Victory at Ostagar
(I was on vacation in the canyons of Utah last week, and my internet connectivity was very poor. If my reply to your review did not reach you, I apologize. Also, this chapter is shorter than I planned, as I spent quite a bit of time hiking under waterfalls and communing with a recalcitrant horse.)
Chapter 66: Tasks At Hand
She was rushing through the Deep Roads with extraordinary speed, her tail whipping behind her. Her shoulders smashed at the rocks on either side, shattering them to fragments. Her slaves quailed before her and obeyed without question. Other beings, shadowy grey creatures, thrummed at the edges of her consciousness. She reached out, seeing through their eyes, learning what their pitiful minds understood of this strange world into which she had been reborn. Hers, all hers. Victory lay ahead.
Bronwyn slept late. Scout woke her at last, impatient to go outside. She was not exactly tired, but felt as if she had been running a race all night. She remembered flashes of her dreams: an endless slithering through darkness. It was all nonsense, of course.
She let Scout out, and her eyes fell on the correspondence on her writing table. She must sit down and answer it all in detail.
A servant entered, with a small box on a salver.
"From Teyrn Loghain, my lady."
Bronwyn blinked, still not quite awake. She dismissed the servant, and opened the box.
Ah. The ring she had been expecting when she was given armor instead. Loghain had not given her a ring last night, when their betrothal was announced. Perhaps he wanted to give her a chance to say whether or not she liked it. Did she?
She supposed she did. It even fit, thought that was typical of Loghain's careful strategic planning. The ring was of fine gold set with three diamonds, the one in the center quite large and brilliant. Bronwyn wondered cynically whose ring it once was, and hoped it had not been Teyrna Celia's. That would be tacky, and distressing to Anora besides. But no: Loghain was not that insensitive. Besides, his dead wife's jewelry would have gone to Anora.
She put on the ring, admiring the sparkle. She really was betrothed now, she supposed. Blowing out a breath, she turned to her letters, ever conscious of the subtle weight on her hand.
The First Warden was really, really not pleased with her. She might be called 'Warden-Commander' here in Ferelden, but her foreign correspondents made clear that she was nothing of the sort in anyone else's eyes.
The Warden-Commander of Nevarra was friendly enough. He, like the Commanders of Ansburg and Antiva, wanted to know what was going on. They knew this was a Blight, but what exactly had the Archdemon done?
Hector Pentaghast of Nevarra, himself the scion of a proud and ancient house, seemed very cognizant of the dilemma that Orlais had presented Ferelden: any help from their Wardens was tied to an occupation by Orlais in all but name, and demanded ultimate submission to the Empress. He knew that Bronwyn had obtained the help of Orzammar and of the Ferelden Dalish. He also knew that King Cailan had been killed, and that the throne was undecided. His questions were clear enough: had the Archdemon diversified its attack? In past Blights, the darkspawn had issued to the surface in multiple locations. Had they been seen anywhere but at Ostagar?
And there was more: he explained why no one had offered experienced Wardens to assist her. The First Warden had forbidden it. It was believed that the main attack would be coming soon. The First Warden held that the attack at Ostagar was simply an early feint—a mere foretaste of the real horror to come. Since no one knew where the darkspawn might strike next, no Commander felt it wise to weaken his own forces, lest the darkspawn appear at his own gates. Unwritten but very clear was the opinion that Ferelden was too small, too remote, too unimportant to be the main thrust of a Blight. The great battles would be fought elsewhere. Bronwyn hoped he was right.
A similar story was told by Ansburg and also by Antiva. In addition, Gian-Antonio del Condottiere sympathized with Bronwyn's indignation at being targeted by the Crows. He assured her that he had spoken to the Masters of the Houses. One would think that when faced with a Blight, the Crows would forbear to attack Grey Wardens. Alas, some Crows were greedier and more short-sighted than others, even though no Crow would dare attack an Antivan Grey Warden, lest a vendetta be called on them. He had been told that the Crows were pulling out of Ferelden altogether, partly in fear of the darkspawn, and also because their recent failures against the Wardens of Ferelden had decimated their ranks. Gian-Antonio congratulated his sister Warden Bronwyn on this success. It was important to keep the Crows in their place.
There was no word from Tevinter, Tantervale, or Orlais. The last did not surprise her at all. Tantervale was close enough to Weisshaupt to adhere to the commands of the First Warden. As to Tevinter—well—it was so far away that Bronwyn doubted that the fate of Ferelden mattered a particle to them. The only Fereldans the Tevinter Wardens were likely to meet were the elven slaves abducted from their homes.
The First Warden was very displeased with her. She had been insubordinate. She was not Warden-Commander of Ferelden according to the First Warden's reckoning. She was a wayward junior Warden who had exceeded her authority. She had not given due regard to the chain of command. Duncan was the last Warden-Commander of Ferelden. Whether a new Warden-Commander would be appointed in future was only the First Warden's to decide. Bronwyn could expect no assistance from Weisshaupt, since Ferelden had refused the assistance generously offered by the Wardens of Montsimmard.
His letter made her so angry that she was unsure she could compose a rational reply. What did she care for the Grey Warden "chain of command?" They seemed willing to give Ferelden to Orlais, and she scorned the "generous assistance" offered by the enemies of her blood. Hector Pentaghast's frank letter answered many questions, and made clear that no help was imminent anyway.
