Victory at Ostagar
Sorry for any mistakes. I'm am writing this on a netbook in Bryce Canyon, Utah, and it's very hard to proofread. (Yes, I know. My life is replete with irony.)
Chapter 65: The Boy Who Found Fear at Last
On the road to Lothering, a courier reached them, this time from Gherlen's Halt, notifying Loghain of the attack by Orlesian "mercenaries," and its repulse. This was serious news, and Loghain knew he must share it. He ordered the march stopped and summoned Bronwyn and the nobles. They took council under a huge old oak tree, its leaves beginning to brown, while a chilly wind whistled through the forest, whispering of snows to come.
"Looks like Haglin gave them a surprise," grunted Wulffe. "Well done, that."
Bronwyn agreed. "The Empress is playing the Grand Game, making believe that she knows nothing of these attacks, and pretending likewise that we don't know that she's behind them. It's all very tiresome."
"Tiresome or not," Loghain replied grimly, "The Empress knows that we are in no position to take offense openly and declare war on Orlais. In a way, this "Game" is somewhat to our advantage, in that it enables us to save face."
There was little they could do, and no help they could send to the fortress. Loghain acknowledged the message and told them to hold fast. They mounted up again, and rode to Lothering.
Morrigan had her own horse, even though she hardly needed one; but she was always insistent on her perquisites, however unnecessary. She gave Bronwyn a look that clearly indicated a wish to speak to her privately. Bronwyn allowed her horse to drop back from the leaders, and Morrigan kicked her mount up close to Bronwyn's.
For a while the witch was silent. She had been in an unpleasant and uncommunicative mood since Bronwyn had announced her trip to Denerim. Was Morrigan nervous about seeing the great city for the first time? Was she having some sort of trouble with Anders? Knowing better than to pry, Bronwyn rode beside her, equally silent, curious about what her friend had to say.
When Morrigan spoke, it took Bronwyn by surprise, for it was the last thing she expected to hear.
"Do you truly intend to marry Teyrn Loghain?"
Of course Anders had told her everything. It was only a wonder that he had not stood on Ostagar Bridge and declared it to all Thedas.
"Yes," she answered quietly but without hesitation. "That's the plan. We will marry and claim the throne."
"Indeed?" Morrigan said, rather coolly. "At least you will be Queen. 'Twill be something that makes the sacrifice worthwhile. I see little advantage to you otherwise."
Surprised, Bronwyn looked at the witch's beautiful, stormy face. Did Morrigan dislike Loghain? Bronwyn had never suspected it.
"After the death of the King," Bronwyn said, "Loghain and I came to believe that this was the best way to ensure Fereldan security and a victory over the Blight, unhampered by anyone else."
"Did he approach you first?"
Bronwyn smiled wryly. "Actually, the first to openly broach the matter to me was my cousin Arl Bryland. He and great many other people want Loghain to be King, but Loghain has no legitimate claim on the throne of Ferelden at all. My cousin gave me a long and serious lecture about the value of legitimacy in these matters. It would not do for it simply to be a matter of the strongest general using the army to seize power. That would set an evil precedent indeed. My brother Fergus and I have the strongest blood claim to the throne. Fergus is not interested. That leaves me, and my own claim is somewhat clouded by the fact that I am a Grey Warden. Nonetheless, if Loghain and I present ourselves to the Landsmeet as a married couple, I do not see anyone able to challenge us."
Morrigan listened carefully, and then asked, "So Loghain has not pressured you into this…marriage?"
Bronwyn laughed, surprising herself. "No more than any of the other nobles! The idea has gained a great deal of momentum among those who are here with the army. They largely feel that it is my duty to marry Loghain; and all Ferelden knows the old saw that 'Couslands always do their duty!'"
No amusement was reflected in Morrigan's yellow eyes.
She asked, "Could you not take the throne alone? Without Loghain as your…consort?"
Bronwyn had not seriously considered the idea. "It might be possible, but there would be a lot of controversy and I would not have the kind of support that Loghain commands. If I were not a Warden…yes. I suppose so. But the fact is that this is all being proposed in order to put Loghain on the throne."
"So you are a means to an end?"
A burst of masculine laughter rang out in front of them. Wulffe had said something his fellow nobles found hilarious. Even Loghain was grinning. For some reason it irritated Bronwyn beyond words. She scowled, hating the way Morrigan put the situation, but acknowledging its essential truth.
"I always knew…" she began. How to explain this? "I always knew that as a Cousland, my life could not be completely and only my own. I could not be selfish, and marry only to please myself. My parents were, for that matter, far more indulgent than most nobles. I at least had the power of refusal. Otherwise, I would have been the wife of Thomas Howe two years ago, when he was old enough to marry, and my life would have been very, very different. Obviously."
Morrigan sneered. "You are not the only young woman whose parents wished to control her. Even Flemeth...well...'tis common enough."
That was only too true, and Bronwyn acknowledged it. "Exactly. It is not uncommon. I am, however, uncommonly fortunate in that the man everyone wishes me to marry is the man of my choice."
"So why now?" Morrigan narrowed her eyes, and brushed a fallen leaf from her hair. The wind had picked up again. "Why are you not already married to Loghain if everyone thought it such a wonderful idea? Why has the man not already asked for your 'hand,' in that silly figure of speech?"
The conversation was making Bronwyn extremely uncomfortable. She glanced behind her, wishing that Zevran or Anders would interrupt, but they were deep in their own discussion. While she did not want to answer Morrigan, essential honesty required some sort of response.
"I don't think Loghain ever thought of me in that way, at least before I came to Ostagar as a Warden. My father thought that Loghain would never remarry unless he was given a very, very good reason—and that meant a better reason than a pretty face. And to be perfectly truthful, my parents did not want me to marry Loghain." She grimaced. and then lowered her voice further. "They did not think him good enough for me."
"Then they had better sense than you or all these other 'nobles,'" Morrigan said bluntly. "for I agree with them."
Bronwyn looked at her companion in astonishment, and felt her face grow hot. Before she could summon a reply, Morrigan cut her off.
"I will say this but once, since the Wheel of Destiny is already turning. You are too good for him. When I see you together, I see a strong young woman with all her life before her, ill-coupled with a ruthless, hard-bitten, self-made man old enough to be her father: a man who is not too scrupulous to take advantage of her birth and fortune and her fresh young body as well. You have made a bad bargain in Loghain, my friend, and you will live to regret it. Flemeth told me a great deal about Loghain."
Dangerously close to losing her temper, Bronwyn could hardly trust herself to speak. "That would the same Flemeth who lied to you throughout your childhood and was planning to eject your soul from your body like an unwanted tenant. I do not consider Flemeth a reliable source of information, and neither should you!"
