Victory at Ostagar

Chapter 70: Wardens Asunder

"Does the Cute Little Mage object to my questions? Are its diminutive feelings wounded?"

"No, Shale," Tara sighed. "It's fine. After all, I've been asking you questions, too."

"Oh, good. My world no longer totters on the edge of the abyss."

The western expedition was moving far more quickly, now that they had reached the Imperial Highway west of Redcliffe. A detachment of the Legion of the Dead was waiting for them near the entrance at Lake Belannas, ready to support them in their exploration of the Deep Roads. The Wardens would be two days later than planned, but the Legion had been warned to be flexible. And there had been so much to learn at Honnleath…

Shale was nothing like Tara had expected. Nothing like anything anyone could have expected. A golem with free will? With a mind of its own and a sarcastic turn of speech? With no particular love of mages, due to its long enslavement by the mage Wilhelm?

At least it called her the "Cute Little Mage." That was better than being the "Abrasive Mage," though it described Velanna in a nutshell. Tara found Velanna rather difficult, and Tara was an elf. Velanna was far nastier to the humans in the party, as nasty as she dared to be, even after Astrid had given her a very stern talking-to.

Astrid was simply "Warden." to Shale. Unsurprising, since Shale clearly looked on Astrid as the leader of the expedition. To be honest, Tara did too. Astrid knew what she was doing: whether setting up camp or devising battle tactics.

They planned to pass through Redcliffe, but only long enough to pick up supplies at the store and have a meal at the tavern. Tara had no particular desire to pay court to Arl Teagan or to stay at his priest-infested castle. The Arl had been generous enough, but Tara believed that the Grey Wardens' welcome would be rather cooler, if they appeared before the Arl led by an elf and dwarf, rather than by a Cousland. Tara had had enough of his condescending servants, too.

Besides, the village was in a frenzy preparing for the Arl's wedding, scheduled for Satinalia Eve. The words "dear Arlessa Kaitlyn—one of our own" were on everyone's lips, and the air was filled with sentimental sighs and tiresome praise to the Maker and Most Holy Andraste for the life and health of the Guerrins. Tara hoped that any child the new Arl and Arlessa produced did not become an abomination, run rampant, and slaughter the villagers. Nothing like a wedding to shorten people's memories.

Most embarrassingly, the presence of Shale attracted attention. The villagers crowded up, shouting, "A show! A show!" Apparently, never having seen a golem before, the folk thought Shale was part of some sort of traveling minstrel troupe: most likely one tumbler sitting on another's shoulders, both concealed by a costume. And Aeron's lute was the finest musical instrument most of them had ever seen. Definitely a troupe of minstrels, something few had ever experienced. That they were heavily armed conveyed nothing to the villagers' minds—other than that the roads were indeed unsafe. Dogs barked; children squealed and pointed.

"Another flea-bitten village of drooling peasants," snarked Shale. "Delightful. How it recalls to me the happy bygone days at Honnleath. Do order me to squish a few of their heads, won't you?"

"No squishing," Astrid said curtly. She raised her voice. "We are Grey Wardens!"

"Oh, see the funny little woman in armor," bawled out a hulking laborer. "All dressed up like a Warden! Come on, darling! Cut us a caper!"

"Really? No squishing?" Shale murmured. "None at all?"

Astrid gritted out, "Let me think about it."

"—Look at the tattoos on that one!"

"—That's a nice lute that one's carrying! Give a song, minstrel!"

"—Reckon they're here for the wedding! I wouldn't mind getting to know that one better!"

"Have I ever told you," Velanna said loudly to Tara, "that I find humans physically and morally repulsive?"

Most of the village trooped up behind them to the tavern, gawking. Quite a few shoved their way inside, and stood over the Wardens while they ate, speculating on what 'acts' they could hope to see. The innkeeper shooed them out.

"Let my customers eat in peace!"

Not as stupid as most, the innkeeper, Bella, grasped quickly that these really were Grey Wardens, and not circus performers. She was friendly enough, and gave the Wardens a free round of drinks. (Shale coolly declined the offer.) She asked about the army at Ostagar and the struggle with the darkspawn. Her sentimental sighs were saved for poor King Cailan and brave Teyrn Loghain. She asked after some other soldiers, who, she said, had helped her during the battle here. Tara did not know the names, but Aeron and Liam did, and could assure the pretty redhead that they were healthy and uninjured.