The letters were not a total loss, of course. She had hopes of developing some sort of link with the Nevarran Wardens. Their country was at war with Orlais, and they clearly sympathized with Ferelden's refusal to admit the chevaliers. While Pentaghast would not send her Wardens, he might well continue to give her useful information.
So the Antivans thought the Crows had withdrawn from Ferelden? That was fine with her. She must pass on the news to Zevran later. She saw no good in a pack of foreign assassins running wild during the current disturbance in Ferelden, or in fact…ever. If she truly became Queen, she would consider coming down hard on the Crows, should they try to reestablish themselves.
She set the Grand Cleric's note aside. She must go see the woman. The chantry was being turned upside down by the Royal Guard. Jowan was deeply involved, too, which was awkward, considering that he was a Grey Warden; but it was also very good, as he was a mage who had a unique perspective on the Chantry, and specialized knowledge of their secrets.
But she should go and smooth the waters, as best she could. The Grand Cleric herself had been the victim of betrayal, and might be inclined to make common cause with them…as long as someone stepped forward soon.
There were more letters: various people asking for coin, asking for assistance, asking for recommendations or positions for friends and family.
Among these miscellaneous letters was a missive from the mother of a Templar named Ser Friden. Friden had disappeared, and his officers believed him to have deserted. The mother, on the other hand, wrote that her son had been investigating a possible coven of blood mages active in the South Docks area. The mother included his investigative notes. If the Girl Warden could find the Ashes of Andraste, could she not find a lost son?
A coven of blood mages? Perhaps it was only a band of wretched, frightened apostates. Perhaps the son really had deserted. It was interesting, nonetheless, and might be worth looking into. She would take Jowan with her, and they would see what was going on. If they were well-disposed apostates, she might consider conscripting them.
There were other things to do here in Denerim. In her trunk was the tattered book she had retrieved in the elven temple, full of notes about a mysterious Gaxxkang, also called "The Unbound." She dug the fragile book out and looked it over. The latest of the entries mentioned an address in Stealcopper Court, and a man named Vihm Madon. He might be able to tell her more. If she could get away for an hour or two, it might be interesting to know the end of the story.
And she must go to the Alienage, and deliver Adaia's presents. She could delegate that to someone else, but that seemed shabby to her. Adaia had personally refurbished the gown that Brownyn would be wearing to the Queen's table tonight, and thus it seemed only right that Bronwyn would personally deliver the gifts. She would ask after that child that had caught Danith's fancy, too: Iona's daughter…Amethyne. A pretty name.
Breakfast seemed to be the first, best plan, and she splashed herself clean, and then slipped on a fresh shirt, Warden tunic, leather breeches, and decent boots.
Leliana poked her head in, smiling.
"Are you ever coming to breakfast?"
"As soon as I can do something with my hair."
"Oh, come now, and I shall help you afterwards. Carver is so afraid you are angry with him!"
Bronwyn smiled wryly. "I'm not angry. He told a very good story, and it made me think. What else are stories for?"
"That is exactly what I say!"
She noticed the ring and squealed. Bronwyn held out her hand to be gushed over. It really was a very nice ring.
Nobody else at breakfast noticed it, thank the Maker, or perhaps they simply thought it a bit of plunder. Bronwyn did her best to put Carver at ease, while they stuffed themselves with porridge, with sausages, and with bread and honey. Bronwyn directed a maid to unpack her red gown and set it to air…and to iron it, if it were badly creased.
"A major dinner tonight," she told everyone. "everyone's to be in their best by sunset. Junior Wardens, that means you, too. Go to Mistress Rannelly and she'll issue you a Warden tunic. If you need other garments, I'm sure she can find you something."
"What's new in the letters?" Jowan asked.
Bronwyn saw no reason to keep their situation a secret.
"Oh…I've been a very bad girl by not deserting Ferelden. No one's coming to help us, because the First Warden has forbidden it. Also, all the other Wardens think the primary attack will be elsewhere...or they're pretending they think that in order to keep their Wardens close to home."
There was some grumbling at the wickedness of foreigners. Bronwyn's mind was already on her tasks for the day.
"I have heaps to do today, and I'll want some of you along with me. The rest of you are no doubt dying to see the town, and that's fine. However, if you go out this morning, be back for the midday meal at noon. Also, I don't want you out alone. Stay in twos or more at least. The city is still unsettled and I can't afford to lose any of you. After the midday meal, you can go out again, but you must be back an hour before sunset to wash and dress for dinner."
There was quite a bit of excitement at being allowed to see the city. Bronwyn smiled tolerantly.
"I'd like to visit Highever House first thing. I have some personal things stored there, and I'd like to go through them. Carver would no doubt like to visit his family. Then, I must really call on the Grand Cleric and tell her the story of the Ashes. Leliana, you were there, and you should help tell the story. Zevran—"
The Antivan winced and put up his hands. "Not I, Noble One. The Grand Cleric would be very uncomfortable with an elf in her private chambers, and I would prefer to keep my existence and continued survival as quiet as possible."
Leliana would have eagerly assured him of the Grand Cleric's indifference to his race, but even she was not that optimistic.
"Nonetheless," said Bronwyn, "I'd like you to come with me today. After my visit to the Grand Cleric, I'll visit the Alienage and deliver Adaia's presents to her family. You've been there before, and I'm sure they'd prefer to see a familiar face."
