Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 68: Wardens on the March
Ostagar seethed with activity as the Warden parties prepared to move out. Alistair was torn in three different directions, worrying about them all. He was not thrilled to be left in Ostagar, but made himself think it over, and came up with some plans of his own. For now, he, like most the Wardens, was pressed into duty in the bomb workshop, putting together supplies for everyone. Adaia was in her glory, showing them all how to measure and mix and pack. Alistair only hoped that they would not blow themselves to the Black City in all the bustle.
Siofranni, a petite Dalish elf with coppery pigtails. had more or less apprenticed herself to Adaia, wanting to learn the crafts of poison-and-bomb making. The girl's enthusiasm was not dampened when Adaia explained that she was more or less an apprentice herself to Master Dworkin. The dwarves under Alistair's command, Asa and Ulfa, showed some aptitude as well, though Asa's skill with an axe also made him a valuable companion in the Wilds. Ulfa came from the miner caste originally, and knew her rock and stone, which would be very handy when Alistair led them down into the Deep Roads again. While everyone else was away, exploring the other entrances, Alistair had decided that they could do their part here, and clean out the tunnels beneath Ostagar. For all he knew, they were yet more Broodmothers, spawning replacements for the horde.
Work broke off for a meal, and amidst the laughter and talk, Tara took Astrid aside, wanting to discuss their plans privately.
"I'd like to travel due west, first, rather than go directly to Lake Belannas."
"But why?" Astrid asked. "To sweep for more darkspawn?"
"Well, that of course; but I have a secret agenda. Let's go somewhere quiet, and I'll tell you about it."
They found a corner of the mess hall and fortified themselves with ale and bowls of stew. Tara gave a quick glance about her, and then pulled two things from the inside of her leather cuirass: one was a folded piece of parchment, and the other—
"That is a golem's control rod," Astrid said, tense with excitement. "Where did you find it?"
A lofty, virtuous smirk. "I bought it. From a shifty trader fellow in Sulcher Pass. I just thought of it as a knickknack of sorts, but then I slept on it and talked to the fellow again the next day. He said that he got it further south. He was told there was a golem in a village called Honnleath, and that this was supposed to activate it if you said the words 'dulef gar.'"
"Dulef gar?" Astrid frowned. "That's not dwarvish. Sounds like gibberish to me. Still…"
A golem! A golem of their own. Astrid considered what that could mean. Golems had been the first line of defense against the darkspawn for ages, until the secret of their making was lost. Bronwyn, Astrid knew, had met the Paragon Caridin, himself transformed into a golem; and she had destroyed the Anvil of the Void at his request. For better or worse (and Astrid had her own views about that) there would be no more golems. Those that remained were kept under tight security at the Shaperate, preserved for a final, desperate defense of Orzammar.
A golem of their own. There was no question in Astrid's mind. If there was the least chance of obtaining such a powerful weapon, it was clearly their duty to pursue it. She only wondered that Bronwyn had not, and said as much to Tara.
"I didn't really bring it up," Tara said sheepishly. "Bronwyn had a lot on her mind, and I know she doesn't really approve of golems…because of how they were made. Still, we need all the help we can get, and Bronwyn's off to Denerim. This would be something we could do."
"Where is this Honnleath place?"
Tara eagerly unfolded the parchment. "Look! I copied Bronwyn's map with those extra places that Brother Genetivi marked. That's Honnleath, at that maze of rivers and little lakes. It's south of Redcliffe, and very remote. We might as well see if the darkspawn have got that far west, anyway. We can ask around about the golem, and then we can go north and take the road at Redcliffe. That will get us back to Lake Belennas, where the Deep Roads entrance is." She sat back, excited and pleased with herself.
Astrid was rather excited herself. "You have given this a great deal of thought. Very well. Honnleath first. We should tell Brosca the plan too, but no one else, lest they be disappointed."
After final farewells and some tears shed, the Wardens separated, some marching to the east, some to the west, and others remaining with the garrison at Ostagar. It was a gloomy, windswept day, a harbinger of the winter to come, and the Wardens wrapped themselves in their cloaks and cast doubtful looks at the skies. Uncertain as the weather was, it was unlikely that waiting would improve it.
The great obstacle in Danith's journey to Gwaren was the White River. It was broad this far south, as it hurried to its final destination, emptying into the frigid southern ocean. There was an old but sturdy bridge further north in the Brecilian Passage, but the terrain was such that traveling there through the forests and hills would add three days to their journey. Danith decided to trust to Dalish ways.
Due east from Ostagar, the Southron Hills diminished to mere ridges, though the forest was particularly dense. However, Danith knew the land well. Her clan had spent the summer before last in these parts.
They came upon darkspawn from time to time: stragglers from the horde, wandering aimlessly over the landscape, spreading their filth. Her new Wardens were coming into their powers, and these random encounters were good practice for them. It grieved her to burn good meadows and noble trees polluted by Taint, but restoring the natural world to health was also part of a Grey Warden's duty, and the part that Danith found the most compatible to her Dalish upbringing. Let the durgen'len have their Deep Roads, and the shemlen their cities. Danith took her pleasure in being a Forest Warden.
Because of the darkspawn, there were also smoking, ruined villages and occasional bands of shy, terrified Chasind. Danith had come across Chasind before, and knew how to talk to them—more or less. The Grey Warden tunic and the little griffon banner fluttering bravely from the mast of the aravel had proved a passport of sorts.
Every day, she blessed the Creators and Merrill's generosity in allowing them halla and an aravel. They did not have to carry heavy packs, since they could store their gear in the aravel. The halla traveled swiftly and tirelessly through the trees, ears alert for danger.
Danith looked forward to reaching the great river. It was a significant natural barrier. Once past it, it was unlikely that they would find darkspawn on the other side—unless they had had emerged from the Deep Roads access point near the shemlen city of Gwaren.
Her party was a strange mix, but not unpleasant. Steren and Nuala were fine elves: excellent archers and trackers, and agreeable people besides. The two durgen'len in the party, Idunn and Ketil, were cheerful and sturdy. Ketil was a powerful axeman, and Idunn was quick with her daggers.
Their facial tattoos interested Danith. Unlike the blood writing of the Dalish, which proclaimed adulthood and membership within the clan, their markings were symbols of exclusion and oppression. "Dusters," they were called, and were outcasts among their own kind. Both seemed to regard their adventures on the surface and their admission to the Grey Wardens as the best things that had ever happened to them. Danith thought that in itself a grave indictment of dwarven society.
She had not been present with the other Wardens during their journey to Orzammar and their extensive exploration of the Deep Roads. There was a certain bond between those who had experienced those hardships. It had been very horrible, Danith understood, and Bronwyn had nearly died. Those who were not dwarves had learned unpleasant things about dwarven society; and one of them was the dire situation of those dwarves who had no caste, and thus no place in dwarven life. Tara had seen both the foul city Alienage and the refuge of the casteless, called "Dust Town." She had assured Danith that Dust Town was worse, by far. It was difficult to credit, but Tara was not a liar. Danith did not much care for the Qunari Sten, but she agreed with him that to waste one's own people was a foolish and wicked thing.