Griffith and Walther were sent out to purchase supplies, since they looked "normal" to these uneducated folk. They were back shortly with what had not been gathered up already for the wedding and the Satinalia celebration to come: oats and smoked fish, and a single stone bottle of Chasind Sack Mead. Bella made up the difference out of her own stores, and was well compensated for it.

Leaving Redcliffe was awkward in its own way. Astrid went out, and quietly informed the excited townsfolk that they were mistaken.

"We really are Grey Wardens on patrol."

This news did not go down well, where it was believed. Most simply thought it was part of the show. The Wardens hefted up their packs and stalked out, up the hill and out of town, still trailed by hopeful peasants. When the Wardens reached the village outskirts, and it became clear to the people of Redcliffe that they really were leaving, there was a wave of disappointment and anger. A few rocks were thrown.

"Well," drawled Shale, "That was a delightful interlude. When is our return engagement? I can hardly contain my impatience."

"This sort of thing never happens to Bronwyn," Tara said bitterly.

The steward of Gwaren was not easily persuaded of Danith's claims to be a Warden, either, despite her letter of introduction from Teyrn Loghain. He looked at it for a long time, scrutinizing the seal for forgery. Finally convinced, he admitted the Wardens and found decent quarters for them in the lower Keep—certainly not in the luxurious quarters set aside for distinguished guests. Danith did not much care. The rooms were adequate, and her own chamber was not unlike the simply-furnished room she had occupied at the Warden's Compound. It was a place for rest and a meal.

The elves received some odd looks, but no outright insults. Prudently, they wore their armor at all times, after a brief, tense confrontation when Nuala had been taken for a housemaid. Niall, too, as a mage, was subject to stares and whispers.

No matter. They would be out of here tomorrow, resupplied with food. The Deep Roads entrance was near the city walls. They would descend, travel a few miles, then return and start their journey north. The thought of seeing Keeper Marethari again… of seeing Junar and Ineria and Master Ilen and old Hahren Paivel filled Danith with excited, nostalgic longing. She wanted another look at those ancient ruins, if she could manage it. They needed to be conceded to the Dalish as soon as possible: put in their possession past dispute.

"Warden?" A servant knocked at her door. Danith opened, and look warily at the human. The woman said, "Some elf asking for you at the servants' door."

Danith regarded her blankly. She knew no one who might ask for her. This shemlen city was smaller than Denerim, and for that reason not so oppressive. Dirty and smelly, of course, and full of squat buildings and loud-voice shems. Not very interesting to her, actually.

"Take me to this servants' door," she finally answered.

An elf in poor city garments was awaiting. When he saw Danith, garbed in her armor, he blinked and stared. Then he looked closer.

"You're Dalish!" he blurted out. Then, uncertainly, he asked, "Aren't you?"

"I am Dalish," she answered. "I am Danith of the Grey Wardens. To whom am I speaking?"

"Er…I'm Kieyll," he stammered. "You're really Dalish! The hahren heard there were elven Grey Wardens in town, and I was sent to invite you to the Alienage. We didn't know you were Dalish."

"Does that mean that we are not welcome?" Danith asked, becoming more and more annoyed. Did she want to visit a dirty and depressing community of flat-ears? On the other hand, perhaps some of them would have the sense to leave and find the clans, if they knew they would be welcome. Perhaps it would be best to direct them to Ostagar, to urge them to mix in there and become acclimated…

"Oh…of course not! I mean…the hahren said to invite you. For supper. We eat earlier than the shems. I'm to bring you there."

"I have two elven companions with me," Danith said, her face impassive. "I shall summon them, and tell the other Wardens that we are going out. Tell me about this hahren of yours."

The hahren's name was Indrianni. She was a woman of middle years, her black hair beginning to thread with silver. Her eyes were black, too, and sparked with life. She welcomed Danith, Steren, and Nuala very kindly to the Gwaren Alienage.

