish mage, however…
Some of the twenty dwarves actually were members of the Legion of the Dead. Bronwyn had high hopes of them. One of them, Sigrun, was surprisingly chipper about it all. She had grown up in Dust Town, and was about Brosca's age. In fact, it was soon revealed that the two girls knew each other slightly.
The humans, too, were an interesting group. Seven of them had been in the battle the day before, and five were showing signs of Blight sickness. Becoming a Warden was now their only chance of survival.
Bronwyn felt a certain reluctance to engage any of the recruits closely, since many of them might well be dead in two days' time. There were some fine fighters here, however; even some individuals who seemed capable of leadership. One of the captains among the regulars had actually volunteered.
Aveline Vallen's husband had been killed in a skirmish while Bronwyn had been on her quest for the Sacred Ashes. To Bronwyn's surprise, the man had been a Templar—one of those rare married Templars. Being unusually scrupulous in his duties supervising mages, he had gone with them into battle, which was something most Templars were not inclined to do. He had died, and his widow was still grieving. She had taken part in the battle against the Broodmothers, and Bronwyn gathered that the horror of it had hardened her resolve against the darkspawn. Good for her. It was better than running away to the north, which some of the women in the army were muttering about. Aveline was a tall, muscular redhead, who fought with sword and shield. Bronwyn viewed her as a potential asset, and hoped she survived the Joining.
Two of the Circle mages had approached Anders, wanting to be Wardens; looking upon it as their best chance of anything approaching freedom.
Niall, Bronwyn was informed, was an Isolationist. That particular mage fraternity held that mages would be better off living completely apart from "mundanes." As that seemed quite impossible in any conceivable version of the real world, he was willing to take a chance on the Wardens, so he never need return to the Circle and its cloistered life.
Petra was a fine Healer, Anders said. She was one of Wynne protégées, and had got on with her far better than Anders had. That said, she felt she had something to offer the world, and felt she could serve best as a Warden. Bronwyn had always liked her, remembering that she had been the very first mage of the Circle to sign up for duty at Ostagar. Also, Petra hinted that she was not happy about the vicious slanders that the Revered Mother had uttered about Wynne. If she went back to the Circle, she would have to hear more of the same, and she was tired of it all.
Fifty-two recruits. Bronwyn sat down with Alistair and they organized six groups of ten or eleven. Each would be led by a Warden, and each party had a mage assigned to it. Anders and Morrigan would fly out in bird form and scout the Wilds for any bands of darkspawn they could find. If none could be located, everyone would go to the Blight Wound and enter one of the fissures, exploring it until they made contact with darkspawn enough to retrieve enough blood for the Joining.
But no. There were to be fifty-three recruits, because as Bronwyn finished her elaborate plans, Oghren came in, ready to volunteer. He was drunk of course, but as he usually was, Bronwyn saw no reason to dismiss what he was saying.
"Well, Commander, this is it. Oghren Kondrat, ready for a new adventure. I think the time has come…" he belched musically, "for me to try my hand at being a genuine Grey Warden. So," he flung his arms wide, "Take me!"
Through the doorway, Zevran grinned at her and gave her a thumbs-up.
They were led out that very afternoon. Bronwyn saw no reason to drag her feet. Three scattered bands of darkspawn had been located in the Wilds, and three of the Warden parties would be sent in pursuit. The other three would descend into the Blight Wound and hunt darkspawn there. The parties were to rendezvous at the old Warden outpost, where the Joining would take place. A few items were left at the spot. If recruits died at the Joining, Bronwyn felt she had a better chance of keeping it quiet at the outpost rather than in the middle of camp.
She was certainly not going to slack off while the recruits were risking their lives. She led one of the parties, choosing the more perilous underground mission. Perhaps she should be worried about more attempts on her life, but she refused to live her life in fear. Ironically, it was likely that she was safer from assassination in the Deep Roads than anywhere else. And now, of course, she had even better armor.
A party of ten was not too small to face the Deep Roads with hope of success. Bronwyn had faced Ortan Thaig with about the same strength, and brought them all back alive. Of course, three of the party had been mages, and that counted for a great deal.
But they had the advantage of Bronwyn's experience, and Anders thought well of Niall's abilities. There was Scout with them, utterly fearless. On the minus side, two of the recruits in the party were Dalish, and had never ventured underground before. For that matter, only one of the humans other than Bronwyn had been below before, and that was the admirable Captain Aveline.