The note was sent to the Cathedral, and Bronwyn prepared herself for a difficult conversation. Secrecy was impossible. It was probably best to tell the Grand Cleric the truth, and why she had not intended for it to be publicly known. Leliana, of course, was thrilled to meet the Grand Cleric and tell her all about their amazing spiritual experience. Bronwyn, looking back on it, still felt very uncomfortable about much of what had happened.
For her trip to the Alienage and to the Cathedral, she did not change, deciding to let her Grey Warden tunic speak for itself. Leliana insisted on elaborately braiding the sides and back of her long hair into three plaits, which she then braided together. The effect was very good.
Jowan, it appeared, wished to call on the ladies at Highever House. Leliana whispered to Bronwyn, "I think he finds Bethany Hawke very charming. She is a sweet girl."
So Bronwyn, Leliliana, Carver, Jowan, and Zevran set off for Highever House. Anders, Morrigan,and the other Wardens accompanied them part of the way, wanting to visit the Market District as soon as possible. Very likely they would cross paths in the course of the day.
Jowan, of course, had already spoken privately to Anders and Morrigan about the phylacteries. Anders was still laughing about it, quietly, secretly; enjoying the sabotage in his deepest heart. Every phylactery in the Cathedral had been contaminated—at least those belonging to live mages. If Jowan would forswear Blood Magic for good and all, Anders felt they might even be friends someday.
"A clever ruse," Morrigan had agreed, eyeing Jowan with more respect. "But what is to be done about the phylacteries that the Templars continue to collect from their new captives?"
"I've laid some ground work for that," Jowan said, voice low. "When I discovered the storage area, I made sure that all the soldiers understood what it was. They were sickened, and will no doubt spread the word. To them, despite the sophistries of the Chantry, it's all Blood Magic. With the Chantry is such bad odor at the moment, it may be possible to reign in such doings." He added, very quietly, "And if Bronwyn becomes Queen, we can hope for real reform."
Anders agreed entirely with that, so they walked together very companionably. All of them had considerable coin in their purses, and plenty of ideas about how to spend it.
Bronwyn had not visited Highever House since she was sixteen, and it seemed very unfamiliar to her at first. At the moment, it was overflowing with knights and men-at-arms. Most startling of all was the presence of some yellow-eyed people whose existence she had nearly forgotten.
But they had not forgotten her.
"Lady of the Wardens," said their leader. "We are glad to see you once more. We have served your brother faithfully."
"I am glad you see you, too. Has life among humans treated you well?"
"It has not been easy, and many among us died, but we preserved the children, and found a place in the world. Our swords are yours, always."
A cheerful voice called down. "Bronwyn? You're here!"
Fergus had not yet gone to the Palace so early in the morning, and was there to greet her and make the introductions. Most of the knights she knew—some of them quite well. Ser Adam Hawke was there of course, and quite at home. He was far better dressed than he had been when last she saw him.
And here were the hitherto unknown Hawke womenfolk: Lady Amell, the mother; the pretty sister,Bethany, a mage of whom Cousin Leonas had spoken in the most glowing terms. It was quite understandable why Jowan would be charmed. Perhaps he hoped to make her a Warden, though Bethany seemed too devoted to her mother to leave voluntarily. Bronwyn decided she must speak to Jowan about not conscripting a young girl simply because he fancied her. For all she knew, Grey Wardens might do such things all the time, but she had no desire to so offend one of her brother's knights, and cause such unhappiness to a decent family.
So the mother was calling herself 'Lady Amell' now. Bronwyn had at first understood that her style was 'Mistress Hawke.' The uncle had held the title, she supposed, and was now dead. The title had no land to back it up, but if it pleased the woman, Bronwyn would indulge her. Lady Amell had certainly produced some very fine Fereldan children.
There was another girl with them: the cousin, the daughter of the uncle. Should she not be 'Lady Amell?' Apparently this Charade had helped her late father escape assassins back in Kirkwall, and had seen him safe to Lothering. Those deeds suggested considerable strength and courage. She was dressed rather blandly in lady-like silks, but her eyes were bright and noticing. Bronwyn rather liked her, she decided.
The women had visited the Compound, and were pleased to have Carver so well settled in life—if only, said the mother—were it not for the darkspawn. Carver rolled his eyes in Bronwyn's direction. She could not help grinning back.
"Yes," she agreed solemnly, "the darkspawn are very inconvenient."
She excused herself for a private word with Fergus. Up in the study, Fergus had opened a hiding place that concealed a great deal of gold. It was a cache that Grandfather had prepared in case of crisis. There was another such hiding place up in Mother and Father's room. Mother had told Bronwyn about it a few years before, swearing her to utter secrecy.
Fergus was using the room himself, and was aware that there was a hiding place in the room, but had waited for Bronwyn to open it properly. This was done, and a great deal of treasure was revealed. Among the items was a magnificent suit of silverite armor, that might be just the thing for Fergus to wear to the Landsmeet. Mother had left some lovely jewelry and gowns: things she wore only to a Landsmeet and the attendant grand ceremonies.
"You should have this," Fergus said. "Mother would have wanted it."
"Mother would have wanted this to belong to the Teyrna of Highever," Bronwyn replied, shaking her head. "Don't think me cruel to say it. I hope with all my heart that you will someday love again, and find a woman worthy of you."
Fergus smiled ruefully, not ready to tell his sister that he had found just such a woman. She might be shocked for Oriana's sake, or if not for her, for the sake of the king, dead only little over a month. Cailan had not been a good husband to Anora, but he had been her husband nonetheless, and it was far too soon to speak.