It was small and poor: smaller than the Alienage of Denerim. As half the population had not been sold as slaves, there were more people here. Chickens clucked underfoot; neat little gardens were filled with yellow and orange squash. A big Vhenadahl tree spread out over the center of the courtyard, its waxy leaves brown along the edges.

"If the weather were fairer," Indrianni said, "we would eat out of doors. Come inside, welcome guests. We long to hear of the deeds of the Grey Wardens, and of our cousins among them."

Danith nodded stiffly. Fair words: one could hardly ask for fairer. Indrianni had glanced at their faces, seeing the Vallaslin, but not commenting on it like a bumpkin.

The food was simple but plentiful, and decently prepared. These people spoke of Andraste and the Maker. They had forgotten the Creators, but they remembered a little of the old ways. Danith could tell them that the war against the darkspawn was going well. The darkspawn had been defeated at Ostagar, and now the Wardens were patrolling the country to make certain that none had got away. Steren glanced at her, but Danith saw no reason to terrorize these innocent people by informing them that there was a nearby door to the underworld: a door that might be all that kept back a black tide of death.

They spoke of the horrible news of the Tevinter slavers, and the city elves asked how badly the Denerim Alienage had been affected. Danith disliked the subject, but could repeat some of what she had learned.

"The Teyrn of Highever drove the slavers out, and killed the shemlen lord who was their confederate. Nearly half the Alienage of Denerim was sold, and the Alienage of Highever was completely destroyed."

Murmurs of grief and horror rose, but they had already heard much of this. Danith was only confirming the rumors.

One of the older elves declared, "At least we need fear nothing of that sort. Teyrn Loghain will protect us."

"Elves can also protect themselves," Danith told him. "According to the king's will, land will be given to the Dalish for a homeland. Our city cousins will be welcome there, when the war is over."

"To live like a wild beast in the forest, eating raw meat and berries..." the man said, clearly horrified.

"We are wild beasts?" Danith said, with ominous calm, pushing back from the table and rising to her feet. "If that is your opinion of us, I am astonished that you would invite us into your fine city house. Come Steren; Nuala. We did not fight the darkspawn at Ostagar to be insulted by flat ears."

"That was rude!" Indrianni hissed in the old elf's ear. "Stay, I beg you!" she implored Danith. "We are all elves, after all."

Danith stayed, but the evening never warmed up after that, Indrianni asked her questions, and Danith gave her the basic shape of the news.

"The land will probably be north of here, in a stretch of the Brecilian Forest, centered around an ancient building that was once a center of elven culture. There is talk of founding a town nearby. I have been there. Some repairs will be necessary, but there is much of beauty in it, and it is larger than Gwaren Keep."

They did not believe her. They did not believe that elves could have built anything to rival the largest building most of them had ever seen. She could see it in their closed faces. They did not believe that she had been presented to the Queen, though they admired her silver cloak pin that had been the Queen's gift.

What of her story did they credit? They believed that the three strangers were indeed Grey Wardens, as they had been admitted to the Keep, and as Danith was wearing a griffon-embroidered tunic of fine cloth. Since they were Wardens, it was accepted that they had seen the famous Girl Warden. They were willing to believe that Danith had seen the Queen, and they asked after her. Some of the older elves had seen Anora in her youth, for some had served at the Keep in the days of Teyrna Celia ("Maker rest her sweet soul.") It was some comfort to see that a few of the younger folk, crowding by the door or peering around the corner, did not look so incredulous. A few beautiful, precious children gazed on her, eyes enormous. There was still hope for them, if they could be got away from this vile slum.

The adults, however, were hopeless. The darkspawn were only a fable to them, as they lived their downtrodden lives within city walls, the only tree they knew the vhenandahl in the Alienage. It was hard to believe that people like Tara, like Adaia had come from this kind of background. Of course, the Denerim hahren had not been so ignorant.

They left early. Danith did not talk at length of the Grey Wardens, nor did she repeat the story of the Hero Garahel, which she had learned by heart and had intended to share. Perhaps another night, or another group of elves would be more suitable. She had never imagined that she would be eager to leave the company of elves, in order to return to the castle of a shemlen nobleman; but at the moment she felt she had more in common with Loghain Mac Tir, warrior against the darkspawn and friend of Maynriel and Thanovir, than she did with those who shared her blood and the elegant shape of her ears.