The three shemlen under her command were of a better sort than the usual lot. Human mages, she had discovered, were far more sympathetic and understanding of the Dalish plight than most of their race, since they themselves suffered from ignorant prejudice. Niall was an excellent mage: skilled and willing. He had no more idea how to cook than a baby, and his woodcraft was of the most rudimentary sort, but he was not unwilling to learn. After a day or two, he began talking, and Danith learned many interesting things.
He did not know how to do anything for himself, because in the Circle, such tasks as cooking, cleaning, and the making of clothes were all performed by those he called "the Tranquil." They were in Ostagar, too, but Danith, having no dealings with them, had never chosen to speak to them. These Tranquil were mages, both elves and human, whom the Chantry had mutilated by cutting them off from the Beyond, which the shemlen called the Fade. It left the victims emotionless and submissive, but very hard-working, since there was no longer anything to distract them. Danith heard Niall out, grasped at last what was being done, and felt like vomiting.
Considering the matter further, she also began to understand why Bronwyn seemed not to trust the priest-folk, and wished to keep certain things from them. What she did not understand was why people did not rise up and drive out those who would commit such hideous acts. Danith made a private vow to the Creators that she would never surrender a mage of the elvhen to the Templars, no matter how much blood need be shed.
Niall told her other things, as well. The mage prisoners of the Chantry amused themselves by dividing into factions, called Fraternities. These factions proposed different ways of life for the mages—ways that were mostly impossible fantasy, given that the Chantry controlled their lives. Niall had belonged to such a Fraternity, called the Isolationists, and they held that mages should live apart and have no dealing with the rest of the world.
"That is more or less what we Dalish have attempted to do," Danith pointed out. "And you can see how well it has worked out. However much we try to avoid the rest of the world, it keeps on finding us."
"Then you haven't gone far enough!" Niall shot back, kicking at leaves underfoot. "Beyond the mountains, maybe…There must be islands… There must be somewhere to go where the word 'mage' is not an insult! Or 'elf,'" he added, with a wry grin. "Really. It's a big world. Who knows what lies beyond the mountains to the west or the ocean to the east? Or maybe north, if you can get past the Qunari."
"To the north?" Danith snorted at his naiveté. "Everyone knows that in the far north it is so hot that the very rocks have melted. No plant or animal can exist there without instantly bursting into flames. The Qunari live in the hottest lands that living beings can tolerate. There is no hope in the north. I know nothing of the ocean, though I saw it once, when I was in Denerim. It is very dirty. The mountains? Perhaps… There is a story which I shall tell you some time."
Quinn, though he towered over the elves and dwarves and knew his swordsmanship, was only a boy in years. He had come from a farmhold, and had done his share of hunting. He had also learned to care for the farm beasts. He was fascinated by the halla, and begged Nuala and Steren to allow him to help them. They were understandably reluctant to entrust the precious creatures to a clumsy shemlen, but allowed the boy to perform some of the menial tasks. His sheer brute strength was immensely useful and rather intimidating to the elves, though the boy was nothing if not cheerful and friendly. Perhaps, Danith thought sourly, he was too young to have been fully indoctrinated into shemlen views of the inferiority of the elvhen.
Maeve puzzled Danith a little. The woman did as she was told, and fought bravely and well, but was silent and withdrawn. Danith understood that the woman's Joining had been very frightening and traumatic, which might explain her somewhat. Indeed, she wondered why the woman had volunteered at all. She was no hunter, but a good camp cook who did not oversalt roast meat as many shemlens did. Though she said little, she wrote every day in a little book she carried. Among all of them, only Niall could also read and write. He had asked Maeve one night what she was writing, and she had looked away and said, "It's only my diary," and he had not plagued her with more questions. When asked, he informed Danith that a diary was a book into which one wrote the day's events and one's thoughts about them. Personally, Danith did not see the point. Why else have a memory?
On the sixteenth of Harvestmere, they reached the White River. More importantly, they reached a place that Danith knew well and where she had previously crossed.
Only the Dalish in the company had ever seen the White River. Neither the River Dane, nor the River Hafter, nor even the River Drakon was as mighty a stream as the White River south of the Southron Hills. Even after the dry months of summer, it stretched out before them, wide and brownish-green between its banks.
"We can't possible ford that," Quinn said, his blue eyes very big. "It looks deep. Isn't there a ferry somewhere?"
Steren smiled to himself, readying what they would need. Nuala, more open with the boy, said, "Dalish make their own ferries. We shall teach you our ways."
The shemlen and durgen'len learned much that day. A long day, for it took a great deal of effort. Hallas could swim very well, and aravels were watertight. Once Danith had shot an arrow attached to a thin cord of spider silk across to a tree on the other bank, they began to see how it would be done. She would cross the river, with the aid of the thin cord, bearing a heavy rope attached to the aravel. Once fixed securely on the other bank, the heavy line would allow the landship to swing out into the current and eventually float to a low bank she had spotted. Then they would haul it up to dry land once more.
One major kink in the plan was the reluctance of the dwarves.
"Er…" said Ketil, "You're talking about swimming. I can't swim."
"Neither can I!" Idunn declared.
"You can't swim?" Danith asked, astonished. "Not at all?"
It was so, however extraordinary.
Niall confessed, "I haven't swum since I was a little boy. We don't get out much, there in the Circle Tower."
There was a solution, fortunately.
"Then you shall go in the aravel. Children, the elderly, and the infirm always travel thus."
The dwarves and the mage did not look happy at the classification.
Niall, terribly embarrassed, changed his mind, and decided that he could manage by holding on to the cord and going hand-over-hand. He slipped and splashed and went under several times, but staggered onto the bank inordinately pleased with himself, to the cheers of his comrades.
"This is like adventuring!"
"No," Danith said, not as harshly as she might have a few months before. "This is living life."
It took a long time and a great deal of effort, but by the end of the day they were all safe and across, and the aravel was not much the worse for its wetting. Even the dwarves had somehow been soaked, and thought themselves fairly intrepid. Best of all, as they dried out around the campfire, Danith sensed no darkspawn. None. Unless some of the creatures had found the bridge at the Passage, and then turned south, the Wardens should have an easy journey to the shemlen city of Gwaren.
The Wardens in the west reached Honnleath on the eighteenth of Harvestmere. They thought it must be Honnleath, anyway. Three windmills rose above the stubbly, harvested fields, proclaiming the existence of a village about two miles distant. Even more impressive was a tall, slender stone tower. Tara had not imagined a remote village would have such an impressive piece of architecture. She hoped it was intact. It was too late to push on, however, since the sun had already set in red and gold splendor. Instead, they camped in a meadow near a spring. They had had a strenuous journey so far, and a profitable one.
Fifteen Wardens proved more than equal to anything the wilderness of the southern Hinterlands could send their way. Wolves, bears, a lone Hunger Demon…and darkspawn, of course.
It went without saying that there would be darkspawn. Scattered bands, for the most part, and a powerful, nasty mob, hemmed in at the first cataract of the Rock River. That group boasted two ogres and a genlock mage.
The Wardens however, had Tara, Velanna, and five superb archers. The darkspawn were decimated before they ever got within striking distance. The blade wielders finished off the rest with gleeful ease. The ogres were frozen and hacked to pieces, and there was plunder for all.
"Why do darkspawn carry coin?" Walther wanted to know. "Why? It's not like they go shopping! "
"Reckon they like shiny," his friend Griffith rumbled, lying back on his blanket and holding a old Orlesian gold piece up to the firelight. "I like shiny."