"I'll see to it that the next Teyrna of Highever has bridegifts in plenty. You left Highever with nothing, and then Highever was sacked. Mother's good pieces—and Oriana's—and yours were stolen and shared out as loot. I don't expect to recover even a handful. A good lot of them are probably on the far side of the Waking Sea, decorating that bitch Esmerelle. I want you to pick out some things as keepsakes, and you'll need clothes for the Landsmeet."
Scruples aside, what he said was perfectly true. She did not want to go to Loghain like a beggarmaid. Loot she had, of course, and some fine jewels. Leliana had made some heavy orders, but Bronwyn had so little clothing that anything was a help. Among other things, she ended up taking a splendid sable cloak, a belt studded with pearls, her mother's gold and amber brush, comb, and mirror, and an elaborate red velvet dressing gown. She thought again, and took a lacy white silk nightdress too, ignoring Fergus' smirk.
"I'll have it sent to the Warden's Compound," he said agreeably. "Maybe by those Wolf-people of yours. I get the impression that they can't do enough for you."
She took a quick look at her own old room. None of the grand clothes would fit, of course, and it was mostly devoid of personal items, save for a book or two and some dusty toys. She turned from it with a sigh.
Jowan talked Bethany and Charade into going to the Market with their party. Adam decided to go as well, and it was a cheerful mob that left Highever House…aside from Bronwyn. She and Leliana veered off, heading for the Cathedral, while the rest indulged themselves in shopping.
Inside the Cathedral was controlled chaos, and a large presence of soldiers and some areas out-of-bounds to the clergy. Bronwyn and Leliana were shown to the Grand Cleric's private quarters.
"Her Grace gave command that you be admitted immediately, Warden-Commander," said a very, very civil priest. On being asked her own name, they learned that the polite priest was Mother Perpetua. Bronwyn knew that she was considered a Fereldan loyalist. It was very gratifying to see her so close to the Grand Cleric.
Deciding that the old lady had seen enough Cousland anger, Bronwyn decided to present herself as the good, if justly-aggrieved daughter of the Chantry. With Leliana at her side, it should not be difficult.
The Grand Cleric Muirin had spent most of her time in her quarters since the attack on the seventh. The Wardens were shown in, and found the old lady sitting up, wrapped in a shawl, and looking very unwell.
"My dear, dear Bronwyn!" cried the Grand Cleric, putting out her hands in welcome. "And will you not introduce your Warden to me?"
"Your Grace, this is Warden Leliana, who until recently was Sister Leliana of the Lothering Chantry."
The atmosphere warmed notably. The two Wardens knelt for the Grand Cleric's blessing, which was given very willingly.
"I was sorry," Bronwyn began, "to hear of the treacherous actions against you. To drug the Grand Cleric herself! I hope you are tolerably recovered?"
"Thank you, my dear. I am very much better. Such a bewildering series of events. Mother Gertrude had my every confidence. I still can hardly believe she would do such a thing as drug both me and the Queen herself!"
"When the stakes are so high," Bronwyn said sympathetically. "Even previously strong characters can fall prey to temptation. My brother told me that Mother Gertrude had been promised a great deal for her treachery. But now you are safe, as is the Queen. Everything could have been so much worse."
"Arl Leonas is so bitterly angry," said the Grand Cleric. "Though one must be understanding, since he has lost so much."
"He's a very good man, and loves his family dearly." Bronwyn said blandly. "And it's shocking for poor Habren to have been widowed practically on the day of her wedding. We've been complacent too long, I'm afraid, about the threat posed by Orlais. One would think that in a time of Blight, the nations of Thedas would unite, but it seems not."
"The evidence—" the Grand Cleric began delicately, "—it does indeed indicate that the attacks were of Orlesian origin?"
"Absolutely," Bronwyn said. "The very day of the attack at the wedding, there was an assassination attempt directed at Teyrn Loghain, and at me—"
"My dear!" cried the Grand Cleric.
"—perpetrated by Orlesians. And the fortress of Gherlen's Halt was also attacked that day, led by Orlesians who called themselves 'mercenaries,' but who were clearly based at Roc des Chevaliers. The Orlesians are making use of our distraction to attack us, and they seem to care nothing for whom they may harm. They are our enemies, Your Grace, and while I understand that even priests may feel attachment to the country of their birth, we cannot allow them to hide behind their robes."
"Terrible times," murmured the Grand Cleric. She paused. "And strange, too. Are you aware, Bronwyn, that there is a rumor circulating that the Queen was 'healed' by the Ashes of our Holy Prophet Andraste?" She peered at Bronwyn's calm face. "And that those Ashes were said to have been sent…by you?"
"Your Grace," Bronwyn replied, her voice steady. "That is not a rumor, but the absolute truth, and I have come here today to tell you the story. What you decide to make of it will be a matter for your own good judgment." She tilted her head toward her companion. "Warden Leliana was present as well, and she can supplement the tale, which began shortly after the Bloomingtide Battle, when I traveled to the Circle, to obtain the aid of the mages. At the Spoiled Princess Inn, by the shores of Lake Calenhad, we met a traveling scholar: Brother Ferdinand Genetivi, and he was, he told us, looking for the Ashes himself. He believed that he would hear more of them in a remote village in the Frostbacks: a place called Haven."