Their fellow Wardens were in the small chamber that had been given to the Wardens' use for meals and council. Idunn and Ketil were playing that game with a checked board and carved pieces that dwarves and humans found of endless interest. Everyone was sitting around the table, looking over the dwarves' shoulders, and praising them or urging new strategies.

Niall looked up and smiled. "Did you have a good time at the Alienage?"

"I had always heard that they were horrible places," Steren replied briefly. "But now I can speak from experience, and give my own opinion."

"Which is?"

"They are horrible places. The flat ears called us wild beasts and all but called us liars when we spoke of the Dalish land grant."

"Well, we believe you," young Quinn said cheerfully. "And my mum says not to mind name-calling. People call me 'bean-pole' and 'carrot-top,' but I reckon they're just jealous. And they haven't even seen the halla! Then they'd really be jealous!"

"That is true," Nuala said softly, rather mollified. "And to speak more of the halla, Danith, it would be best if we left soon. I mistrust the servitors in the stables."

"We leave tomorrow," Danith decreed. "At first light. We shall go directly to the Deep Roads entrance, and when finished there, we shall turn north at once. Now explain to me this game called 'chess' again."

Levi had to be dealt with, sooner rather than later. On sober reflection, Bronwyn decided to leave the treasure at Soldier's Peak under the watchful eye of Avernus. She took some of the Archdemon blood, and a purse of a hundred sovereigns. There was cloth to be bought for more Warden tunics, and embroideresses to be paid. There was a payroll to be met, and yet more impressive weapons to be commissioned from Master Wade.

And on the march home they could not guard the chest every moment. There was first the detour to Drake's Fall, and they were forced to leave the wagon and horses behind, and make the last mile entirely on foot.

Drake's Fall was an old Tevinter fortress: established in the days of their power as a base for the equally profitable trades in dragon bone and human flesh. The land around it was nearly uninhabited these days, and in fact the Wardens came across no other people on their march to the sprawling edifice. The weather had turned to cold rain, and a mist lay over the ground, partly concealing the bones of ancient dragons thrusting up through the earth. There was money to be had in Drake's Fall, had one the nerve to dig in the haunted hills and ravines. The Grey Wardens did not lack nerve, but they were too pressed for time. Perhaps on another occasion...

"A graveyard of dragons!" Morrigan exclaimed. "Few and far between in Thedas!"

Rendon Howe had talked about renovating the ancient castle and giving it to Bronwyn as a dower house. Another reason to give thanks that she never let herself be talked into a marriage with his son Thomas. Soldier's Peak, given time and coin, could be made liveable: she was not sure the same could be said for Drake's Fall. It was not designed in anything resembling a normal way: it was more like an enormous prison, with long descending staircases and inescapable rooms far underground where no doubt the dragonbone and slaves were stored until they could be shipped. There had been trade with the dwarves, too, which was why there was an entrance to the Deep Roads there. Everything was an absolute shambles: ceilings collapsed in places, pillars toppled, floors cracked. It probably could be restored, but restored to what? It was the ancient abode of Tevinter magisters, and looked it. It might do as a militia base. Transforming it into a home would be far more problematic.

There was no furniture in the castle. A few trunks and chests were tucked away, filled mostly with rubbish and occasionally with small, exquisite objects or curious crystals. In one of the chests, they found an old square Tevinter gold solidus, stuck by unidentifiable goo to the side. Leliana used the tip of her dagger to pry it loose. What remained were fragments of a forgotten past. No one had lived here in many years.

The entrance to the Deep Roads was found, deep in the cellar, and then carefully unsealed. Hakan and Soren had learned the protocols in their time with the Legion of the Dead. There were no marks on the underside of the seal to indicate the the darkspawn had actively attempted to force their way out. The stone-and-metal hatches were marked with runes of great virtue. Bronwyn made notes, and a copy of the rune on the Drake's Fall entrance. The dwarven name was Kal Tunsha, and a small trading outpost had been located there: an offshoot of the big nearby thaig Kal'Hirol.