"She prophesied," Morrigan hissed, "that Loghain would betray Maric three times: 'each time worst than the last.' I presume that his stealing the throne of Ferelden from the Theirin line must be considered the last and greatest of his treacheries, so I cannot speak of the others. Flemeth knew much that others thought hidden. She told me that Loghain's cold heart had warmed but once, and never again. That rather lets you out. No. Do not rail at me. I have done, and I merely foretell."
Wisely, she pulled on the reins, forcing her horse to drop back. Bronwyn refused to look at her, already struggling with unwelcome, half-acknowledged doubts of her own.
Bronwyn felt a little uncomfortable staying at Bann Ceorlic's luxurious manor, knowing how much she had displeased the man. Loghain, however, preoccupied and laconic, gave her no chance to disagree with his choice of quarters. There was a limit to how far men and horses could go in a day, and everyone needed to rest, if they were to deal with the crisis in Denerim.
She was familiar with the manor, of course, from her last visit. She knew the seneschal Rurik and remembered the maid whose name was Kara. This time, with such a large party, they were packed into the luxurious chambers with little chance for privacy. She would have to share her room with Morrigan and Aveline. At least she would have a proper bath.
It was worse for the men. All six of the Wardens' party were camping out in another of the rooms, some on straw pallets laid on the floor, and with Zevran lying crossways at the foot of the great bed.
"We'll have far more room at Castle Bryland," she consoled her people. "if the weather holds, and we push ourselves, we might make it there by late tomorrow."
Truth to tell, most of them were not very put out at their living conditions. Anders and Morrigan did not care for the arrangements, but Bronwyn thought they could survive not sleeping together for a night or two. Cathair, their Dalish elf, was bewildered by the manor and its excess, but he seemed a rather easy-going fellow, which was a welcome change from the prickliness of Danith.
It was very pleasant to have clean hair and nails again—however briefly—but it was impossible to dry her hair thoroughly before going to bed. Bronwyn braided up her long brown locks and hoped for the best. If she had been of a delicate constitution—or simply not a Warden—she might fully have expected to awaken the next morning with a cold. She paused by the door to her room, not wanting another scene with Morrigan. The witch's words had disturbed her deeply, and she resolved to forget them. Morrigan meant well, perhaps, but she was meddling in affairs about which she knew nothing.
Then Bronwyn smiled, and decided to seek out Loghain. That would be the best balm for her doubts.
He was in the room she had slept in the last time she was here. And there was a guard at the door. How annoying. And here she was, in her shirt and breeches, pretending to be at her ease. At least the guard recognized her, and did stupidly shout out "Halt!" just as everyone was trying to get to sleep.
The fellow stood to attention, though. "Good evening, Warden-Commander."
Speaking more boldly than she really felt, Bronwyn said, "I have business with the Teyrn."
Was that a smile on that man's face? It disappeared quickly enough, and the man opened the door and stepped inside to speak to Loghain. There was a muffled exchange, and the man stood aside respectfully.
"Enter, Warden-Commander."
Loghain had not yet gone to bed, but frowned—not very welcomingly—at the sight of her. Bronwyn slipped in and shut the door behind her. Urgent need had brought her here, and at the sight of the man she wanted, she smiled, and moved forward to wrap her arms around him, enjoying the heat from the hard and seasoned body.
"Bronwyn, this isn't the—"
She caught his lips with hers and kissed him fervently, pressing close. He let her have her way for only a few moments, before his strong hands unfastened her arms and he pushed her away.
"You need to go. The last thing we need is unpleasant gossip."
She stared at him, dumbstruck and reddening. "Are you throwing me out?"
He was. Elaborately, insultingly patient, he was ushering her to the door, like an importunate peddler—like an unwanted camp follower. He said, "I trust the guard, but one never knows who is watching. You need your rest, and so do I."
"As if I'm likely to get any, between Morrigan's bad temper and Aveline's nightmares!"
This was awful: awful and humiliating. The desire warming her belly cooled and sickened.
"Don't be a child," Loghain said, scowling. "We have to maintain a degree of propriety, at least until our betrothal is announced. People might be casual about their own romantic arrangements. They might even be amused to hear that I found myself a pretty girl—"
Bronwyn hissed in disgust and looked away. Loghain caught her by the wrist, and went on. "—However, all sorts of people can be oddly conventional about ladies, especially ladies who might wear a crown. Old women—of both sexes— with Landsmeet votes are the worst. The Girl Warden must be above reproach."
"But it's absurd!" Bronwyn protested, her body wanting relief. She thought with repulsion of that dark little room, already bursting with the occupation of Aveline and Morrigan. "What do I care for gossip?"
"You will care," Loghain insisted. "You'll care if the banns probe the matter in detail at the Landsmeet. Nothing is sacred to them. It's impossible to be private in the midst of an army. When we get back to Denerim, we can arrange things more to our liking."
Bronwyn doubted it. In Denerim, she would be quartered in the Wardens' Compound and he in the Palace, and their every movement would be known to the servants.
But somehow he had got her to the door, and had at least the decency not to push her out through it.
"Now off you go."
He looked as if he might be about to give her a brisk goodnight kiss, but Bronwyn glared at him and shook off his hand. She took a quick breath, pulled herself together, and opened the door on the surprised guard. She was gone, shutting the door in Loghain's face. He heard her outside, her voice admirably calm as she spoke to the guard.
"Good night." Her footsteps died away down the hall.
Loghain was relieved to have her gone. He did not want to be seduced or persuaded, but it would have been difficult to resist her much longer. He knew he was right in this, and Bronwyn would understand some day. Touchy creatures, young women. No doubt she would nurse her grievance for a day or two.
If she could not see the danger, she was fortunate that he could. Luckily, he had the experience to know when to be discreet. Because he could be discreet, Bronwyn—and the rest of Ferelden—did not know that he and Queen Rowan had once been lovers, long ago, when she was not a Queen, but a fellow rebel. Few had ever known it, for Loghain had never been one to kiss and tell.
Rowan must be Bronwyn's model. Rowan had always been very careful of her reputation, even before her reconciliation with Maric. It was one thing to openly declare her feelings in the Deep Roads, with only Loghain, Maric, and the odious Katriel present; it would have been quite another to make herself the talk of the rebel army.
As the daughter of the Arl of Redcliffe, Rowan was watched and judged by everyone they met. Aside from the issue of her suitability to be Queen, any blot on her name might adversely affect her younger brothers or the memory of her father. Bronwyn's situation was analogous: Loghain must protect her and her good name, even if she was too young to understand the possible consequences of malicious gossip.