"It's true," Brosca agreed sagely. She bore with Walther's endless questions to Tara's admiration. "The 'spawn have an eye for value. They pick up coin, gems…all sorts of treasure."
Sigrun giggled. "Sometimes they swallow the gems. Gold, too. No! I swear it's true. Remember, Jukka? There was that nutcase Fike. He used to cut darkspawn open to see what they had in their guts. He found an opal the size of—"
"Please!" groaned Catriona. "I'm eating!"
"Not opals, nor even diamonds and sapphires," laughed Tara. "Just plain old porridge."
They had sensed fewer darkspawn as they went west. Now the signs were infrequent. Taint seemed somehow to move ahead of the darkspawn, so they saw Blighted plants even when they no longer sensed actual darkspawn. They had been forced to burn some fields near Ostagar, but out here, Taint could be found only in traces, and Tara taught Velanna how to burn it out carefully, without setting whole forests on fire.
Just before dawn, the sentries awakened the camp. They might not have sensed darkspawn before, but they were sensing them now: a large party sweeping up from the southeast, bearing down on the village of Honnleath.
"Move! Move!" Astrid shouted. "Everybody go! Leave the gear!"
Advancing quickly, they found a bottleneck on the little dirt road leading to the village, and moved into position. Up on the hills along the road, a handful of Wardens waited: some archers, and some others well-supplied with Dworkin's lyrium bombs.
Thirty-odd darkspawn charged them, without fear and without art. There was never any question as to the outcome.
"No ogres!" Tara shouted cheerfully to Velanna, who was sneering at the darkspawn in disgust. "That's always a good thing!" She flung out her her arms and called down a whirlwind of ice and lightning on the darkspawn. The tainted creatures stumbled and spasmed, weapons dropping from nerveless, clawlike hands. A few staggered doggedly ahead, drawn by the Wardens' Taint, and when they were close enough, it was time for other tactics.
"Archers and mages, fall back!" Astrid ordered. She banged her sword against her shield. "Blades! Follow me!" She caught Brosca's eye. The Duster laughed, and charged with her.
Tara glimpsed a farmer in front of his little cottage, staring at the battle in terror and disbelief, and gave him a jaunty wave. He ducked back inside. A little later, as the Wardens were mopping up the last of the enemy, a boy dashed out of the cottage, running pell-mell for the village.
"That's right!" Brosca shouted after him. "Roll out the welcome for the Wardens!"
Tara was crushed. The golem was broken. The activation code had not worked.
"It's for the best," a man named Matthias consoled her. "The golem killed my father. That's why we got rid of the control rod."
Their welcome otherwise was very satisfactory. Honnleath was a remarkably pretty village: far more attractive than Lothering; and, though not as big as South Reach, more pleasant. Not only did it boast the tall tower they had seen at a distance, but a handsome arched gateway and a respectable stone wall. The lack of a gate in the gateway, however, seemed a serious oversight. This isolated place undoubtedly would have been destroyed by the darkspawn if not for the Wardens. They were feasted and praised to even their standards. The junior Wardens were finding their career choice very much validated by the esteem in which they were held.
"We didn't even know there was a Blight!" cried Olaf, the head of the village council. "Why didn't anybody tell us?"
Matthias looked determined. "We'll be better prepared in future. There are things we can do."
It did not take long to figure out what they were. Quite of bit of them involved magic.
"I wish Niall were here!" Tara shouted gleefully. "This is what the Isolationists have been talking about! Mage Town! It's not bad, actually."
A very large number of the villagers were, in fact, mages. Every family had a father, or a mother, or a child who had magical ability. Matthias was the village schoolmaster, who mixed magical lessons with reading and writing. Most of the mages here did not seem very powerful to Tara, but they had put their talents to strange and inventive uses.
Olaf's wife Maggie used magic to cook. Even Velanna and the other Dalish were rather shocked by that.
"Why not?" the woman shrugged. "Why shouldn't I? I'm not surprised at the Circle, of course. Mages are only accounted useful for healing or for fighting darkspawn, so they only teach that. Strange that you Dalish haven't branched out."
Velanna said stiffly. "There are not enough of us to 'branch out,' as you put it. There are rarely more than one or two mages in a clan, and their powers are needed to protect and lead."
"Well," said Maggie, "there are lots of us here, and my mother learned to manipulate fire spells to roast, boil, and fry. It takes a delicate touch, but we don't need to cut down trees for fuel that way."
There was much to learn here, and Astrid agreed with Tara to stay a few days. The villagers knew a warding spell that would keep out intruders—and made sure henceforth to use it to ward the village gate and walls. The fences around the outlying farmholds were likewise protected. That spell could be of immense use to Wardens. Tara and Velanna were shown to the cellar study of Matthias' deceased father, Wilhelm, a mage who had been granted his freedom for his service in the Rebellion. Not trusting to the Chantry, he had moved out to this remote place, bringing some his magical friends with him. Magic had been used to build the walls and gateway; and the tall tower that was part of Wilhelm's home. When the old mage was not engaged in magical research, he devoted himself to the art of brewing ale, at which he had excelled.
"How odd," said Tara, "that after leaving the Circle Tower behind him, he built a tower of his own."
"Ah, but you see," Matthias pointed out, "it was his tower."
Villagers and Warden mages traded spell for spell, and the rest of the Wardens rested or practiced. Tara wrung a pledge from them never to reveal the existence of mages in this little community. Astrid and Brosca concurred, with the proviso that Honnleath must agree always to support the Wardens. Velanna cared little for a village of shemlen, but was inclined to listen to Tara, who was teaching her the ancient skills passed on to her in the elven ruins.
"Another part of our history regained!" the blonde elf exulted. "The martial arts of Arlathan restored! Have you taught the Keepers at Ostagar?"
"I told Merrill about what I learned, but not everyone has the aptitude," Tara said. "It's like shapeshifting. Anders has picked it up from Morrigan, but I can't seem to get the hang of it at all. And I didn't want the priests at Ostagar getting wind of these new fighting skills. They'd say it was contrary to Chantry law or something. Here it's just Wardens, and nobody's going to tattle."
Velanna said slowly, "I would like to learn shape-shifting as well. You and Anders are friends. Persuade him to teach me. There are stories that some Dalish Keepers once practiced the art. More forgotten lore must be relearned."
There was no time to get through all of Wilhelm's excellent library, but Tara had found his journal. After translating it—it was written in Arcanum, which Matthias had not bothered to learn—she came rapidly to the conclusion that the man was wrong about the cause of his father's death.
"It was a demon," she said, reading a relevant entry. "Not the golem. You've got a demon locked up at the base of the tower."
That caused a brief panic. There was nothing to do but get rid of it. It was in the form of a purple-eyed cat, but the Wardens did not find it particularly intimidating. Afterward, not only did the Wardens get another good dinner out of it, but a very substantial reward.
"Look here," said Matthias. "Obviously, I have to believe you about the demon killing Father. It wasn't Shale after all, but I don't want to see the thing anymore."
The Wardens glanced at each other, waiting.
Matthias cleared his throat. "The proper activation code is "Dulen harn!"
Astrid's face lit up, "Ah! Now that is proper dwarvish!"