The three dwarves, of course, were perfectly at ease: alert and capable. It would be interesting to see how the various recruits in the different parties fared. Some would fight in an environment familiar to them, and some, like the dwarves with Danith out in the Wilds, would not.
Bronwyn's party would go through the fissure where they had burned the Broodmothers the day before, and this promised to be depressing and nasty. A secondary aim of the mission was to make certain they had destroyed all the Broodmothers' miserable offspring. At least all the members of the party had at least been told what a Broodmother was and what had happened yesterday. No one would experience the creeping, bewildering horror that Bronwyn had known in the Dead Trenches. Swiftly and surely, she led them to the site of yesterday's battle. The reek in the tunnels was horrific.
Some of the recruits were shaken by the sight of the spawning matter, even though they were prepared for it. Others, especially the humans, whispered to each other about the painful discoveries made here.
"—One of them was Mara Clery! Remember her? She was the second in Captain Mac Gough's company—the one who always won at Wicked Grace. We all thought she was dead, but the darkspawn had taken her, poor girl…"
The Broodmother cavern itself was a nightmare, but a danger to spirit, rather than bodies. Shapeless mountains of charred, Tainted flesh remained, but they found nothing living there. A few trinkets, a few amulets glinted from the ashes. Aveline Vallen picked up a little gold pendant on a broken chain.
"This was Eliane Pentree's. See her name on the back? I'll give it to her lover. He'll be glad to have some sort of keepsake."
They were not there to grieve over what could not be helped, so Bronwyn pushed them on, feeling a faint scratching on her nerves that heralded darkspawn. It was not very strong, but it was what they had.
They moved through a series of tight passages and found a little cul-de-sac that showed signs of darkspawn habitation. And then they found the darkspawn: a quartet of hurlocks. Three were very ordinary creatures, one was not.
Vexing as it was, Bronwyn had to step back and let the recruits deal with the creatures, for this test was theirs, not hers. Niall had been in the south for several months, and had a good sequence of spells to use against darkspawn. Not at all to Bronwyn's surprise, Captain Vallen took the lead, fearlessly directing the fight with admirable skill and good sense. She was definitely a find.
Once it was over, everyone had a filled vial, and everyone was accounted for. Bronwyn ignored the uncomfortable sensations of darkspawn further along in the tunnels, and took her party back to face the Joining.
The Hawkes and their Grey Warden escort arrived at the Great Gate of Denerim, already alarmed by the news that people running the other way were telling them.
"Orlesians attacked the Arl of Denerim's wedding! Half the nobles in the kingdom are dead!" one excitable fellow gasped out. He took to his heels before they could find out more. Something quite terrible had happened, obviously. Some people said the Queen had been stabbed by a bard, and some said that Arl Bryland had been killed. Others disagreed, maintaining that it was Arl Urien who had been killed...or wounded...or was it his bride?
The women riding in the wagon looked at each other, wondering if they should try to enter the city at all.
"Come on," Carver finally said. "You'll all be safer behind the walls of Highever House than out here in the open. If it's really bad, you can stay at the Wardens' Compound. I'll go talk to the wagon captain."
That individual was going to Denerim, whatever the situation, since he had to deliver the wagons to be reloaded. Among themselves, the Wardens agreed that this was still the safest choice.
"The wagons turn south to cross the river," Jowan said, remembering the streets. "We'll take our leave there. It's only a short way up Gate Street to Highever House. We'll make sure your family's safe first, Carver, and then we can go to the Palace and find out what's really happened."
"Yes," Leliana agreed. "Let's do that." She had become quite fond of the Hawkes—and Amells—on their journey north. Bethany, she discovered, played the lute very nicely, though she definitely needed more lessons. Charade had a good voice, and was a splendid archer. They were pleasant company, and she was looking forward to their projected shopping spree in the city. Now, of course, that might have to be postponed, if there was rioting in the city.
Once they entered Denerim, things seemed even more ominous.
"We have orders to search everyone coming into the city." The officer in command of the gate told Carver.
"We're Grey Wardens," Jowan said, with the mild confidence that looking down on people from horseback gave him. "And we have orders from the Warden-Commander and Teyrn Loghain to report to the Queen." He leaned out of the saddle to show the guard the letter of transit.
"Good luck with that," the officer grunted, impressed by the Teyrn's seal. "The Queen's been locked up in the Cathedral since last night. Arl Bryland's got the place surrounded. He's in charge of the city, as much as any one is right now."