Bronwyn, meanwhile, was hot with shame and anger. Never had she imagined that a man she had given herself to—a man who had taken her maidenhood and had won her hand in marriage—a man who was about to claim a kingdom on the basis of that relationship—would reject her affections with such scorn…such contempt.
This was horrifying. She had defended him to Morrigan, but what if he truly cared nothing for her? Perhaps she was only a convenient stepping-stone up to the glory of a throne. Perhaps she had been an idle amusement, and then a useful tool. Perhaps… her mind reeled…she had been a very great fool.
He was a famous man, and a frequent topic of discussion; but once, when she was a little girl, she had eavesdropped on Father and Mother talking about his marriage. He had refused all the noble ladies who had flung themselves at him and had chosen the daughter of a cabinet maker instead. Speculation was rife about that. Father thought it might simply be that Teyrna Celia was a golden-haired beauty, but Mother had interpreted it differently.
"Oh, she's pretty enough, no doubt; but more important, my dearest, she owes him everything. She has no family to defend her when he abandons her for months at a time in Gwaren, while he pulls Maric's strings in Denerim. A noblewoman would never stand for the way he treats her. She would never have to. Celia has no recourse, and has to smile and pretend to like it. Or I suppose she still smiles. We haven't seen her in years, since apparently he doesn't want her about at the Landsmeets."
"He'll have to let her come eventually. I hear their daughter is becoming quite the beauty. He'll want to dangle her before Maric—or Cailan."
Mother had said, very coldly, "No doubt."
And then she had been discovered and shooed away, alas, and heard no more of their very interesting conversation.
Mother had never wanted her to marry Loghain. Nor had Father. Maker's Breath, what if her parents were right?
No. She would not let herself dwell on that possibility. She was committed to the marriage and could hardly get out of it now. Bitterly, she set her jaw, swearing to herself that Loghain wanted her in future he could bloody well seek her out...and crawl a little.
Morrigan and Aveline had already gone to bed and blown out the candle by the bedside. The light of the fire lit the room redly. Bronwyn angrily shrugged out of her breeches and flung them disdainfully over a bench. She crept into bed in her smalls and shirt and tried to be still, her body complaining bitterly. She stared up at the canopy above her for what seemed like hours, while Aveline grew restless in her sleep, no doubt tormented by vivid nightmares of the darkspawn.
A deep sigh from Morrigan. She was awake, and angry about it. Bronwyn was too tired to talk and so pretended to be asleep when Morrigan muttered furiously about the noise. Finally the witch snatched up her pillow and a quilt and stalked to a corner. Scout roused and was curious, but Morrigan warned him away with a cat-like hiss.
Unable to sleep, Bronwyn watched the shadows of the dying fire play on the ceiling and the draperies. Most of the time now, she could suppress her own dreams somewhat. She did not always sleep well, but was rarely shocked awake. She was sorry for Aveline, but wished she did not have to listen to the groans and whimpers. With sour envy, she thought of Loghain, smug in the solitary grandeur of a room to himself. She would not soon forget how he had scorned her.
On the road the following day, another message from Denerim arrived. Bryland's note informed them that the Queen was being held against her will at the Cathedral. This bit of news caused Loghain's face to redden alarmingly. His first impulse was to ride with a small picked band to Denerim ahead of the rest of the forces, but he was old and experienced enough to know that such a course would be madness. It might well, in fact, be exactly what his enemies were anticipating.
"That's enough from those bastards!" he snarled to Bronwyn, twitching his reins restlessly. "I've put up with all I'm going to take from that cow in Ostagar and that doddering fool in Denerim. Things are going to change."
He behaved as if nothing had happened last night—or failed to happen—and Bronwyn was determined to behave in exactly the same way. He must not know how much he had hurt her, for it would be a weapon in any man's hands. As things stood now, Bronwyn did not wish to give Loghain such a weapon. He might actually use it.
Castle Bryland opened to them, pale cold stone and black iron. In the ancient hall, the evening's conference was even grimmer than the last.
"We want to be careful," advised Bann Carlin. "We don't want the Divine declaring an Exalted March on us."
Bronwyn shrugged. "If the Chantry dares to lock up the Queen of Ferelden, I don't see that we have much to lose. It sounds like they're already moving against us."
Loghain stared into the fire. "At the end of the Rebellion," he said slowly, "Maric considered a break with Val Royeaux. The Divine had openly declared herself the enemy of Ferelden. Maric decided in the end that we were too weak to deal with another war hard on the heels of the last." He got up and leaned on the stone mantel, surveying their expressions. "Perhaps it is time to assess the degree of threat an Exalted March actually poses."
"How many Templars does the Knight-Divine command?" Bronwyn asked. "Do you know?"
"No," Loghain admitted. "and I don't have to. The Chantry can't pull all its Templars out of every nation in Thedas to attack Ferelden. Since this is clearly an Orlesian offensive, Nevarra will not cooperate. If the Divine pushes too hard, she'll find more nations arrayed against her than Ferelden. Nevarra knows why Orlais wants Ferelden: for the Bannorn breadbasket that would support the continuing war against Nevarra."
"The Free Marches hate Orlais," Bann Stronar agreed. "And the individual Chantries would be reluctant to strip their ability to control their own local mages."
"So an Exalted March at this point," said Wulffe, "would essentially be an Orlesian invasion. And because of the war with Nevarra, they won't be able to throw their full force our way."
"But there is another factor," Bronwyn considered. "And that is that we are in the midst of a Blight. The Grey Wardens have kept their distance, but if Orlais attacks us now, they will be forced to make a stand for the sake of their own credibility and honor. The Grey Wardens will not march with Orlais, I'm certain of it. No matter how close they are to the Empress, they still have to answer to Weisshaupt and the rest of Thedas. The Divine will not want a war between the Chantry and the Grey Wardens, " she paused, rage rising up from her deepest core, "because we will whip their cowardly, sanctimonious, purple-skirted arses!"
A burst of laughter. Even Loghain smiled grimly.
"Well put!" rumbled Wulffe, still chuckling.
"You may well be right," said Loghain. "The Grey Wardens of Orlais might not move against us. It might well be that the Empress will pretend neutrality and use the Templars to conduct a proxy war. I do have fairly good intelligence as to the numbers of Templars within the borders of Ferelden. We'll start there, and take a closer look at their activities."