Tara was out the door like a loosed arrow, her target the huge stone statue in the village commons.
"No, Habren," Leonas Bryland said wearily to his daughter, in the quiet of his study in their Denerim townhouse. "You can't go to the Satinalia Ball. It's too soon. We're all in mourning, for Maker's sake! We'll have a celebration at home in the morning, and you can have your presents then."
The girl slumped in her chair despondently. "Well, when can I go out? This is boring! You can't expect me to shut myself up forever!" She wiped her nose, and muttered, "What presents?"
Bryland smiled slightly. "You'll see. And you will be getting out. By the fourteenth of Firstfall, you'll have finished the month of formal mourning. There's no reason at all you can't go to Bronwyn's wedding. You'll no doubt want a nice new gown for the event. That should cheer you up."
Habren's jaw dropped. Nearly to the floor. "Bronwyn's... getting…married?" she quavered.
He would have to break it to her eventually. Putting the best face on it, Bryland said, "Yes, Bronwyn is getting married. The wedding will be at the cathedral, and the feast at Highever House. She is marrying Teyrn Loghain."
An awful pause, like the ocean sucking backwards before a remorseless tidal wave. Habren's hair nearly stood on end.
"Bronwyn's going to be Teyrna of Gwaren?" she shrieked. "It's not fair! She'll outrank me again!"
"Yes," Bryland said, stiffening his sinews against the onslaught. "She will outrank you. And with the upcoming Landsmeet, she may rise even higher." In quick, carefully chosen words, he explained the political landscape, in which he himself was deeply involved.
Another terrible pause, and the shrieks redoubled. Housemaids down the hall shook their heads and sighed. The young lady was in one of her moods again.
"A demon? In Stealcopper Court, of all places?" Anora wanted to disbelieve it, but could not.
Bronwyn's adventure was the topic of a lengthy and amusing conversation, and her splendid new sword and shield were admired rather gingerly. The four of them dined together: Fergus and Bronwyn, Anora and Loghain, in an intimate, ornate chamber.
"Anders looked them over carefully. He's says they're not cursed, anyway. I've generally fought two-handed, but the shield is so lovely I might make a change."
"You'll need to work on your technique," said Loghain. "Don't try to use it until you've done some proper sparring. Join me in the training ground early tomorrow."
Also under discussion was her plan to go north. Levi Dryden had duly presented himself, his maps were examined, and Bronwyn made up her mind to the journey at once. On disclosing her idea to Fergus, he swiftly coopted the scheme. They would leave the day after tomorrow. Fergus had meant to install Hawke in Amaranthine himself, and here was the opportunity.
"Can this not be done after Satinalia?" Anora asked. "There is so much to be done before the Landsmeet..."
"We'll be back for Satinalia," Fergus assured them. "On my honor. Bronwyn says she just needs a look at the old ruins."
Bronwyn grimaced. "I also need to have a look at the deserted manor of Drake's Fall, which is in the same general area. According to our readings, there is an entrance there to the Deep Roads. It might be wise to check it for darkspawn activity. But as to Soldier's Peak, there might be artifacts remaining that the king's army would not have viewed as plunder."
"Books of lore?" Anora wondered. "Surely they would be long since decayed."
"Some other things as well," Bronwyn said, the words extracted from her as reluctantly as a stubborn tooth. "The Grey Wardens have secrets, and there might be some answers for me. I must go. After Satinalia, I shall be too busy for such a journey. And I, too, promise that I shall be back by the festival."
Although they were busy preparing for their journey north, Leliana had taken the time to visit the Alienage with Zevran and Cathair. She reported back to Bronwyn that Amethyne had a sweet, trainable voice, a good sense of rhythm, and a superb ear. Bronwyn was in a mood to hear about something other than arms training, since Loghain, as promised, had put her through the wringer. She had upheld her honor, with the aid of her wonderful new sword and shield, but it had been hard-fought and bruising. Anders had tutted over her, and Aveline had said something about men whose idea of courtship was sparring. It certainly seemed to be Loghain's style.
Leliana was delighted to talk about Amethyne. "With proper training, she could become a fine musician and dancer. It would be a shame not to give her a chance."
"I have every intention of giving her a chance. Find me a teacher for her, and I'll pay the fees. It will have to be arranged once we're back in Denerim, of course."
"Oh, I have already found a teacher." Leliana beamed, proud of her arrangements. "Zoe Pheronis. She is from Nevarra, and I have heard her sing and play many times. Not so much now, of course…"
"Why not now? Has she lost her skill?"
"Not in the least. But once a musician's hair grows grey and her curves sag, the patrons—especially the men— lose interest. It is sad, but it is a fact of life. It is difficult for a woman minstrel when one begins to grow old. I called on her on my way back from the Alienage. She lives in a little house in Red Dragon Street, and has arranged it charmingly with her remaining treasures. She will teach the little girl every other day for a very reasonable fee…"
Bronwyn smiled ruefully. "You have it all planned out very nicely, I see."
"I knew you wanted me to. It is better that the child begins learning at once. Zoe will teach her music and dance, and perhaps a little reading and writing."
"All right then. Finalize it all before we leave. I commissioned the child's Satinalia gift. Do you think I should include an instrument?"
"Not yet—or perhaps something small. I shall see to it."
Bronwyn went on with her packing, not doubting that Leliana would. For herself, she had arranged with a cabinetmaker to make the child a most lovely chest of her very own, inscribed with her name; and large enough to store her clothes, boots, and other possessions. Probably too large at the moment, of course. In it, Bronwyn would put some cheerful oddments: a pair of red mittens, a comb, an old cup-and-ball of her own from Highever House, freshly painted, a green hair ribbon, and some fine green stockings. If Leliana were to find her a little pipe or a gaily painted tambourine, that would make it quite complete. She must also find presents for her ex-werewolves, especially those two little boys and the young girl…
Why must she leave right away? Why could she not wait? "Books of lore," indeed! While the rest of the Palace settled down to their night's rest, Loghain paced in the privacy of his chamber, wondering what was on Bronwyn's mind. More Grey Warden nonsense, but it was clear she would not speak freely unless alone. Fergus was with her constantly; and if not he, then one of her infernal Wardens, or one of her other companions, the dodgy young witch or the even dodgier Crow assassin.
It was a risk, but one he must take. He threw on a drab, hooded cloak and soft-soled boots, and stalked out, glaring his guards into silence. Stepping out into the courtyard, he walked quietly along the wall. Years ago, he had learned to disappear into the darkness, and he felt the old skills return. The door to the Warden's Compound was not far, and Bronwyn trusted her housekeeper. He brought the knocker down...not very loudly. There was silence in the courtyard, but for the call of a nightbird and the distant crunch of a sentry's footsteps. Loghain waited impatiently, feeling like a thief and a bandit in his own city.
"My lord!" The housekeeper peered out over her candlestick, and let him in at once.
"I need to speak to the Warden-Commander."
The woman was too sensible to look shocked or disapproving or even curious. Rising to the occasion, she merely said, "This way, my lord."
She clearly wanted him to wait in the Wardens' Hall, but Loghain was too impatient to stand on ceremony. He followed her up some steps leading into a round tower. She tapped gently at the second door.
"Warden-Commander, dear. Someone to see you."