"What!" Leliana stared at the man. "He would attack the Chantry?"
The officer narrowed his eyes at her accent. "The Templars turned on the Arl's guests. Killed a few of them, too. When the Queen went to the Grand Cleric to complain, they locked up her up. They say she's controlled by a Blood Mage, but Arl Bryland doesn't believe that. He thinks they're in league with the Orlesians. His own son's like to die, and he's not feeling very friendly to the Chantry at the moment."
"This is terrible!" Leliana gasped out.
Jowan already had a crawling suspicion as to what might be going on. 'Controlled by a Blood Mage'. Did they mean...him? Or—but this was absolutely insane—Wynne? He had better find Wynne right away. If the Queen was being held by the Chantry, she was not getting her treatments, and might be in a bad way... Or maybe...
He said, "Let's get Carver's family safe to Highever House, and then we'd better find Arl Bryland."
The streets were surprisingly deserted, and they were told by the few people they met that nearly everyone had gone to the Market to see what was happening. Carver pulled out the little map Adam had sent, and eventually they were at the gates of the courtyard outside Highever House. To their surprise, it was full of horses. Carver showed the letter, and the guard, reassured by their Grey Warden tunics, let them in.
"The Teyrn said the ladies would be along any day. Welcome, Grey Wardens. The Teyrn arrived a short time ago."
"He's here?" Carver slid from his horse, and hurried to help his mother down from the wagon. They made enough noise to attract the attention of those inside.
Adam came running out, a barking Hunter beside him, and swept Leandra up in a hug. "Mother!"
Teyrn Fergus stepped out into the courtyard, serious but welcoming, and introductions were in order. Leandra murmured in Adam's ear, and he gave a nod and quick grin.
"My lord Teyrn, I present to you my mother, Lady Amell, my sister Bethany Hawke, and my cousin Charade Amell. This lout is my brother, the Grey Warden Carver. I believe you already know Warden Leliana..."
"Yes, of course. Welcome to Highever House, my ladies. Wardens, you are most welcome, too." He looked at Jowan. "And a Warden I don't know..."
"Warden Jowan," Leliana supplied. "A very skilled Healer."
Fergus gave Jowan a nod. "Yes, I know of you from my sister's letters. A Healer! Well, you couldn't have come at a better time. There are wounded people at the Arl's estate who need help desperately, I understand. And the Queen..."
"I'm here to serve the Queen," Jowan said. "I'll help everyone else I can, but I need to see the Queen as soon as possible. We were going to go to the Market and report to Arl Bryland."
"I'm going there myself," Fergus said. "I just received a message from Bryland, apprising me of the situation. Obviously, they've gone mad at the Chantry, and I'll need to sort it out. Since the Queen is..." —he dropped his voice, eyes fixed on Jowan—"...unwell, any assistance you can give will be appreciated."
"But is it true, my lord?" Leandra wanted to know. "Was the Arl's wedding truly attacked by Orlesian bandits?"
"I don't know about 'bandits,' my lady," Fergus said grimly. "But attacked it was, by assassins disguised as minstrels and tumblers."
Leliana's soft, pained gasp went almost unheard.
Fergus had more to say. "My cousin Bryland's sister was shot dead, and his little son gravely wounded. Bryland is sick with worry about him, and furious that he cannot be at his side because of the Chantry's outrageous conduct. At least five banns are dead. Many more were hurt, including the Arl of Denerim himself. Most of the badly wounded are still at the Arl of Denerim's estate."
Bethany burst out, "How cruel to hurt a little boy!"
Fergus nodded gravely. Adam had said his sister was pretty, and it was certainly not just a brother's partiality. A very pretty girl, indeed. In fact, all of Adam's womenfolk would brighten up Castle Highever considerably. Bethany was clearly a nice girl, too, with her heart in the right place.
"Cruel...yes, of course," he answered. "Even crueler is the Chantry's decision to keep healing from the wounded. The Queen was being attended by a Healer named Wynne, and we discovered that she was arrested the morning before the attack, leading Bryland to believe that there is some collusion there."
"Wynne's a prisoner?" Jowan knew that Wynne despised him, but she was a decent person, and old, and the Templars would...
Fergus said, "The last word Bryland had, the Chantry were denying all knowledge of her, but a witness saw Templars dragging her away from the Palace courtyard, so we know they're lying. Bryland has authorized a proclamation on behalf of the Queen that any apostate mage will receive amnesty if he or she will come forward to assist the wounded."