The conference broke up, and they all took themselves off to their quarters. Bronwyn felt took a certain childish pleasure in bidding Loghain a dismissive good night. Castle Bryland was indeed much larger than Ceorlic's manor, but there were still a great many soldiers to lodge. Once again, Aveline and Morrigan were assigned to Bronwyn's room, though thankfully in separate beds. Morrigan dragged her bed as far away as possible. She and Bronwyn were carefully polite to each other, but said nothing beyond the most necessary words.
Heavy rains slowed their progress toward Denerim. The West Road north of South Reach was not an engineering marvel like the ancient Imperial Highway. Quite long stretches were paved with stone, but there were deplorably muddy gaps, and in a number of places swollen stream beds had swept away small bridges, forcing their party to ford across.
And at each halt a new message arrived: Bryland was laying seize to the Cathedral; Fergus Cousland had arrived; Arl Urien was dead; the Queen was rescued and saved by the Ashes of Andraste; the Queen was well and in control of the city.
That last, very reassuring message reached them at the royal manor of Skraeling, a very old and inconvenient hunting lodge with a thatched roof. Only a handful of arrivals could find shelter in the house or barns: the rest had to set up an encampment.
Loghain was sending messages himself, wanting to know the situation in Denerim before he arrived. The last reply reached them when they were half a day from the city, and included a lengthy note to Bronwyn from Warden Jowan.
She read it on horseback, letting Dax have his head. She read it though, read it again, and then told Loghain the gist of it.
"Jowan has confirmed that the Templars murdered Wynne. The Revered Mother in Ostagar was obsessed with punishing her for the death of the King. She wrote to the Grand Cleric, whose diligent assistant, Mother Gertrude, saw to the matter. The correspondence indicates that Mother Gertrude knew Wynne's location for over a week before she sent the Templars after her. There's no doubt in Jowan's mind that she chose the day very carefully."
Loghain nodded. The Chantry had overreached itself at last.
"Also…" Bronwyn hesitated. "Jowan apologizes here for making the Ashes known to everyone. Apparently he told people what they were when Anora emerged from the Cathedral, and her healing was very public."
"Good," said Loghain. "Just as well to make clear that the Chantry had no part in saving her life. Quite the contrary."
Bronwyn was not satisfied by that. "I told him to keep it quiet! I didn't want people talking about the Ashes or going looking for the Ashes. Someday we'll have to do something about Haven, but I don't want there to be some sort of huge rush to grab at miracles. Adventurers are likely to be killed, or the Chantry will try to make coin from it."
Loghain did not care about the fate of the dragon-worshippers of Haven, and even less about the fate of people stupid enough to wander there alone.
"The Chantry will not be in a position to finance expeditions or make new foundations for some time after I finish with them." He opened another message, and laughed harshly. "A patrol has captured some of our fine Orlesian minstrels. I wonder what tune they'll sing for us?"
The rain stopped before they reached Denerim. In the hazy distance they could just make out Fort Drakon. Loghain ordered a final halt to eat and rest, and perhaps to smarten themselves up a bit before entering the city. He looked over at Bronwyn, talking quietly to her Wardens, with some pride and pleasure. She had taken his admonition to heart with surprising maturity. She really was quite a remarkable girl.
"Bronwyn!" he called, stalking over to her. She regarded him with admirable composure.
"My lord?"
Loghain paused, a little softened by the sight of her young face turned up to his. Yes, a remarkable girl, and already a queen in bearing. Too good for the likes of him; but he would endeavor to learn to be happier than he deserved.
"Don't wear your helmet," he advised Bronwyn, a bit gruffly, fingers light on her cheek. "Let the people see your face."
The troops reformed in good order, the horses by twos, the soldiers in their ranks, the wagons full of baggage and loot trundling along on well-oiled wheels.
People were gathering along the roads to see them pass, chattering and pointing. Bronwyn heard the words "That's the Girl Warden!" all too often, even though she had resigned herself to the nickname. Loghain might be at his best looking stern and forbidding, but she could not help smiling at the friendly folk as they held up the children to see. People talked about her looks, her red armor, how she had found the remedy to save the Queen…talked about her loudly, and as if Bronwyn were too deaf to hear them.
Ahead loomed the walls of Denerim, and before them the Great Gate. The last time Bronwyn had come to Denerim, she had slipped in almost unnoticed. Now, the crowds swirled and thickened, calling her name. Guards below and guards above shouted to each other, onlookers were pushed back, out of the way of the advancing troops.
Quite a few people wanted to see them: see her, Bronwyn, in particular. Fathers held up their children; mothers ran alongside Bronwyn's stirrup, wanting her to touch their babies.
Well…."bless" their babies, in at least two cases. Really, what sort of stories had people spread about her?
She began to have some idea, after they reached the Palace and Bronwyn found a priest with a message from the Grand Cleric waiting for her in the courtyard.
"Her Grace wishes to speak to you as soon as possible..."
Loghain had not noticed. He had received a message himself, and was reading it, face inscrutable.
The arrival disappointed her a little. She had looked forward to showing her new Wardens about their Compound. Instead, Jowan, Leliana, Carver met her at the Palace steps with the rest of the officers and functionaries, and Bronwyn had hardly a moment to greet them and whisper to Jowan, "I need to talk to you—" when she was swept away with Loghain, off to see the Queen.
Her Wardens were left behind, bemused and rather cheerful, to be taken in hand by Leliana. Bronwyn cast a longing look at them over her shoulder as she mounted the steps to the Landsmeet Chamber.
Inside, quite a few nobles lined the long aisle, and the cheers were loud. Nonetheless, as long as it had been since Bronwyn had trod these stones, she could tell that there were faces missing. In the air was a fever of fear and hope; a wish that someone would put things right.
Oh, there was Fergus, standing by the Queen! Bronwyn smiled with her whole heart, just for him, and was rewarded with his white and boyish grin. Beside her, Loghain might evince only a certain sardonic amusement, but Bronwyn found it wonderful to be so respected and validated by the foremost in the kingdom.
Fergus stepped forward to embrace her in a formal but nonetheless heart-felt salute. He whispered a word to Loghain, his voice low, disguised by the noise around them.
"Shall I announce the betrothal now?"
"Yes," Loghain agreed. "Better now than later."
Bronwyn felt a silly flutter of nerves, and rebuked herself for it. So it must be. There was no other path. Best to seize the day and make it her own.
Anora arose from her throne to welcome them.
"Welcome to you, my father, Loghain Mac Tir, Teryn of Gwaren, Hero of River Dane, and General of the Armies of Ferelden. Be welcome also, Bronwyn Cousland, Dragonslayer, Commander of the Grey in Ferelden. Word of your deeds has reached us, and we rejoice to hear that the darkspawn in the south have been fought to a standstill. All honor to you both, and it is our wish that you remain in the city some time, putting paid to the miscreants who have threatened the peace of the kingdom!"