Loghain nearly snorted aloud. "Warden-Commander, dear?" What kind of military order was this?
The door cracked open. Bronwyn had been in bed, and apparently asleep. She frowned at them, clad in a thin white nightshift, her dark hair rumpled. She looked very young. On seeing Loghain, her mouth opened just a little, then she bit her lip. She was pleased to see him. He almost smiled.
"My lord Teyrn. Come in. It's all right, Rannelly. Go on to bed. I have to speak privately with the Teyrn, and I'll see him out later."
The woman gave Loghain a brief, raking look, hinting that he had best behave himself, and walked away with a faint huff.
"Good night, Warden-Commander. dear."
"Good night."
Loghain slipped through the opened door, and Bronwyn shut it softly behind him.
"I'll light a candle," she said.
"No need. The fire gives light enough." He slipped off the cloak and hung it on the hook in the wall over her own. There was an uncertain pause, and then he moved to take her in his arms. With a soft cry, she pressed against, holding him fast. Her lips found his in a long kiss. Loghain decided he was happy to see her too.
"I'm so glad you've come to me!" she said. "So glad! I thought you wouldn't! I thought I'd go north without having taken a proper farewell of you."
There were all sorts of sensible things he meant to say, but she was kissing him again, and his body told him that there was a time for talk, and a time for action. She was already drawing him to her bed.
"Wait, my girl. The boots must go."
And then there was eager assistance with his boots, his shirt, his breeches; the quick, capable hands unfastened his smallclothes, fingers lingering and exploring. Somehow the thin nightshift fluttered whitely to the floor, a ghost of modesty. The bed was warm with her, and she was hot for him. Since he was here, it would be absurd not to make himself pleasing to her, and she was too starved for him to enjoy any delay.
"Who is next door?" he whispered.
"What?" she gasped, intent on other things. "The study that way. Leliana over there."
He scowled briefly, reminded of Bronwyn's pet Orlesian.
"Then we must be quiet."
Hot blissful release, quick and sure, his mouth muffling her cries. Definitely worth the risk. His mind was a happy blank for some time, until his thoughts coalesced in a slow, contented swirl. He rolled onto his back, smiling faintly as Bronwyn nestled into his side, her hand on his belly.
"I can see why you might want to check out that Deep Roads entrance," he said, his voice low, "but why the old ruin? Why is that so urgent?"
Bronwyn sighed. Trust Loghain to skip sweet nothings in favor of the hard questions, even after love-making. Relaxed and reassured, she saw no reason not to tell him the truth. He knew enough of it already...why not the rest?
"Because soon I won't be able to make any more Wardens. There's a vital ingredient that I haven't any access to. There might be some at Soldier's Peak, disregarded and forgotten. Not likely, I grant you, but it's my only hope."
"What ingredient?"
"If you must know—and this is another deep, dark secret—it's Archdemon blood. Without Archdemon blood, we'd just be ghouls. Riordan gave me some, but it's nearly gone. I won't be able to get any more from the Grey Wardens. The letters from the other Warden posts have made that quite clear."
"Archdemon blood?" His stomach turned. "How is that even possible? The last Archdemon died four hundred years ago!"
"The mages can preserve it nearly indefinitely. When the army sacked Soldier's Peak, they would not have known what it was. They would have seen only some nondescript vials. I'm hoping that not all of them were smashed."
"And you say the other Wardens won't give you any?"
"The First Warden is very angry with me. In his eyes, I am not Warden-Commander of Ferelden, but an insubordinate junior Warden who is supposed to be in Montsimmard as we speak. The other commanders want to know what is happening, but have been ordered to refuse me assistance. The Nevarran commander is sympathetic, and at least gave me some information. You'll find this interesting. It is generally believed that the assault on Ferelden is only a feint."
"A feint?"
Bronwyn rest her head on his shoulder, enjoying the warmth and strength of the arm wrapping around her. She felt rather forgiving. Perhaps he had been right to insist they wait until they could be more discreet.
"If it were a feint," she pointed out, "the Archdemon would want it to be convincing. There is no convincing the rest of Thedas, however. They want to keep their own Wardens close to home. I daresay we would have been much the same, had the darkspawn attacked Rivain, for instance."
He snorted at the thought of rendering military assistance to Rivain—or any other country, actually. "How many more Wardens can you make?"
"Maybe eight or nine. And of those perhaps only half would live. After that, there's nothing. I haven't found anything at the Compound. Perhaps Weisshaupt was doling out supplies to Duncan. It's not something that the housekeeper would know about."
On the other side of the wall, a woman's voice, hoarse with sleep, cried out, "No! No! Maker save me!"
Loghain tensed, wondering if the Orlesian were being murdered. Bronwyn held him fast, murmuring, "Only a nightmare. Only a nightmare. We have them all the time, when the darkspawn visit us in the Fade. Grey Wardens are unquiet sleepers, especially during a Blight. I hope you won't find it too taxing." Her hand drifted lower. "Now can we talk about something other than the war?"
They took their time, moving from position to position, happily adventurous. Afterward, Loghain dared no longer stay, for fear of falling asleep in this very pleasant place. His clothes and boots were reluctantly donned, and Bronwyn threw on a sumptuous red dressing gown.
"You should always wear red," Loghain said, his gruff sincerity more pleasing to Bronwyn than any studied compliment.
She smiled and lit a candle, and led the way through the flickering shadows in the Warden's Hall. Loghain glanced about him, reflexively looking for ambushes. A wayward gleam shone on the portrait of Duncan as they passed. The dark eyes followed Loghain, amused and saturnine. Loghain spared the portrait a sneer.
They reached the outer door without discovery. Bronwyn demanded a last, fervent kiss before he slipped away into the dark.
The very large party that left Denerim on the nineteenth of Harvestmere had several objectives.
Fergus Cousland wanted peace restored to the Arling of Amaranthine. To that end, his company included Nathaniel Howe, who would spend a few days at the Howe fortress of Vigil's Keep conferring with his seneschal and getting a better grasp of the general situation. At Vigil's Keep, the party would divide. Fergus' squire Seyton—now Ser Daniel Seyton—would go west with a band of picked men to the bannorn of Knotwood Hills. If he were to be appointed the bann there, he must be known to the people. Many would be glad of the change from the squabbling and oppressive Pactons.
Fergus would go north, however. The city of Amaranthine beckoned. He wanted to get his man Hawke well situated there before Satinalia. Money was granted to give the people some cheer for the festival. Fergus would get a great deal of the credit, but more would go to the new castellan. Fergus had faith in Hawke's good sense. Amaranthine was a rich and immensely important city to the Fereldan economy. Much of the trade from Antiva and the Free Marches came through the Amaranthine docks.
From Amaranthine, Bronwyn and her Wardens would take the Coast Road west to Soldier's Peak. For various reasons, there was not much along that stretch of the Coastlands. Forlorn Cove had once been the bustling fishing village of Thymney, but had been laid waste during the Occupation—hence the name. A few hamlets made wide spots in the road, but were not more than a homestead or two and a fishing dock. At the point where the Coast Road dipped down beside the Coast Range and turned south to connect with the North Road, there was the little village of Breaker's Cove. Fergus had been through there once, and remembered that it was remote, undeveloped, and very, very small. There was a tavern there, at least, where the Wardens could take shelter. From there, they could penetrate into the mountains with their guide, Levi Dryden, and make for the ancient Warden fortress of Soldier's Peak.