Leliana shuddered at the name. The Grand Cleric noticed it, and asked, "And Brother Genetivi is not with you. Do you believe him to have suffered a misadventure?"
"He is dead," Bronwyn said bluntly. "When we spoke of his quest, I counseled him against traveling alone when the country was in such turmoil. I am sorry to have been proved right, though I had no way of knowing what peril he would be walking into."
The Grand Cleric listened intently. Bronwyn glanced at her and went on.
"When visiting Denerim some two months ago, I called on Her Majesty the Queen. I was present when she discovered that her elven, Orlesian maid had been drugging her tea for some weeks with a slow-acting poison that would mimic a gradual, natural death. The maid had been in league with a highly trained Orlesian bard who was stationed here in Denerim. The agent's correspondence showed that she was obtaining state secrets from some highly placed sources. Though the poisoning was stopped, we discovered that not even magical healing could entirely cure the Queen: it could only sustain her temporarily, delaying the deterioration. The Ashes—and Brother Genetivi's wild story—seemed to be the Queen's only hope."
"Tell me everything," said the elderly priest.
They did—nearly all: the nervous secrecy at Sulcher; the denial that Brother Genetivi had been seen there; the attack on the road; their arrival at the hostile village of Haven.
"The denials continued at the village store, but in a bin of oddments, we found this." Bronwyn offered a volume to the priest.
"In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of a Chantry Scholar…" The Grand Cleric saw the inscription and the marginalia. "His own copy…" her voice trailed off, and she sighed. "Did those people kill him?"
"Yes. Haven is a very insular community, and over time had developed odd beliefs," Bronwyn said.
"Horrible, perverted heresies," Leliana added. "They claimed to worship Andraste, and referred us to their priest, 'Father Eirik.'"
That was shocking enough for the Grand Cleric, but Bronwyn, not liking to drag it out at length, gave the truth baldly.
"From what we were able to gather, the villagers were true Andrasteans at one point, descendants of faithful followers who carried the Prophet's ashes into the mountains, away from the Tevinters. However, a few hundred years ago, a madman seized control of the people, and killed those who refused to submit to his lunatic ideas. His rise to power coincided with the appearance of a High Dragon. He claimed that this dragon was Andraste reborn, and even since that time, the people have worshiped this dragon as a god, drinking dragon blood to give them unnatural strength, and sacrificing strangers to her. That indeed was the fate of Brother Genetivi."
The Grand Cleric sighed again, and put a hand over her face. "Maker turn his gaze upon him. That poor gentle soul."
Bronwyn let Leliana tell the next part of the story: the immense temple filled with fanatical heretics, with demons and monsters, and the caverns where the dragons were raised for the blood rites. Their meeting with the ranting Father Kolgrim, and the trick Bronwyn played to get past him, his followers, and the High dragon, in order to gain access to the Shrine.
"All that is wild and terrible," Bronwyn said, "but there is nothing supernatural about it. Once we stepped into the Shrine, however, it was another matter."
"The dragon cultists wanted Bronwyn to despoil the Ashes," Leliana told the Grand Cleric. "They had the mad idea that it would transfigure their dragon into a being that the whole world would worship. However, none of them could gain access to the Shrine, for it was guarded…by a spirit."
"A demon?"
"No," Bronwyn said, very decidedly. "We have fought many demons. This was not one of them. It was a man who claimed to have been a companion of Andraste, and who had protected the Shrine from the unworthy for ages."
Leliana's voice lowered into a mysterious music. "There are tests. Anyone who wished to approach the Ashes has to endure them."
"And you did?" asked the priest, growing skeptical again.
Bronwyn silently cursed Jowan, wishing he had obeyed orders and kept the Ashes secret. Why should anybody believe this fantastic story? Why should the Grand Cleric, who had known Bronwyn as a scabby-kneed little girl, believe that she had any remarkable spiritual gifts?
She let Leliana tell the unbelievable story of the tests: how the Guardian had known things about them that no one should have been able to know: how the Guardian had distressed Bronwyn, asking her details about the deaths of her parents. How they had fought phantom doubles of themselves: ugly and distorted versions of the worst in each of them. How they had been confronted by spirits who asked them riddles, and then how they had spanned a chasm and walked through fire to approach the Sacred Urn.
Leliana's eyes glowed with the memory. "Bronwyn was permitted to take a pinch of the Ashes. You cannot imagine what it was like!" Her face fell. "We thought nothing could harm us, but outside were the heretics…and the dragon."
Bronwyn hated speaking of what happened next. "One of my Wardens—a former Templar, Ser Cullen—was killed by the dragon."
The Grand Cleric raised her brows. "The Ashes did not save him?"
"Not after being bitten nearly in two by a dragon," Bronwyn said bitterly. "By the time it cast him aside, he was already dead."
"Unfortunate," said Her Grace.
Leliana, sensing Bronwyn's rising temper, interposed. "Bronwyn made us swear not to tell anyone about the Ashes. She felt that we needed to speak to you first. Jowan was entrusted with the Ashes to help the Queen, but he was not supposed to reveal their existence."
"But he made a very great scene, I am told," said the Grand Cleric, "and made claims that cannot be substantiated: first because no one knew of the Queen's poisoning, and because no else saw these Ashes." As Bronwyn's eyes flashed, she put up a hand. "I do not deny that you obviously had an extraordinary experience. However, for such an event to be recognized as a 'miracle' would require a thorough investigation." Seeing Bronwyn's anger, she sighed. "Surely you see, Bronwyn, that extraordinary claims require extraordinary proof?"