A great deal of cheering at that. Ferelden's nobles had received a very bad fright. Darkspawn in the south were one thing: assassins at a wedding feast was something appallingly close to home.
Anora said: "Some of Ferelden's noblest have fallen and their desmesnes lie vacant. We shall require your good counsel in settling the ensuing claims."
Loud murmuring. Bryland's face was a curious study. Bronwyn wondered which lordship had caught his interest. South Reach was safe, of course. There was no time for pondering the matter, for Anora was speaking about her.
"Lady Bronwyn has done a deed worthy of great reknown. Months ago, I was poisoned by an Orlesian intriguer, and no healing could cure me. Only one remedy remained: to find the Sacred Ashes of Andraste. Lady Bronwyn succeeded in this quest, and the Ashes, administered to me after my captivity in the Cathedral, restored me to perfect health."
Amidst the rising noise and clamoring, excited gossip, the Queen made a most beautiful curtsey. "I thank you, humbly and sincerely, Bronwyn Cousland, for my life."
Bronwyn felt brevity was best. She bowed, and then replied, "It was my honor to serve the Crown of Ferelden, Your Majesty."
More cheering followed, but Bronwyn's sharp eyes saw there was debate admixed in it.
Fergus stepped forward. "Your Majesty, if I may speak…"
Anora smiled at him. She all but batted her lashes.
"You may, Teyrn Fergus."
Bronwyn nearly smirked. Anora was really laying it on rather thick. Not that Fergus didn't deserve it.
"It is my great pleasure,"Fergus declared, "to announce the betrothal of my sister, Lady Bronwyn, to Teyrn Loghain! The wedding is to be held a month hence, and I swear on my sword that no Orlesian villains will mar their rites!"
If there had been excitement before, the response to this announcement eclipsed everything. Cheers, gossip, speculation, envy, some sage nods from people already in on the plans. Bronwyn barely heard Anora's words of approval and congratulation, as her destiny became public property.
Loghain held her hand in his, and looked: if not happy, at least content. He whispered in her ear. "Once we're done here, Anora wants us to join her in the Little Audience Chamber. I think you'll find it interesting."
"This place is fantastic!" Carver assured his new brothers and sister. His new younger brothers and sister-at least in a manner of speaking. That made all the difference. He smiled, at peace with the world.
Anders had not seen the Compound before, and his grin lit up the Wardens' Hall. As a full Warden, he was informed he would have a private room in the tower. Morrigan, touchy and out of sorts during their journey, was pleased by that.
They were shown the portraits of Duncan and Genevieve, and told something of their history. Aveline and Toliver had met Duncan, and found it all very interesting. Servants took everyone's trunks and impedimenta to their various quarters, while Jowan made the introductions to Mistress Rannelly, and the Wardens sat down to a hearty meal.
Afterwards, they were told where the bathing facilities were, and the jakes. Leliana, suspecting that Bronwyn would not be pleased if the Wardens instantly scattered all over Denerim, improvised a schedule. They were to stay in the Compound this evening, and amuse themselves. Tomorrow there would be exercises in the training room above the Hall. As soon as it could be arranged, they would be allowed liberty to explore Denerim as long as they returned at the appointed hour.
Aveline found herself alone in the women's dormitory, and was assigned a single bed there that was far more comfortable than the bunksl lining two of the walls. Her trunk was set primly at the foot of the bed. By the wall were armor and weapon stands. She set her poor lost Wesley's shield on one, and sighed. It was a little like having a bit of him left to her, but not nearly good enough. Still, as barracks went, it was very nice indeed. She listened absently to the noise of the men settling in next door. It would be good to have a little quiet time. Morrigan had not been the friendliest of companions, and Bronwyn, while a considerate leader, had seemed preoccupied—understandably so, from the reports coming out of Denerim.
A knock at the door.
"Come in."
Toliver peered around the room: big, friendly Toliver. He was the only other human in their group of junior Wardens, and had naturally gravitated to Aveline, even though she was a former officer and considered "stuck-up."
"Found the training room," he told her. "It's something like! Want to spar?"
Aveline hoped he was not one of those men who looked upon sparring as a form of courtship. She was hoping to get a better look at the Wardens' study, but perhaps that was intended only for the higher ranks… "I wouldn't mind having a look at the place. I don't know about sparring—"
"Do you good. Set you right up. But if you want a spot of entertainment first, the elf's already at the butts."
Aveline smiled slightly. "Let's see if he really can shoot backwards."
Morrigan approved of their room once her wishes were acceded to, and they were settled on the third level of the tower, away from everyone else.
"I do not wish to hear wails, groans, snores, or Zevran attending to his own needs," she said to Anders. "This privacy is very welcome."
"It is, isn't it?" agreed Anders, bouncing experimentally on the wide bed. "Nice place. Everyone told me, but you never know until you see a place for yourself. I hope they let us out tomorrow. There's a shop I want to show you. The Wonders of Thedas. A lot of magical items and funny old books and maps. You'll like it."
"'Tis possible, I suppose," she shrugged. "For the moment, I shall revel in the freedom from Aveline's jejune militarism and Bronwyn's approaching doom."
"She's going to be Queen!" Anders almost cheered. "Think what she can do for mages!"
"Anders, you are such a child, sometimes. She can do only what those imbecilic nobles will allow her to persuade them to do."
He refused to be daunted, and bounced up again, to take her in his arms and nuzzle her superb white throat. "Mnnnnnh. And she's pretty persuasive. Anything she gets for us will be more we've got."
Nathaniel Howeknew better than to complain. He had been shown to quite nice quarters in the Palace. He also knew better than to complain about the guard at the door, or the fact that he had been requested not to wander away. He was a prisoner, at least in a sense. He could no doubt break out of here and run away, but that would mean the end of the Howe family in Ferelden. For now he must behave himself.
His meals were brought to him, his chamber tidied by a pleasant but uncommunicative servant. No one had said anything about summary execution, so things could be far worse.
Adria had given him fair warning—both she and Varel together. After receiving Ser Norrel's urgent messages, he knew he must choose: either to make his life henceforth in the Free Marches as he could; or boldly return to Ferelden, accepting that his father had roused great anger and brought a bloody vengeance on himself.
He sat in the hard wooden chair, looking into the fire, trying to uncover the riddle of the past few months in the wayward flames.