Bronwyn had not been very forthcoming about her reasons for visiting the old castle, but it was clear that if she was going to go before spring, she must go now. Then too, she wanted to make certain the darkspawn were not creeping out of the Deep Roads entrance at Drake's Fall. They would have just enough to time to return for the feast of Satinalia, and after that she would have only half a month to prepare for her wedding on the fourteenth of Firstfall. That was going to be quite the affair.
He, Bronwyn, and Loghain had already thrashed out some ideas about the wedding. The ceremony itself would be in the Cathedral—presumably thoroughly searched and returned to Chantry hands by then—but the debate had been over where to hold the ensuing feast. Loghain had a house in town, the ancient city residence of the Teyrns of Gwaren; but since he had always lived at the Palace proper since the return of the king, the townhouse was shut up and looked after by a caretaker and his wife. Loghain would have to have major work done to put the house in order for an event like a wedding. There was Highever House, of course, and Fergus liked the idea of giving his sister a proper send-off to married life. Bronwyn seemed to like the idea herself. The other choice, of course, was the Palace itself. That was where Anora's wedding feast had taken place.
None of them thought that a particularly good idea.
"Presumptuous," said Bronwyn, dismissing it. Highever House it was to be, then.
In a way, it was good to escape Denerim for a few days, and thus escape the looks Loghain was giving him. The man missed nothing, and certainly had not missed Fergus' interest in the Dowager Queen. What did Loghain expect? That Anora would withdraw from society and rusticate in the country—or even take Chantry vows? Besides, it was absurd of Loghain to be touchy about giving away his daughter to Fergus, when he had not hesitated to give her to Cailan. For that matter, Fergus was entrusting his own sister to the man, which seemed him far riskier and more venturesome than a match between Anora and Fergus, who were almost exactly of an age.
Anora was much too young and beautiful to live alone—more beautiful than ever, in fact. And Fergus hoped that a marriage between them would be blessed with children. Perhaps even lots of children. He might be flattering himself, but she seemed to return his own interest, smiling at him, encouraging him with her attention.
"You're miles away, my lord," a voice said, recollecting him to the here and now: the horse between his legs and miles stretching behind and before him. He grinned at Hawke.
"Full of plans."
"So it would seem." Hawke grinned back, rather excited about the opportunity ahead. He was to rule the city of Amaranthine on the teyrn's behalf—and that of his direct overlord, the Arl of Amaranthine. Mother and the girls were so proud. He was sorry that he would be far away for Satinalia, but he had left his presents with them, and had theirs in his luggage. They knew he was working for their future, as well as his own.
The horses jogged along, and the soldiers marched sturdily. It was damp and chilly, but the weather was holding. Tonight they would sleep at Vigil's Keep, and the rain could come as it liked. And then, only one more day to his destiny…
He had been introduced to Arl Nathaniel Howe, who was riding a little way behind them. At least everyone was addressing him as arl. He would not be confirmed until the Landsmeet, but his prospects, with no rivals to challenge him, seemed bright. The young man seemed serious and decent, and no fool, either. Hawke knew he would have a fine line to walk between his professed loyalty to the Teyrn, and the formal oaths that would be expected of him as an Amaranthine vassal. The old man had been a swine and a bastard and a slaver, but no one had had a word of blame for the son, who had been in the Free Marches while he father went to the bad.
The arl was riding beside Lady Bronwyn, and they were carrying on a quiet, unsmiling conversation. Very sensible. If he had been in Howe's shoes, with a treacherous father who had murdered the Cousland kin, Hawke knew he would be doing everything he could to distance him from his father and build what bridges he could. The Teyrn was cool to him. Lady Bronwyn was kind, in a sad, aloof way, but today they were certainly talking.
"You know the Hawkes as well as anyone, Bronwyn."
"I know Carver quite well, and I think he's a fine boy. He's a Warden, of course, so I've spent time with him, and seen him fight, and seen how he deals with danger and pressure. Adam I don't know as well, but he's an outstanding warrior, and quite resourceful and personable. Very tactful. I think he's being considered as much for his ability to get on with people as he is for his fighting ability. Nonetheless, when I've asked anything of him, it's been done, and done well. And both the lads love their family very much. The women are all very nice, and seem to be more than mere pretty faces."
"Arl Bryland speaks highly of the mage, Mistress Bethany."
"Bethany saved his son's life, Nathaniel. She saved quite a few others, as well." She paused, thinking, and then plunged on.
"When I was a child, I remember being terrified by the Revered Mother's sermons about the evil of the magisters and the perils of magic. Like a child, I pictured mages as sinister, ugly villains, plotting to murder little children, hanging over their beds as they bled them for monstrous rituals. I think I even had bad dreams about them…and I would not be the only child who did! If I have learned nothing else as a Grey Warden, I've learned how false—even wicked—it is to brand them as all the same. I've learned that mages are people, Nathaniel, just as elves and dwarves are people. Mage children are as innocent and charming as any other children. Forbidding them the sight of the stars in the heavens or the flowers in the fields is wrong. Mages can be power-mad—like many non-mages—but they can be high-spirited or serious, frivolous or bookish, tender-hearted or cruel. They are moved by the beauty of nature and music, they tell jokes and sing songs, and can be as silly as any nobleman's daughter. Bethany Hawke is a mage, but she's also a pretty young girl, with a young girl's hopes and dreams; all of which are circumscribed by the limitations of being a mage in Thedas. I know something about one's role in life imposing limitations, but I've also come to understand how fortunate and privileged I've been."
She saw him looking at her, his brows knit, and she burst out with an embarrassed laugh. "Sorry! I promise not to preach any more sermons at you!"
Fergus turned in his saddle, scowling to see her laughing with Howe. Almost immediately, he was relieved to see that Howe himself was not laughing. No cheerful camaraderie there, he decided, and returned to his conversation with Adam Hawke.
Nathaniel looked ahead, and said quietly, "Some would call your views radical, but you are clearly not alone. Many are at odds with the Chantry at the moment. Do you reject the right of the Chantry to oversee the mages in their Circles?"
Bronwyn scowled briefly. "I don't know that I would put it exactly like that. Magic can be dangerous, but I do think that the Chantry's treatment of mages is disproportionate to the scale of the threat. I believe there are more humane ways to deal with the issue. I also believe that magic is so valuable that we ought to accept it as part of our lives and make use of it. The mages with the army—and among the Wardens—they've been of inestimable value as fighters and healers. They've been so brave and so resourceful. Is it impossible to credit that a mage might love his country and wish to serve it?"
Nathaniel smiled faintly. "No. Not when you are before him, inspiring him with thrilling speeches."
"Ha!" She shrugged. "I deserved that. But I retract nothing. I've met all sorts of people that ordinarily I would have been sheltered from all my life. Some of them were horrid, but many were kind and clever and brave, and some were beautiful. And they're all people."
She paused a moment, and then laughed again. "Well, all but the darkspawn, anyway."
After consideration, and with the advice of Seneschal Varel, Nathaniel went with them all the way to the city of Amaranthine.
It was the sensible thing to do, and showed teyrn and arl working together, united in their choice of castellan for the city.