"Really?" Bethany said, not daring to glance at her brothers. "That's very...sensible of him."
The housekeeper came to see to Adam's family, and the rest of them prepared to set out for the Market. Short as the trip to the Market would be from here, Fergus, Adam, and the Wardens would go on horseback, which would give them visibility and authority. Fergus' soldiers would march with them. And there were others who volunteered.
"We would go with you, my lord. We know how to fight, and wish to help the brother of the Lady of the Wardens."
Fergus puzzled over the tall men with odd yellow eyes. Yes, these were the people Bronwyn had sent north, with orders that they be allowed to stay at Highever House and be put to work. Five men, three women, a young girl, and two young boys, all named Wolf and all with the same curious yellow eyes. It must run in the family. Bronwyn had left a note that the housekeeper had given to him with a long-suffering expression.
Fergus—
These unfortunates were under a curse, and have had a hard time. If you could find something for them, I believe they would serve you loyally.
I can practically see the look on your face, but do it anyway.
Love,
Bronwyn
Bronwyn and her heroics! These must be yet more people rescued by the Girl Warden. The housekeeper had told him that the Wolfs were hard-working enough, but peculiar. The men before him were all armed, and all protected with good leather armor. Why not take them along?
"It could be dangerous," Fergus told them, "but as you wish."
They set off for the Market, the soldiers shouldering a path through the crowds. The tower of the Cathedral rose high above them, guiding them to the mass of soldiery barring access or egress to anyone.
"Fergus!"
Fergus dismounted and clapped his older cousin on the shoulder, concerned at the dark circles under the man's eyes, and the lines of bitter anger on his face.
"I'm here," said Fergus, "and the city guard told me what happened. I am very sorry about Werberga, Leonas. Is Lothar any better?"
"I don't know!" Bryland snarled. "I'm here, trying to sort things out with the Chantry, who have bloody abducted the Queen and locked themselves in, thinking there's nothing we dare do about it!" He waved irritably at the massive building. "I've sent to Fort Drakon for a battering ram. I hope it doesn't come to it, but I can't let the Grand Cleric thumb her nose at us. And Maker knows what they've done to the Queen."
"Why did she even put herself in this situation?"
Bryland blew out an exasperated breath. "I advised her against it. I suppose she thought they wouldn't dare defy her. She was coming to fetch her Healer, and the next thing we know, we're told she's under the influence of Blood Magic, and requires prayer and purification! They arrested the Healer just before the wedding. What a coincidence!" He jerked his head over to a knot of men guarding a prisoner.
"That priest was sent out to tell us to go about our business like good boys and girls. Mother Heloise is her name."
"I want to talk to her," Fergus said.
"Come on, then."
Fergus eyed the woman up and down. She seemed perfectly calm, and not at all alarmed by the presence of a mob of armed men. Of course, a priest would be accustomed to ordering mobs of armed men about. The Templars, Fergus assumed, would be inside the Chantry, barricading it against attack.
"What have you done with the Queen?" Fergus asked shortly. "Where is she?"
"Where she is safe from malign influence," the priest declared smugly. She pointed to a small window, high above them. "In the tower chapel."
Bryland snarled with baffled rage, but Fergus only laughed. The older man was surprised at the smirk on the Teyrn's face.
"I'll need a rope," Fergus said, "and a grappling hook."
Thanks to my reviewers: Notnahtanha, Aoi24, MsBarrows, BandGeekNinja, Zute, KrystylSky, Oleander's One, JackOfBladesX, Hydroplatypus, Pirate Ninjas of the Abyss, sizuka2, Judy, Mike3207, riverdaleswhiteflash, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, butterflygrrl, Remenants, EpitomyofShyness, Kira Kyuu, MisterSP, Tikigod784, KnightOfHolyLight, Josie Lange, Costin, Halm Vendrella, BlackCherryWhiskey, Jenna53, Jyggilag, almostinsane, Have Travel, Biff McLaughlin, Tirion, mille libri, and WhosAmandaPhillips.
To Butterflygrrl: You were not logged in, so I could not respond to you privately. Your points about the questionable validity of information gained by torture are perfectly valid. I was not expressing my own opinions in the chapter, but the opinions of Loghain and Bronwyn. We know from canon that Loghain has no problems whatever with gaining information by torture.
As for Anora, we know from canon that she can impulsively put herself into danger, presuming that no one would dare harm her.