He was alone. He was an orphan: fatherless, motherless. His silly brother and wise, sweet sister had been thrust from the world by violent hands. Delilah had kept the bond of family alive, writing to him faithfully, her letters thoughtful, cheerful, optimistic; and only on closer reading betraying a deep vein of melancholy. Her short life had never been happy; never…not even particularly happy when they were children. He did not think that Father had meant for her to be unhappy, but perhaps that was because Father did not understand what happiness was, never having known it himself.
Save for those fragile bonds, save for the casual friends he made here and there, he had been alone for years in the Free Marches. He had not sought more, always feeling that his life lay in the future, at home in Ferelden. He would return someday and then there would be time and opportunity for friendship, for the kind of lifelong regard he thought bound together his father and Bryce Cousland. He had hoped to make just such a friend.
Meanwhile, he had squired for Lord Balimon and Lord Harriman; he had made his bow alive and eager in his hands; he had sharpened his skills with a blade until he could stake his life on it and win.
He had learned other crafts as well: how to hear the words underneath the ones spoken aloud; how to become the man that those around him wished him to be; how to slip unseen through a crowd, along an alley, among the great; and how, when necessary, to make himself both heard and seen…and attended to.
And all these skills might be for naught if Ferelden cast him out as the scion of treachery.
It was impossible to determine just what Father thought he was doing, or why he thought he could get away with it. It was all very unclear—much like trying to find a lost treasure at the bottom of a murky pool. Father had led a surprise raid on Castle Highever and had murdered Bryce and Eleanor Cousland; and not satisfied with that, he had killed Fergus' Antivan wife and his little son. He had tried to kill Bronwyn.
What was he thinking? Father had been a mystery to him: a man who never explained himself, who never made excuses or apologies. The book of his life was closed, and Nathaniel had no access to the key that would unlock it.
Ser Norrel's messages—yes, they had urged him to come home at once. The darkspawn were stirring in the south…folk believed it was the beginnings of a Blight…Teyrn Loghain had led the army against them…the King himself had marched with his soldiers. Father was deep in some sort of political intrigue, and Ser Norrel was concerned about him. Whether his father admitted it or not, Nathaniel was needed at home.
Thus, he bade farewell to his friends and made his way from Markham to Ostwick, where he heard shocking news. The Couslands were dead, murdered by his father. No one seemed to know why. It seemed a brazen, outrageous power grab. How Father imagined he could get away with it was hard to understand. At first he thought that the whole family was dead, and then he heard that the son and daughter had survived. Fergus, in fact, had already left for the army before the attack. It all became even more incomprehensible.
Then he learned that Bann Esmerelle had passed through Kirkwall, heading north to Starkhaven. Gossip was aflame about her, and word from Ferelden was that she had not been truthful about her precipitous exile. Accompanying her movements was the news that Father was dead, murdered by the Crows. Exmerelle had fled Amaranthine a step ahead of a vengeful Fergus Cousland.
She had come to the Free Marches a very wealthy woman, and the source of her fortune was shocking. She and Father had become entangled with Tevinter slavers. After Father's seizure of Highever, he had sold off the entire Alienage. Then he continued his dealing, luring in elves from Amaranthine, from Denerim, from anywhere with false promises of work. The unfortunates had commanded a high price. Esmerelle was possibly the richest woman in the Free Marches, and those officers who had escaped with her had purses heavy with gold.
Had Fergus hired the Crows? He had ties to Antiva, of course. That had been his first thought, though when he arrived in Ferelden he found no one seemed to believe that, and it was definitely dismissed by Varel, and then Adria.
Adria, his dear second mother, was heartbroken at the fate of Delilah and Thomas. It was she who had taken charge of the bodies and prepared them decently for the pyre. She was certain that Fergus had meant to spare Delilah. The young Teyrn of Highever clearly did not think her guilty of anything. The assassins had escaped in the confusion, and had left behind a spiteful message from Oriana's Antivan mother, written in her own tongue and in the flesh of Rendon Howe's chest.
All the news was alarming, for that matter. On his arrival, the town of Amaranthine was chaotic and fractured, held together by Fergus' garrison: men and women who luckily had not recognized him. Varel had greeted him kindly, but was concerned for his safety. The soldiers Fergus had left at Vigil's Keep eyed Nathaniel like a poisonous snake.
And now he learned that the King was dead, killed in battle against the darkspawn. Nathaniel had not seen Cailan in years, and now would never know what kind of man he had become. A Landsmeet had been called, to be held in Haring, of all preposterous times, though Varel thought the vultures were already gathering. Fergus Cousland was there, at the side of the widowed Queen Anora, who would rule for the next two months until a new monarch was chosen.
"It's a risk, either way," Varel counseled him. "The Couslands are high in favor at the moment. If you show your face, it might be the end of you. On the other hand, the cruelty of that Antivan woman's revenge sickened Teyrn Fergus. I don't think they'll have you executed—or even tried for treason. They might exile you, but that's no reason to exile yourself. The bold thing might be best: make your obeisance to the Queen and your liege lord. Denounce your father's crimes—for crimes they were—but stand firm on for your rights. There's a chance the arling may come to you. If they decide on exile, it's likely they'd be fair enough to see you had a share of the family treasures."
Adria had wanted to come with him and take care of him, but Nathaniel thought that unsafe for her. He kissed her goodbye, and bowed his head for her blessing. On the road, he heard that Orlesian assassins had attacked the wedding feast of the Arl of Denerim, and killed him. Many other nobles had been killed or wounded. The Queen, too had been injured in some way, and rumors and accusations were flying back and forth. Some of the rumors attributed some of the guilt to the Chantry. Surely, that could not be possible?
In the city, the talk was all of Fergus' storming of the Chantry to rescue the Queen. A more fantastic tale gave out that the Girl Warden—whoever she was—had found the Ashes of Andraste and miraculously healed the Queen. Was this the Dragon Age, or some misty, long-forgotten time of myths and legends?
The door opened abruptly. To Nathaniel's relief, the royal seneschal was there, rather than an execution detail. Guards there were, but only four of them. Perhaps they were simply underestimating him.
"My lord," said the man. "The Queen requires your attendance."
Nathaniel did not recognize the corridors. They were not taking him to the Landsmeet Chamber, which was good, as that would be the likely venue of a treason trial. Instead they climbed some handsome stairs, and he was admitted to what was evidently the Little Audience Chamber.
Queen Anora, elegantly dressed in blue, was enthroned on a low dais. Nathaniel had not seen her in years, but she was still a very beautiful woman. Beside her stood the imposing figure of Teyrn Loghain. Nathaniel had not known he was in the city. Perhaps he had only recently arrived. More ominous was the presence of a somber Fergus Cousland on the other side of the throne, and with him Leonas Bryland, a close ally of the Couslands, equally somber.