Bronwyn shot to her feet and began pacing. "I made no public claims! I don't want an investigation! I didn't want this known at all!" She whirled on the Grand Cleric, and tried to lower her voice.
"Haven is a dangerous place! Either foolish people will hunt the Ashes and be killed, or they will slaughter the foolish, misguided villagers. A pointless slaughter, too, since the Guardian will never let mere mercenaries pass."
Leliana bit her lip, and ventured, "We can prove that the Ashes have the power of healing! We all had a pinch, after all!"
"Leliana!" cried Bronwyn, furious that this last secret was out. Worse and worse! No one could stop talking!
The Grand Cleric's heart thumped oddly. "You have more of these…Ashes?"
Bronwyn clutched her head, utterly confounded.
"Yes!" Leliana cried eagerly. "All us were rewarded with a pinch! We used poor Cullen's pinch to heal the Queen."
Urgently, Bronwyn gestured at Leliana to be still. "Surely you understand, Your Grace, the peril each of us would be in, if that became known. Every one of us would be targeted for death by every treasure hunter in the world! A pinch of the Prophet's Ashes is nearly beyond price…but not entirely. Perhaps an king's ransom?"
"I see," the Grand Cleric said slowly. "However, only one pinch would be required for a test. Bronwyn," she pleaded, "this must be proven, and publicly."
"You could use mine—" Leliana offered.
"No." Bronwyn was furious. "I forbid it! I will not have my people, who suffered unspeakable hardship and braved unimaginable dangers, to be deprived of their just reward. If such a test must be made, you will use my pinch. I will not give them to you," she said, with a furious glare, "but you may find someone to test them on and I will administer them." She jerked her head at Leliana, indicating that it was time to go. "Choose wisely, Your Grace. It would be absurd and shameful to use this miracle on some priest's cut finger!"
"Bronwyn…wait!" cried the old woman, as the two young women bowed and strode away. Leliana looked back with a wistful expression, but Bronwyn jaw was set hard, and she was down the stairs and out of sight in a moment.
"She is not your enemy," Leliana said softly. "And it is not unreasonable to ask questions and demand proof."
Bronwyn finally came to a stop outside the Cathedral, and took a deep breath. Leliana was right, of course, but Bronwyn would have much preferred not to be in this position at all. Zevran was waiting for them, leaning on a wall, smirking at them.
Surprisingly, the smirk somewhat eased Bronwyn's irritation. Luckily, Jowan was out of sight, no doubt dancing attendance on Bethany Hawke. She would have to have it out with him, sooner or later. Yes, the mages were treated badly, but first Ferelden must defeat the Blight...and Jowan must learn to obey orders. She worked hard at mastering her anger and indignation, and eventually was able to talk rationally.
"Leliana, do you know if any of the gowns you ordered for me are ready for fittings?"
"I can go to the dressmaker and find out."
"Please do. Zevran and I are going to the Alienage. I'll see you back at the Compound for the midday meal." She paused, and then patted her friend on the shoulder. "Thank you for being there with me, and keeping me from making a complete fool of myself by killing the Grand Cleric."
Leliana dimpled. "You would never do that."
Zevran smirked the more, and Bronwyn laughed reluctantly as she watched Leliana's retreating back.
"That's all she knows. It was touch and go there for a moment."
The Alienage was infinitely worse than she had imagined it would be.
A trickle of sour liquid waste ran down the gutter in the middle of the "street," if one could call it that. It was not even paved, unlike most of Denerim. The buildings were woefully dilapidated, and propped up in places with timbers. The place seemed almost deserted. Now and then a scrawny elf scuttled away at the sight of her, peering at her from the shadows. A rat dashed across her path. Scout growled, but stayed where he belonged, at Bronwyn's heels.
She was ashamed that this was a district of Denerim, capital of Ferelden. Not only that: she was ashamed that she might be the Queen of a country that permitted this—no, expected it, as the rightful order of things. She had once heard that the Alienage in Val Royeaux was far worse: ten thousand elves crowded into an area much the same size as the Alienage here. The thought did not make her proud to be Ferelden: it made her ashamed to be human.
All was not well in Ferelden, where Bronwyn had always had food, clothing, and shelter of the best that coin could buy. Yes, the past six months had been hard, but war and the Blight were special cases. Up until then, she had lived a life of blissfully ignorant luxury. Even when her family was attacked, she had presumed that she was so much more important than anyone else, that it seemed perfectly reasonable for Duncan to rescue her, rather than an elf like Iona, or a knight like Roderick Gilmore. What extraordinary conceit!
If she were an elf, she would go to the world's end to escape from humans.
Or would she? It was easy for her to make such a claim: she, who had been brought up a Teyrn's daughter, accustomed to having her way, accustomed to her feelings being considered. She was not a city elf, made to think from her childhood that she was weak and inferior, deserving to be the lowest of the low. Adaia showed unexampled courage in escaping the chains of such conditioning. Adaia... or Melian Tabris, who had always heard that elves must not use or possess weapons, had taken her little ironwood dagger in hand and fought for her friends. She had made a place for herself at Ostagar, working with deadly poisons and dangerous explosives. She had dared to be a Warden, and never shirked a duty. Seeing where she had come from put into perspective just what an indomitable spirit she possessed. Bronwyn felt rebuked by the girl's unassuming resilience.