Amaranthine had been restless since the departure of Bann Esmerelle. She had not been particularly beloved, or even a particularly good ruler of the city, but she was a known quality. People could predict how she would act in a given situation. Granted, it was usually in an unpleasant and venal way, but one could prepare for that.
Adam Hawke felt the eyes on him, anxious, hostile, questioning, hopeful—even admiring. He was presented to the Guard Captain, the Revered Mother, and the city worthies, and made a short speech himself. It was not hard to feel motivated. Teyrn Fergus had hinted that if Adam did well, this could be permanent for him, and would carry the traditional title.
To be a bann of Ferelden! To sit in the Landsmeet! Such a dizzying rise had never been seen in the history of Ferelden. Even Teyrn Loghain had put in hard years of service during the Rebellion to earn his rank.
That was a sobering thought. Years had passed, and there were those who still resented the great man; who felt that a peasant had no place amongst them. Adam hoped that he could avoid that particular charge. People knew of his noble mother, and he admitted that Mother had been shrewd to call herself "Lady Amell" from the first. It would soften the feelings of those who considered nobles like themselves to be a race apart.
He looked out the window of his comfortable quarters. Up so high, he could look out over the city walls and see the harbor beyond, the water grey and glittering. Further off was the dim haze that he had been told were the shores of the Fair Isle and Brandel's Reach. This was where the Amaranthine Ocean blended into the Waking Sea: a point of ambiguity on the map of the world; a place of infinite possibility. He would make this work, and make all of this his own.
"I'd like Varel to have Hafterhold," Nathaniel said, apropos of nothing, as he and Fergus inspected the docks of Amaranthine.
Fergus scowled. Howe had been quiet enough when Fergus told him what was in motion for the vacant fiefdoms. Perhaps he should have waited until everything was settled, and there was nothing else to be disposed of. He grunted noncommittally, thinking it over.
Actually, it was not a bad idea at all. He trusted Varel himself. He was a man had defied Rendon Howe's orders and been demoted for opposing his crimes. He was indisputably honest and certainly competent. And Hafterhold, so close to Vigil's Keep, was a shrewd choice. Nathaniel could keep Varel on as an advisor, and Varel could have a man of his own manage the small bannorn.
For that matter, it would be no bad thing to have a man of Varel's good sense and rectitude in the Landsmeet. Depending on who held multiple fiefdoms, the actual voting members of the Landsmeet usually varied in number between thirty and forty-five at maximum. At the moment they were actually down to twenty-eight, giving each vote additional importance. Too many in the Landsmeet were greedy half-wits, thinking themselves important because of things their great-great-grandfathers had done. Ferelden was short of nobles, and more importantly, short of competent nobles.
Finally, he said, "Does Varel have any children? I really don't know."
"There's a son in the army. In their cousin's company, actually. I don't think Varel thought his family had much of a future here in Amaranthine back in my father's day. There's a daughter, too, but she took Chantry vows years ago. Varel goes to see her now and then."
Fergus nodded. "An heir. That's good. At his age, having an heir will help his claim."
It was strange, walking together...talking. At times, it was almost as if the horrors of the past year had never happened. Almost.
Bronwyn led the way out from the west gate of Amaranthine, rather glad to be on the move again. The tension between Fergus and Nathaniel was so painful and fraught; the air so charged, so full of ambivalence, that she needed to get on her horse and get away. And Soldier's Peak beckoned. She was restlessly excited at the prospect.
Most of the party was mounted. They had a wagon to carry their gear, driven by their guide, Levi Dryden. The wagon was something of a luxury, but it also slowed their progress as they traveled the Coast Road. Moving so slowly, Bronwyn could indulge Cathair, who preferred to walk. The elf seemed to be enjoying himself, as he admired the view of the sea or leaned over for a closer look at late-blooming blood-lotus. One would have thought him off in a world of his own, until he straightened suddenly and put an arrow in an overbold rabbit. Said rabbit was promptly stuffed into his game bag and designated as supper.
Morrigan rode out of town, but then grew bored and took to the skies, creeling scornfully over their heads. After a moment, Anders joined her, leaving an indulgent Jowan to lead their horses. Cathair seemed to enjoy the shape-shifting, too, smiling and pointing. Aveline and Toliver were fearfully startled, though they had been quietly apprised of the mages' abilities, and told not to gossip about them outside the Wardens. The two dwarves, Hakan and Soren, were already so full of wonders that the mere fact of humans turning into birds seemed all of a piece with everything else.
Levi Dryden saw the birds, and smiled nervously. He had spoken to Bronwyn with some passion about his desire to uncover the mysteries of the Wardens, but some mysteries, when seen in person, clearly made him uncomfortable.
Hakan sat with him on the wagon seat, luckily, distracting him by asking questions about ox-driving. Soren lounged in the back, at his ease on a pile of blankets. As the breeze off the Waking Sea sharpened, Bronwyn thought he had the best of it.
"So, my Warden?" Zevran asked. "What do you expect to find in this mysterious, lost fortress? Ancient tomes? Forgotten wisdom? Weapons of virtue? Personally, I hope it is gold: a great deal of gold."
Bronwyn laughed. "I'd love to find a great deal of gold! Unlikely, though. The place was sacked during King Arland's siege, I believe, and it's unlikely that the attackers would have left any gold behind. Books, however…records of the Wardens…maybe a few magical items of no apparent worth to someone not a Warden...I think that's the most we can hope for."
"What about a country estate?" Carver teased, rather enjoying the day himself. "If the castle isn't such a ruin as the Warden outpost down south, maybe it'll be a place to get away to in the summer!"
"We'll see," Bronwyn smiled. Very likely the roof had collapsed, but perhaps there was something there: some outbuilding or cottage or other. Everything seemed to indicate that Soldier's Peak had been a sizable foundation. Soren knew a bit about masonry, and could tell her what could be repaired, and what would have to be rebuilt from the ground up. A little castle of their own would be very nice, but how serious repairs were to be paid for was anybody's guess.
What she really hoped for were indeed books and lore, and more urgently, perhaps on a dusty shelf in some decrepit cupboard, those vials of Archdemon blood.
They passed the ruins of Thymney at Forlorn Cove, and rested the horses and oxen, gazing down to the sea. There was wreckage on the beach, and Zevran wandered off to do a bit of salvaging. Curious, Cathair and the dwarves followed him. No one found anything of particular value, but Cathair picked up a small piece of driftwood of unusual beauty. Bronwyn allowed him to stow it in the wagon.
"I shall use it to make a carving," Cathair explained in his dreamy way. "Carving is very soothing. I shall not destroy the natural shape, but enhance it."
Leliana approved. "Everyone should have a hobby."
They passed a few cottages and farmsteads. Up on a bluff was a stone house with a long staircase carved into the living rock, leading down to a dock. A very pretty fishing boat with striped sails was moored there. The boatmen stared at the passing company, their faces grim and their hands out of sight.
"Smugglers," was Zevran's opinion. "They fear we are the law."
"Ha!" Carver snorted. "I haven't seen much law anywhere north of Denerim!"
Bronwyn smiled ruefully, thinking of all the looting she had done. "They could be worse," she said. "They might be wreckers as well: putting out a light during bad weather, and luring in ships who think they've reached Amaranthine City. For all I know they're wreckers at Breaker's Cove. We'll want to be discreet in asking questions."