His attention was riveted by someone he did not know. Next to Teyrn Loghain was a tall young woman in splendid dragon bone armor of an unusual dark red. A gold double-headed griffon was flourished over her breast. He had heard that Duncan, Commander of the Grey in Ferelden, had died months ago. Was this then the famed Girl Warden? She seemed far too young to command any force of Wardens Nathaniel had ever encountered.
Far too young and too beautiful as well. Her long dark hair fell in loose waves over her pauldrons, brushed back from her white and unlined brow. A thin, pale scar traced its way from cheekbone to jaw. Most arresting were her eyes: a brilliant, glittering green that could not be the natural color of any human's. Did she perhaps have some elven blood? She seemed far too tall and broad-shouldered. He looked at her again. There was something vaguely familiar about her...
A terrible thought struck him.
Do they mean to make me a Warden?
It would make a horrible kind of sense. But Queen Anora was speaking, telling him what had been decided for him. If he would swear homage to Fergus as his rightful teyrn, if he would forswear pursuing revenge for his family—of whose deaths Fergus was blameless, and if he would vote at the upcoming Landsmeet as the Queen, Loghain, the Couslands, and their allies wished; then they in turn would support his claim to the arling of Amaranthine. There was some crosstalk, to which he listened in a kind of daze. Adria would be thrilled. If only Delilah had lived to see this day.
When Fergus called the beautiful stranger by her name, Nathaniel was shocked. Bronwyn? He would never have associated this woman with the lovely, grey-eyed child who had plagued and teased him. What had happened to her? How had she come to be a Warden?
Bronwyn left the Little Audience Chamber after the ritual torture of Nathaniel Howe, exhausted by all the formality and subtextual meanings. She made her excuses to everyone, not wanting to hear anything more about titles and lordships.
Seeing Nathaniel again after so long and in such circumstances had wounded her in some subtle way. He had grown into manhood-a fine manhood-in foreign lands, and must be grieved at such a homecoming. With what quiet dignity he had faced them all...people he must regard as his worst enemies...and stood fast before them. He was clearly Rendon's son-the long, slightly hooked nose and keen grey eyes under dark brows proclaimed that-but Rendon had always been lanky and rawboned...almost scrawny. This broad-shouldered, slim-hipped man had the strength and grace of a young dragon.
As a child, she had admired him, and expressed her affections in the only way she knew: by making herself obnoxious. She had complacently heard the talk about a marriage, and then he was abruptly sent away. It occurred to her that her passion for Loghain had flowered the spring after Nathaniel's departure. That was..disturbing.
No. She was committed to Loghain, and while angry with him, had not ceased to feel for him. Nonetheless, the remembrance of things past caused an upswell of good will toward Nathaniel. If only he would keep his word! She wanted no more harm to come to him.
In her room in the Wardens' Compound was a pile of correspondence: letters from the First Warden, the Warden-Commanders of Nevarra, Antiva, and Ansburg; vassals of Highever, and citizens of Denerim. And there a personal note from the Grand Cleric, not satisfied apparently with sending a priest with a verbal message.
"Her Grace wishes to meet with the Warden-Commander at her earliest convenience."
Bronwyn sighed. That might be disagreeable. Would she complain about Fergus? Or…she groaned aloud.
She wants to talk about the Ashes. Who wouldn't?
This was no better than the Little Audience Chamber. She heard voices in the study and hurried there, hoping for harmless gossip and a glass of wine.
"Bronwyn!" Carver beamed at the sight of her. "The new lot are settling in. And I have the best room in the world!"
She smiled back, enjoying his frank enjoyment. "I like it here, too. Everyone else satisfied?"
They were: it was a pleasant group. Jowan had recently arrived and seemed unusally cheerful, even elated. She would have to talk to him privately about the Ashes, but what was done was done.
Jowan, Leliana, Carver, Anders, Morrigan, Zevran. And Scout was here, too, of course, sprawled luxuriously in front of the fire. It was almost like the old days before people took it into their heads to make her Queen. She was not the only one who thought so.
"I wish all the rest could be with us just like this," Leliana said wistfully, pouring a cup of wine for Bronwyn. "This is so nice."
"Someday," Bronwyn said, though she thought it unlikely.
Carver, big overgrown boy that he was, had slid out of his chair and lounged on a cushioned stool by the fire, scratching Scout's ears.
"I miss our stories," said Anders. "That was great. Of course we don't have Sten here to make his unique observations on our barbaric customs."
"Why don't we have a story anyway? It's Carver's turn," said Jowan. He was happy: perhaps the happiest he had ever been. Even if Bronwyn reamed him out for revealing this existence of the Ashes, a moment like this was worth it. He had found a whole archive of secret correspondence. Some of it was in cipher, but there was reason to believe it pertained to the Aeonar Prison. If they could do something about that...
"Yes!" Zevran sensed the mood turning a little melancholy, and seized on the idea. "It is the turn of our young wielder of the mighty greatsword. Who knows when we shall all be together? Why not hear a story now?"
Carver nearly fell off his stool. "I have the perfect story!" he told them. "I've been saving it up ever since I thought of it. My father used to tell it to me. It's called 'The Boy Who Found Fear at Last."
"All right," Bronwyn said, in the mood to be diverted. "Let's hear it."
Carver's story of The Boy Who Found Fear At Last
There was once a woman who lived in a little cottage in the forest with her three children. The two eldest had gone to seek their fortunes, and the youngest was kept at home to bear his mother company. The cottage was isolated and far from any neightbors, and so sometimes the mother was very lonely.
They were sitting together on a winter's evening, when a storm suddenly sprang up, and the wind blew the door open. The woman started and shivered, and glanced over her shoulder as if she half expected to see some horrible thing behind her. 'Go and shut the door,' she said hastily to her son, 'I feel frightened.'
'Frightened?' repeated the boy. 'What does it feel like to be frightened?'
'Well—just frightened,' answered the mother. 'A fear of something—you hardly know what—takes hold of you.'
'It must be very odd to feel like that,' replied the boy. He thought about it all night, and decided, 'I shall go through the world and seek fear till I find it.' And the next morning, before his mother was out of bed, he had left the cottage in the forest behind him.
After walking for some hours he reached a mountain, which he began to climb. Near the top, in a wild and rocky spot, he came upon a band of fierce bandits, sitting round a fire. The boy, who was cold and tired, was delighted to see the bright flames, so he went up to them and said, "Greetings to you, sers," and wriggled himself in between the men, till his feet almost touched the burning logs.
The bandits stopped drinking and eyed him curiously, and at last their leader spoke.