How easy to blame the elves for their squalor, when they were permitted nothing better. Adaia had told her that elves could not legally keep a shop here—though one enterprising soul did, regularly paying off the Arl's patrols. How easy to blame them for the condition of this place: though their human slumlords felt no need to make repairs.
Adaia had asked her to look about and see what might be done. First on the list would be to excavate and put in a sewer pipe under the Alienage, connected to the main drainage tunnel that emptied a little way out to sea. Denerim did not have an extensive sewer system, but that one main sewer could support some more tributaries, and thereby make the city cleaner. Bronwyn was sick of the veiled criticism from her more 'civilized' friends. The Alienage could have something better than a filthy gutter. Once that was accomplished, the main street here could be paved with cobbles, and not be a sea of mud and feces in wet weather.
The only beautiful thing in the entire Alienage was the great vhenadahl tree, now dropping its autumn leaves in a glory of red and gold. The wind blew them everywhere, mockingly festive. It was almost Satinalia, after all.
Zevran did not speak and interrupt her thoughts, but he seemed to read them, and gave her an odd, ironic, rather sad little smile. He pointed out the door of the hahren's dwelling. Bronwyn marched up to it. Eyes peeked from the window. There was the sound of a frantic bustle inside, and the door opened.
"Another Warden!" smiled a mild old elf. "We are always glad to welcome those of your order! Come in, please."
This, then, was Valendrian, hahren of the Denerim Alienage. His speech was courteous, even cultivated; his bearing respectful without servility.
"Master Aranai," said the hahren, "how pleasant to see you once more."
"I thank you. Hahren," said Zevran, with a bow. "This is Warden-Commander Bronwyn Cousland, newly come to Denerim."
The womenfolk hiding around a splintered corner uttered muffled squeals. The old elf's eyes opened very wide.
"The Warden-Commander! This is an honor!" Even Valendrian's good manners were briefly lost in gawking, but he showed her to a chair—the best chair in the house—and begged her to take refreshments.
"That is very kind of you," Bronwyn replied solemnly. Not for the world would she have shamed or flouted this decent old man. And the biscuits were quite nice.
Valendrian was too polite to ask her her business, but Bronwyn could sense his questions.
"Warden Adaia—Melian Tabris—sends her love to her family and friends. She was quite well when I left Ostagar. She asked me to bring gifts and a letter." Gently, Bronwyn laid her little burdens on the plain, but lovingly polished table. "Adaia wished to send part of her wages home to her family. In addition, she has sent this for her cousin Shianni—" she indicated the little wrapping of silk that covered a silver necklace.
A fiery-headed girl dashed out, bobbing a little curtsey. Bronwyn guessed that this was Shianni herself, and turned to smile at her.
"Thank you, my lady!" the girl nearly shouted, grabbing at the necklace. "And please, my lady, tell Melian thank you, too! And that we love her and miss her!"
"I shall." She pointed to a silver spoon. "This is for her father... and this, Hahren Valendrian, it for you. It is a Dalish carving of a halla, the creature so important to your elven cousins. She thought you would find it interesting."
"I do," said the old elf, handling the little sylvanwood statuette with curiosity and admiration. "You are generous with your time to deliver these yourself."
"It is no trouble," Bronwyn assured him, "I promised my friend that I would see to it."
They talked for some time. Bronwyn assured them that Tara was also well, and in command of a mission of her own to the west. Then she asked how things had been in the Alienage, after losing so many of their people to the cruelty of Arl Howe.
The hahren sighed. "Things have been...quiet. Quiet, and very sad. Since the dreadful news broke of the Wicked Arl's trading in elves and the implication of Arl Urien's son, the patrols have ceased, and our gardens are no longer destroyed out of spite. Of course, winter is nearly upon us... Yes, there has been some good out of all the evil. We even have a useful animal in the Alienage—the very milk goat generously given to Deranni by your noble brother. That was a great day for the Alienage indeed."
Bronwyn blinked. Fergus had given an elf a goat? He had said nothing of this. It would be a minor matter to him, but seemed to have made a tremendous impression on the elves. Of course, she had noticed the lack of animals, other than curs and rats...
"Is it forbidden to keep chickens here?" she wondered. "It seems such a simple, sensible way to earn money and supplement the diet."
Valendrian granted her a faded, sad smile. "Not forbidden by law, no; but forbidden in fact. If the Arl's men saw an animal, they would confiscate it. Benammi's goat was spared because the Arl did not wish to offend your brother. Of course, Arl Urien is now departed...Maker turn his gaze on him, of course," the elf added automatically. "Perhaps his successor will prove less...exacting."
"Goats are good," Zevran considered. "Goats will eat anything. A few goats, and there could milk for the children, and cheese. Every bit of a goat can be used. With goats and chickens, life could be better here."
Valendrian did not seem too hopeful. "That is certainly true. We shall see what comes. Right now the loss of so many people has rather taken the heart out of the Alienage."
"I heard from Adaia—I mean to say Melian—" said Bronwyn, "that the rents here have been reduced with the loss of population. Who owns the property here in the Alienage?"
Valendrian could answer that in detail. "Most of the buildings belong either to the Arling of Denerim or the Bannorn of South Docks. Arl Urien's son was the Bann of South Docks, which includes the Alienage, and thus he was our liege lord. However, the building used for the orphanage and a small block of apartments are both royal properties. Various houses belong to others—mostly nobles. I have a comprehensive list, if you are interested."