"There's something down here," was Anders' opinion, after slipping down the narrow spiral stairs by the hatch. "Not strong or close, but something."

"To the south?" Leliana guessed.

"It would be logical," Bronwyn agreed. "Kal'Hirol is that way, and we know it was overrun by the darkspawn long ago."

"Not much of anything, I think," said Jowan. "Nothing like enough to come swarming up. That's...good, isn't it?"

They followed the the tunnels for about a mile, not sensing very much. The Taint here was old. The junior Wardens sensed nothing at all.

A mile was enough to establish that there was no dangerous activity nearby. They climbed to the surface, carefully resealed the entrance, touched the rune, and were off, in cheerful pursuit of Levi and the horses.

There was no sign of darkspawn in the Gwaren Deep Roads at all. None.

Danith had heard quite of bit of the story of this entrance from Maynriel, who had served with Loghain during the Rebellion against the Orlesians. Loghain, the old king, and a portion of the Legion of the Dead had traveled by way of the Deep Roads across Ferelden, all the way from West Hill in the northwest to Gwaren in the southeast. They had done this to evade the Orlesians, who Maynriel thought were the worst of shemlens, aside from the Tevinters. They did not admit to enslaving elves, though their customs allowed them to treat elves as slaves in all but name. The Dales, after all, had been in what was now Orlesian territory. It was the greed of the Orlesian chevaliers, coupled with the fanaticism of the shemlen Chantry, that had led to the invasion and destruction of the Dales: the land granted the elves by their own Prophet.

So Loghain had led the army through the Deep Roads in those days. Whatever they had done had scoured this end of them clean.

Danith ordered Idunn and Ketil to unseal the entrance, and they peered down, down, trying to make out anything by the stray shafts of sunlight that could penetrate the opening. Much of the Deep Roads, she had learned, was illuminated by the ancient lamps of the dwarves that, if not utterly smashed, burned forever. Since she sensed no immediate threat, she led her party to the wide and pillared space that marked the southeastern terminus of the dwarven kingdom. Stone houses remained, crumbling and deserted.

"Gwaren means 'Salt-Marsh' in the common speech," Idunn told them. "This used to be an important trading post."

"It's a fine, big place," whispered Quinn reverently.

"Never thought I'd see this end of the Deep Roads," muttered Ketil. "'S'not bad, is it? Aren't we supposed to feel darkspawn? I don't."

Danith reached out, trying to feel what she had felt that ghastly day when facing the Broodmothers.

Nothing.

"I feel no darkspawn at all," she admitted. "Perhaps they have not come this way since the days of Teyrn Loghain and the Legion of the Dead. Perhaps the Archdemon is not interested in this place."

To her relief, there were none of the loathsome signs of a breeding ground: no tendrils, no spongy matter, no bulging, pulsing sacs. Nor were there the other common dangers of the Deep Roads, about which she had been warned. No chittering deepstalkers attacked them, and the only spider webs they saw were either very small, or very dusty and old. Of the giant species of spider there was no sign.

Idunn tapped the copy of the map copied in the Shaperate. "It's not much good any more," she confessed. "The darkspawn dug a lot of tunnels here."

"Chart what you can. We'll stick to the original Deep Roads for now. We might as well go in a little farther."

Quinn grinned broadly. "We could walk all the way to Ostagar, if it's all like this! Never get rained on, either!"

They went far indeed, far enough that they grew weary and camped there in the Deep Roads. According to the map, they were within a day's march of where the Roads forked, north to the Amgarrack Road, and west to Ostagar. While there seemed to be no threats, and no sound other than the distant drip of water through stone, not everyone was comfortable with underground life.

Maeve whispered to Danith, "How can dwarves stand to live like this, with tons and tons of stone overhead? It could collapse at any moment!"

Danith really, really wished that Maeve had not said that, for she felt exactly the same.

Niall overheard them and whispered back. "Think of it as an old castle with a really high ceiling. Then it's not so nerve-wracking!"

Maeve, uncomforted, muttered, "The ceilings of old castles could collapse at any moment, too!"