'No caravan of armed men would dare to come here. Even the very birds shun our camp, and who are you to venture in so boldly?'
'Oh, I have left my mother's house in search of fear. Perhaps you can show it to me?'
'Fear is wherever we are,' answered the leader, smirking.
'But where?' asked the boy, looking round. 'I see nothing.'
Insulted and disappointed the bandits looked at each other, finding that they were not so menacing as they liked to believe. The leader scratched his head, and then had an idea to put this young lad in his place.
'Take this pot and some flour and butter and sugar over to the ruined castle which lies down there, and bake us a cake for supper,' replied the bandit. And the boy, who was by this time quite warm, jumped up cheerfully, and slinging the pot over his arm, ran down the hill.
When he got to the ruins he collected some sticks and made a fire; then he filled the pot with water from a little stream close by, and mixing the flour and butter and sugar together, he set the cake on to cook. It was not long before it grew crisp and brown, and then the boy lifted it from the pot and placed it on a stone, while he put out the fire. At that moment a ghostly hand stretched out, and a voice said:
'Is that cake for me?'
'Do you think I am going to give to the dead the food of the living?' replied the boy, with a laugh. And giving the hand a rap with his spoon, and picking up the cake, he went up the mountain side, whistling merrily.
'Well, have you found fear?' asked the bandits when he held out the cake to them.
'No: was it there?' answered the boy. 'I saw nothing but a white hand that came from the air, and belonged to someone who wanted my cake, but I just rapped the fingers with my spoon, and said it was not for him, and then the hand vanished. Oh, how nice the fire is!' And he flung himself on his knees before it, and so did not notice the glances of surprise cast by the bandits at each other.
'There is another chance for you,' said one at length. 'On the other side of the mountain lies a deep pool; go to that, and perhaps you may meet fear on the way.'
'I hope so, indeed,' answered the boy. And he set out at once.
He soon beheld the waters of the pool gleaming in the moonlight, and as he drew near he saw a tall swing standing just over it, and in the swing a child was seated, weeping bitterly.
'That is a strange place for a swing,' thought the boy; 'but I wonder what he is crying about.' And he was hurrying on towards the child, when a maiden ran up and spoke to him.
'I want to lift my little brother from the swing,' cried she, 'but it is so high above me, that I cannot reach him. If you will get closer to the edge of the pool, and let me mount on your shoulder, I think I can reach him.'
'Willingly,' replied the boy, and in an instant the girl had climbed to his shoulders. But instead of lifting the child from the swing, as she could easily have done, she pressed her feet so firmly on either side of the youth's neck, that he felt that in another minute he would be choked, or else fall into the water beneath him. So gathering up all his strength, he gave a mighty heave, and threw the girl backwards. As she touched the ground, a golden bracelet fell from her arm, and she and the child vanished. The boy picked up the bracelet, and put it in his purse.
'I may as well keep it as a remembrance of all the queer things that have happened to me since I left home,' he said to himself.
On and on walked the youth, but fear never crossed his path, and one day he entered a large town, where all the streets and squares were so full of people, he could hardly pass between them.
'Why are all these crowds gathered together?' he asked of a man who stood next him.
'The ruler of this country is dead,' was the reply, 'and as he had no children, it is needful to choose a successor. Therefore, each morning one of the sacred pigeons is let loose from the tower yonder, and on whomsoever the bird shall perch, that man will be our king. In a few minutes the pigeon will fly. Wait and see what happens.'
Every eye was fixed on the tall tower which stood in the centre of the chief square, and the moment that the sun was seen to stand straight over it, a door was opened and a beautiful pigeon, gleaming with pink and grey, blue and green, came rushing through the air. Onward it flew, onward, onward, till at length it rested on the head of the boy. Then a great shout arose:
'The king! the king!'
But as the boy listened to the cries, a vision, swifter than lightning, flashed across his brain. He saw himself seated on a throne, spending his life trying, and never succeeding, to make poor people rich; miserable people happy; bad people good; never doing anything he wished to do, not able even to marry the girl that he loved.
'No! no!' he shouted, hiding his face in his hands; but the crowds who heard him thought he was overcome by the grandeur that awaited him, and paid no heed. All around him were cries of joy.
'The king! The king!'
And as the young man heard, a cold shiver, that he knew not the meaning of, ran through him.
'This is fear whom you have so long sought,' whispered a voice, which seemed to reach his ears alone. And the youth bowed his head as the vision once more flashed before his eyes, and he accepted his doom, and made ready to pass his life with fear beside him.
Anders responded to the story with shocked silence, and Zevran with veiled and sympathetic amusement. Jowan was about to praise Carver, when he saw the looks on the other faces. Leliana, who had seen it all coming for some time, only sighed, and gave Carver an encouraging smile.
Bronwyn hardly knew what to say. Just when she thought herself safe, her future had slapped her in the face, vividly described by this innocent young man.
She swallowed. "What a…remarkable story," she managed. "Your father was a very wise man. Thank you for sharing it. Now," she said, rising carefully from her chair and setting her wine aside, "I must really return to my correspondence."
Too upset and confused to make a dignified exit, she nearly walked into the closed door. Furiously, she flung it open, and fled to the silence of her room.
Carver stared. "Did I say something wrong?"
"'Twas an excellent story!" Morrigan said forcefully. "A remarkably apt and pointed cautionary tale. I believe it was exactly the story that Bronwyn needed to hear at this particular moment."
"Carver," Anders said kindly, "you do know why Bronwyn is in Denerim, don't you?"
Carver looked at him blankly. Anders pursed his lips.
"You know that someone will have to take the throne, don't you? You know about the Landsmeet?"
Carver suddenly gaped, and then blushed to the roots of his hair. "Maker's Breath! She's going to kill me!"
"Perhaps not personally," Zevran pointed out, "but soon it will very likely be within her power to order you hanged, drawn, and quartered."
Thanks to my reviewers: Zute, Nemrut, Phygmalion, reality deviant, Blinded in a bolthole, Jyggilag, Hydroplatypus, Mike3207, MsBarrows, KnightOfHolyLight, sizuka2, anon, Kira Kyuu, Biff mcLaughlin, BandGeekNinja, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, Judy, riverdaleswhiteflash, Josie Lange, JackOfBladesX, Shakespira, Enaid Aderyn, amanda weber, Jenna53, mille libri, euromellows, KimiRen, Have Socks. Will Travel, Psyche Sinclair, Verpine, Herebedragons66, and Tsu Doh Nimh.
The story is from Andrew Lang's Yellow Fairy Book, from a Turkish original.