"I am. When you are at leisure, hahren, I would like for you to make me a copy."
Bronwyn then spoke to the hahren of the Highever Massacre, and of the child Amethyne. The hahren thanked her for the coin she had sent.
"Another good from evil. Not only have we been able to dress and feed her well, as you shall see," said Valendrian, "but with the money it may be possible for her to learn a trade, and thus become self-supporting some day. We would commit her to nothing," he hastened to add, "without consulting you."
Bronwyn knew that elves were forbidden to engage in most trades, especially those involving guild membership. And, of course, the regulations forbidding keeping a shop within the Alienage—and the impossibility of an elf keeping a shop outside it—drastically reduced the options.
"What kind of trade might be possible?" she asked.
"Something she can do safely within four walls," Valendrian said wisely. "She might learn to spin. A drop spindle and a distaff are not costly, and she could attach herself to the workshop of a human weaver, spinning an allotted amount of wool or flax for the weaver's use. Weaving itself is mostly out of the question, save for ribbon weaving. For some reason, the inkle loom was not mentioned in the charter of the Weaver's Guild. An inkle loom is an investment, but can be had for a sovereign."
Bronwyn began to grasp why Valendrian looked upon her as the child's patron. Three sovereigns had meant nothing to her, but was a mighty, life-changing sum here. She decided to say nothing about Danith's interest in Amethyne. Packing her off to the Dalish might sound nearly as bad to this man as selling her to Tevinter.
Zevran had some ideas of his own.
"Amethyne is a pretty child with a sweet voice, and might learn to play and sing."
"It is possible," Valendrian cautiously agreed, "though a musical instrument is very expensive. A human minstrel might accept her as a pupil. Then, too, for a fee, an elf can apprentice at human workshop to become an assistant: not a journeyman or master, of course; but even an assistant makes decent coin, as the Alienage reckons it. Amethyne might apprentice at a dressmaker's, for example."
"It sounds like you have some very good ideas," said Bronwyn. "I shall send you coin quarterly for her, as we must assume her mother either dead or lost to the slavers. May I see her?"
The child was pushed forward from behind the women's skirts. Bronwyn was somewhat taken aback to realize that the little girl had heard every word of their conversation. Of course, in such a small house there was little expectation of privacy.
"Make your curtsey to the Warden-Commander," Valendrian instructed her gently. "She has been very generous to you."
"I thank you, Warden-Commander," said Amethyne in a small, fluting voice. She curtsied nicely, eyes on the floor.
She was perhaps eight years old: old enough in the Alienage to begin to work and earn her keep. Even common human folk expected their children to be productive from an early age. Bronwyn hoped that her coin would prevent the girl having to work like an adult for a few years at least.
She could hardly remember Iona, whom she had met only briefly. This child did not have her mother's pale blonde hair, the only feature Bronwyn recalled. However, the child's long braid was chestnut-brown and silky, her eyes a very beautiful turquoise-green color. Yes. She could see why Danith was so taken with her: the child was delicate and pretty as a rose leaf, and seemed bright and sweet-natured. Amethyne glanced fearfully at Scout, lounging massively by Bronwyn.
"Come here, child," Bronwyn said. "And don't be afraid of Scout. He would never hurt a little girl."
Timidly, the girl came forward. Bronwyn saw that her clothes were plain but neat: a simple white smock covered with a sleeveless brown pinafore. Considering the growing chill in the air, Bronwyn was glad to see that she had warm woolen stockings and ankle boots—a little too large for her, but meant to give room for growing feet.
"Has she a cloak for the winter?" Bronwyn asked Valendrian, and smiled as the girl's face blossomed with excitement.
"She does, Warden-Commander," Valendrian assured her.
"It's green!" Amethyne burst out, "It's a beautiful green and it has a hood!" She blushed, and clapped a hand over her mouth.
"I like green, too," Bronwyn said. "Tell me, Amethyne, what do you like to do? Do you like to play outside, or play with dolls?" Seeing a somewhat blank expression, she tried something else. "Do you like to sew, or are you fond of music?"
"I like music, my lady," the child said shyly. "My mother and I used to sing together. She was teaching me to read, too, when she had time, but she was always very busy."
"I know she was, but I know she always thought of you. When I met her in Highever, she spoke of you, and told me that you were her life. She loved you very, very dearly."
Since everyone now considered her the child's protector, she must take the responsibility seriously. She ought to give the child a present, and cursed herself for her lack of forethought. What did she have about her that would do?
"Here is a piece of silver for you, Amethyne, all your own," Bronwyn said, laying the shining coin in the child's hand. "Spend it however you like. And Satinalia is coming. Now I have a little better idea what you would like."
She rose to her feet, and nodded to Valendrian. "I hope to be in the city for some time. We will speak again, both about Amethyne and other things."
Thanks to my reviewers: Phygmalion, timunderwood9, Zute, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, JUdy, JackOfBladesX, amanda weber, Knight of Holy LIght, Blinded in a bolthole, Redhand, Nemrut, Shakespira, RaZorMandiblez, Have Travel, MsBarrows, Psyche Sinclair, almostinsane, Mike3207, Hydroplatypus, Prototype, Darkmeadow90, Jenna53, SkaterGirl246, Oleander's One, Josie Lange, Enaid Aderyn, and mille libri.