"My only question," Toliver muttered, "will be 'where do they keep the ale?"
"Could we eat soon?" Leliana wondered. "Could we eat on the beach? That would be very nice."
There was a general consensus that eating soon would be entirely appropriate.
"We'll stop at the next stretch of good, deserted beach we see," Bronwyn promised.
This part of Amaranthine had never really recovered from the Orlesians occupation and the later Rebellion. Decaying piles of wood and stone marked the sites of formerly prosperous hamlets and farmholds. Amaranthine had born the brunt of the original Orlesian invasion, and the invaders had been ruthless in gaining a foothold. Bronwyn remembered Father and Rendon Howe discussing the matter on many occasions. Most common people wanted peace above all. Why had the Orlesians been so wantonly destructive? Had they restrained themselves even a little—had they proved benevolent masters—had they not sent a mad dog like Meghren to be king—they very well might have succeeded, and Ferelden might be an Orlesian province right now.
But the Orlesians had been greedy and stupid... and cruel. They had not wanted to restrain themselves. What they did want was to turn Ferelden freeholders into trembling serfs. It had amused them to hear of Ferelden nobles enduring Meghren's humiliations and torments. Their cruelty had been their undoing. Had people not been so desperate, they never would have risen in support of the dispossessed Rebel Queen Moira. If Meghren had been a decent king, Maric would never have had a chance, even with Rowan and Loghain at his side.
"In fact," Father had said, "If Meghren hadn't allowed wholesale plundering and murder, it's likely that Loghain would today be a shrewd, respected farmholder, and not Teyrn of Gwaren. Driving people off their land drove them to banditry or rebellion. If Meghren had had a full set of wits, he would have snatched up Rowan himself and made her his Queen."
"You're very quiet, Bronwyn," Leliana said.
"I was just thinking about the power of dynastic marriages."
More ruins, a picnic lunch on the beach, with yet more rabbits courtesy of Anders and Morrigan. Scout had got one himself, but was not inclined to share.
Then more riding along the coast, accompanied by the music of the surf; more cottages, more ruins, more fishing boats. By mid-afternoon, they reached the tiny village of Breaker's Cove. At least Bronwyn told a man outside the single public house that it was Breaker's Cove, and he agreed with her.
The little tavern was called The Wardog Inn, and was about the size of a kennel. At least the ale was good. The innkeeper was taken aback at the size of the Wardens' party. Pallets and blankets were spread in the two small guestrooms, and the Wardens counted themselves lucky to have a roof over their heads for the night.
"And don't go telling people our destination," Bronwyn ordered. "That's Warden business."
They left at first light, only stopping long enough for bowls of thin porridge. It was dim and overcast, the low clouds a flat expanse of iron in the sky. The winds vexed the sea beyond, and the surf roared up foaming onto the docks.
"It's not far," Bronwyn told her people, "but it will be mostly uphill."
Levi Dryden had a map of sorts, but was not perfectly skilled at reading it. The mouth of a tunnel was found, and torches lit. They dismounted and led the horses. It was pleasant to be out of the sharp wind, but confusing in the smoky darkness. At length, Bronwyn tactfully relieved the man of his map, oriented herself and kept her people moving until they saw a glimmer of light ahead.
They emerged into the splendor of the mountains, and to a steep grade, which forced them to lend a hand pushing the wagon. They turned a corner, sweating and cursing, and then there were gasps.
"Maker!" cried Levi. "Look at the size of that fortress!"
"Not bad," Hakan remarked to Soren. "There's some good stonework there. Must have hired dwarves."
Bronwyn stumbled, gaping. Bigger than Vigil's Keep, bigger than Castle Highever, the towers of Soldier's Peak pierced the sky. Its bulk spread over the summit, imposing and...intact. The air was fresh, the sky pellucid, and the castle seemed realer than real.
"I can't believe it!" she burst out. "Some broken shutters, here and there, but even the outbuildings are still sound!"
"Magnificent!" breathed Aveline. "This is the greatest castle in Ferelden!"
"It's old, too," Jowan told them, "Really old. It was built by Commander Asturian in the Glory Age, three hundred years before King Calenhad united Ferelden. All the northern teyrns contributed to it, because Asturian arrived just after the end of the Second Blight, and it was fresh in their minds."
Levi Dryden, from his vantage on the wagon seat, said, "A hundred Wardens held off the whole army for over a year! In the end they were starving. Otherwise, I reckon they could have sat here forever, thumbing their nose at the King!"
"The terrain is too vertical for siege engines to be effective," Bronwyn muttered to herself. "This is an amazingly defensible position. A hundred men held it for a year? I believe it now."
The Wardens gathered in the gateway, some punching each other in excitement, some sizing up the edifice with warier eyes.
Leliana said, "It might not be so nice on the inside. There was a battle here, after all. It is unlikely that the victors tidied up afterward."
Anders chuckled at that, but Morrigan said softly. "Be cautious. Too much blood has soaked into the earth. The Veil is thin here."
As if in response to her words, misty figures coalesced before them: the past relived for all of them to see. Carver reached out hesitantly to touch one of the figures, but his hand went through the unheeding phantom.
"Don't, Carver!" Leliana whispered. "Watch!"
A big man in plate armor shouted at his men to fall back. The royal army had made an assault, and had failed. The soldiers looked...frightened.
"—and so we starve them out, then!" the nobleman snarled.
Abruptly the vision blinked out.
"Did everyone see that?" asked Carver, "Or am I losing my mind?"
"Yes, to the first question," said Morrigan. "To the second..."
"Everyone saw it," Bronwyn affirmed. "Astonishing. Is there some way to exorcise such spirits? A steady diet of them might be inconvenient and distracting."
"Not as distracting as that," Zevran remarked.
From the earth of the courtyard, skeletal figures were rising, bones assembling in swift order. Hanging from the fleshless shoulders were ragged Grey Warden tunics. With an eldritch howl, the skeletons lifted their blades, and charged.
Thanks to my reviewers: Tsu Doh Nimh, Kira Kyuu, Zute, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, Amanda weber, timunderwood9, KnightOfHolyLight, Rexiselic, Jenna53, jackOfBladesX, Halm Vendrella, Have Socks. Will Travel, kirbster676, Phygmalion, Chandagnac, Hydropatypus, Mike3207, Nemrut, Shakespira, Biff McLaughlin, EpitomyofShyness, Josie Lange, almostinsane, mille libri, Crazy lemon, and Psyche Sinclair.
I do think that the Dalish would find the Rite of Tranquility revolting, alien, and a crime against nature. It's yet another reason for them never to let the Templars take their magical children.
I really cannot believe that I have written over a million words of Dragon Age fanfiction.
Oh—and check my author's page for my most recent publication. Only a flash fic, but it was fun.
To anon4625, who said: I like how in Chapter 28 Anora says it a very bad idea to give most of North Ferelden(Highever and Amaranthine) to one man when it is Howe, yet is very enthusiastic to do it in the latest chapter when it concerns Fergus. How the worm does turn.
Absolutely. If she's going to marry Fergus, she's wants him to be as powerful as possible, and the Crown's authority can go hang. She doesn't even perceive her hypocrisy, and would shrug if you pointed it out to her.