Nuala sighed and put her arm over her eyes, breathing slowly and evenly to ward off panic. Steren took her in his arms and talked very softly, recalling the spring sky, and the stars twinkling through new leaves.

Aron Kendalls made his first visit to Bryland House shortly after the departure of the Couslands from Denerim. Clad in his best clothes, freshly washed and closely shaved, he still did not quite meet Habren's standards for a nobleman.

"He's such a bumpkin!" she tittered to her maid afterward. "Such a clodhopper! I confess I did not expect him to be such a brute—-to be so utterly clownish. Did you see the way he bowed? The size of his boots? I expect they'd look more normal if they were completely covered in mud! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!"

Her father was not so put off by Aron's lack of courtly polish. The reports he had about the big, strong-featured young man in front of him told of hard work, careful use of the resources at hand, no vicious habits that had made for talk—no drinking bouts, no whoring, no careless spending—not even when had first inherited his nice little freehold. Granted, there were also reports that he was a stony-hard bargainer, and capable of holding a serious grudge.

Wanting to understand something of his personality, Bryland had also inquired into how the young man treated his younger siblings. There was some tension between him and the younger brother, who disliked being ordered about—very normal, of course. The two young sisters, one twelve and the other nine, were at the Chantry school in Oswin, scrambling into a bit of education. Bryland liked that. Chantry school education was not cheap, and it showed a nice concern for the girls. Besides, if they were going to be living a very different kind of life now, they needed proper preparation for it.

"A pity you didn't bring your brother and sisters," he said genially, ushering the tall young man into his study. "I'd like to get to know them."

"Someone has to look after the farm," Aron replied, his square-jawed face impassive. "The cows need milking, and the girls need their schooling. If something better to comes to me, there'll be plenty of time for them to come to the city."

A good, frank talk ensued. In fact, Bryland was a bit taken back by how matter-of-fact the young freeholder was. The Arling of Denerim was a great prize: the Arl of Denerim was a great man in Ferelden.

"If it's rightfully mine," Aron said briefly, "then it's right that I claim it. I'd be a fool, else. Nobody takes what's mine away from me."

All very proper, Bryland granted, but he pointed out the contentious nature of the Landsmeet. There would be others looking with greedy eyes at Denerim. An unknown young man might require support from influential friends to put his claim beyond dispute. Bryland explained that he was just such a friend, and made his price for such influence explicit. Aron must take as his wife Habren Bryland Kendalls, Dowager Arlessa of Denerim.

Aron Kendalls frowned thoughtfully at that.

"I saw her at the door when I arrived. A very fine-looking young lady. A widow, though. I don't care for another man's leavings."

Bryland did not permit himself to express his dislike of this very crude way of speaking, when Habren's prize was just within reach.

"The marriage was not consummated. The attack took place at the wedding feast, where Arl Urien was fatally wounded."

Another thoughtful frown followed, and then a slow nod.

"All right. I'll take her. Should we wed before or after the Landsmeet?"

"Before," Bryland told him, with limpid mildness. "If you're married to Habren, no one will seriously challenge your confirmation. The wedding will, of course, be very quiet, given that Habren will not be out of mourning until next month."

"Quiet is fine with me."

"It's very important that you become known to the rest of the Landsmeet. We'll start small. Perhaps a dinner tomorrow night, and then, in a few days, the Satinalia ball at the palace. You can attend as my guest. There will be a number of events leading up to the marriage of Teyrn Loghain and Lady Bronwyn Cousland. It would be wise to make yourself known to those two individuals. Their goodwill is important to you."

Bronwyn had her talk with Levi Dryden is a private little chamber at Vigil's Keep. They would be back in Denerim in two days and she would be busy then. Better to do it now. The trader was very unhappy. He had gone looking for vindication, and instead found out that Sophia Dryden was guilty of everything she had been accused of, and more.

"All I wanted was to clear our name. Reckon that will never happen, now."

"Perhaps..." Bronwyn looked at him with some sympathy. He had led her to a fortune in gold and information, and deserved some substantial reward for it. "Perhaps it would be best to set the past aside and focus on the future. Nothing can be done to rehabilitate a woman who lived two hundred years ago; but what happened is old news now, forgotten by most. Devote yourself to making your family's name honorable by your own deeds, and let the past bury the past."

"We're traders now, we Drydens," he said, dejected. "Our family's belief that we were wronged...it gave us strength to make something of ourselves. Still, we're not warriors. My cousin Mikhael is a blacksmith."

"Is he skilled?" Bronwyn asked.

"Mikhael? First-class. Loves his work. Makes a fair living, but with all the competition in Denerim..."

"The Wardens could use a blacksmith at the Peak," Bronwyn remarked. "I would like to see your cousin's work, but if he is as skilled as you say, he could have a permanent position with the Wardens. And we'll need a sutler, too. Wardens fight, and cannot spare the time for carting supplies back and forth and arranging repairs..."

"I could do that!" Levi burst out. "I could bring the family up there and settle in one of the outbuildings. Get the forge going, and set up a nice little shop..." he paused, his brow anxious. "Need some capital to fix everything up, but I can make that twenty sovereigns go pretty far."

"And I was certainly going to pay you for all your time and trouble," Bronwyn told him, liking this more positive attitude. The Peak would need work, certainly, and it would be best to have some of their own people established there. "Another fifty sovereigns. I would strongly advise you to stay away from the mages' tower, however. Warden Avernus would not care for intruders!"

Levi's eyes were the size of trencher-plates. "No fear! Wouldn't dream of going near that old devil! We'll keep the little ones away, too."

"I think that's best. The main thing is to give the castle a good cleaning and get some supplies carted up there. Get the ground floor fit for habitation. Perhaps one of your relations can do a bit of carpentering, too? Good. I'll want to post a few Wardens there, once they report in from their patrols. Toliver says that the blacksmith shop has lodging above it. And the building next door to the stables might do for a sutler's store." She had another idea. "I know some other people I might send up there as guards. It might be best to see if you could settle in before winter. Do you think it possible?"

"Possible?" he was on his feet, arms waving, his sallow face flushed with excitement. "O' course! We Drydens...we're tough. I'll talk to the family as soon I get back. Possible? I should bloody well say so!"

It would not be a large dinner, but the guests were a list of powerful Landsmeet figures. The absence of the Couslands and Arl Nathaniel did not mean there was no social life in Denerim.

Leonas Bryland had great hopes of this evening. Habren would spend time with Aron Kendalls, which he had decided was a very good idea. Habren might want to be an Arlessa more than anything in the world, but her father also wanted her to be happy. Aron Kendalls was in many ways a very respectable young man, but Bryland was not at all sure that he and Habren were compatible.

Wulffe would attend, along with his eldest son Rothgar, called to Denerim for the purpose. It was a shame that the younger boy must stay at home, but with so much chaos, Wulffe was uneasy leaving it all to a steward. Bryland felt the mild rebuke, and admitted to himself that he had been gone too long from South Reach. But there was so much to do: the war, the darkspawn, the Orlesians making trouble, Habren's woes, the King's death, the Landsmeet. Everything needed to be settled.

It was awkward planning such an affair without Werberga, too. He had sometimes been exasperated with his sister, but he could see now how much work she had done for him. It pained him that he would never have the chance to express his gratitude to her. Now he was being hounded by servants about menus and decorations, about Satinalia gifts and quarterly wages. Habren was too distressed by the tragedy on the seventh to take hold as the mistress of the household.

Another reason to keep the guest list to the minimum. The Queen, Loghain, Wulffe and young Rothgar, Habren, Aron Kendalls. On looking at the list, Bryland became uncomfortably aware that it was rather heavy on the masculine side. A number of the nearby banns had gone home to celebrate Satinalia. Who could he invite to balance the table?

Who but those charming ladies from Highever House? Mistress Bethany had visited a number of times, making certain that Lothar was perfectly well. If he was not mistaken, she was coming today.

"Down, Killer!" Corbus commanded. "No paws on ladies' dresses!"

Bethany enjoyed her visits to Bryland House. The little boys were always happy to see her. Their tutor was less enthusiastic, but perfectly polite. They talked, they played with the adorable puppy. In fair weather they practiced archery in the courtyard, and when it rained they drew, and built castles with elaborate building blocks. The Arl, when he was available, was the most affable of hosts, always calling for refreshments, and even joining them in the boys' schoolroom.

The loveliest presents had been sent to her: thankful gifts from grateful well-wishers. A gold and ivory inkstand, a bolt of rose velvet, a brooch set with emeralds. From the Arl had come a beautiful silver goblet, chased with a band of running mabaris. Mother had the rose velvet made up for Bethany immediately, loving the rich color and silky texture. It was being kept back for Satinalia, when they were invited to the feast and ball at the Palace.

Lothar's shoulder was perfectly fine now, but somehow there was always another invitation. The Arl was concerned about Bethany's safety, and thus always sent a servant to escort her to and from Bryland House. Lately, the visits had included Charade, once Bethany had told them what a fine archer her cousin was, and how she had protected her father when they escaped from Kirkwall.

Lady Habren was not present at these gatherings. The Arl said she was in deep mourning, and staying mostly in her own apartments. Bethany was very sorry for her, unable to imagine how she would feel if her bridegroom was killed the very day of their wedding. It was so tragic. Something like that had happened to one of Carver's fellow Wardens, but he hadn't given Bethany all the details. They lived in terrible times.

Today the Arl dropped in on them, smiling, and mentioned that he was holding a dinner for the heir to the Arling of Denerim.

"Just a few friends," he said easily. "I don't want to drive the fellow away. It occurred to me that it might be a pleasant thing for you ladies, cooped up alone at Highever House. I'll call on your mother, Lady Amell, and invite her later today. It was remiss of me not to make myself known to her before, but we've all been desperately busy."

"I'm sure my mother would enjoy it very much, my lord," Bethany said.

Charade refrained from rolling her eyes. Probably, they'd never hear the last of how they had dined with "our friend the Arl of South Reach."

Leonas Bryland was as good as his word. In the course of his busy afternoon, he stopped at Highever House, and asked to see Lady Amell. Once ushered into her sitting room, he made his bows and extended his invitation, looking with surprised pleasure at the woman before him.

He should not have been surprised by her good looks. Her daughter and niece were remarkably pretty girls. Perhaps he had only expected a pleasant woman of a certain age. Instead, he was introduced to a woman whose face was still sweet and youthful, and framed with prematurely silver hair. Her manners were charming, her gown elegant, and her mild, well-bred voice commanded the servants with ease. A noble Marcher lady... Bryland began a rapid revision of his personal plans. Once Habren was married, he really must have someone to order his household and act as hostess. And if she were as kind to his boys as her daughter was…

He was looking forward to the dinner very much.

The Dowager Queen of Ferelden and the General of her Armies were in private council. While the Couslands pacified the north of the country, there was much to do elsewhere.

"Tonight should be interesting," Anora remarked. "I hope for Arl Bryland's sake that his dinner for the prospective Arl of Denerim goes well."

Loghain snorted. "The dinner for his daughter's prospective husband! He certainly hasn't wasted any time."

"Habren expects to find purpose in her life by marriage. She certainly isn't the first young woman to feel that way."

Loghain took the broad hint. "I suppose I can assume," he said, "that you have decided to pursue an alliance with Fergus Cousland."

"There's no need to look so cross about it, Father," Anora said, with a hint of impertinence. "You suggested it. I happen to think it a very, very good idea."

"It's a good idea as long as you keep your head and don't make more of it than it is!"

"That is to say," Anora said, her pretty face hardening. "that you would prefer I feel nothing for him and treat him as a dupe rather than as a spouse! Is that your intention with Bronwyn?" With conscious dignity, she collected herself, sat down, and smoothed her skirts. "I've had quite enough of dupes, Father. I believe a partner would be far more agreeable...and efficient. I have reason to believe that Fergus is attracted to me and respects me. That is an excellent basis for a serious relationship—far better than basing a relationship on the friendship between my father and his!"

Those words cut deep. Loghain sighed and turned away, looking out the window. "You didn't always despise Cailan."

"No," she agreed. "I didn't. I didn't allow myself to look at him objectively, since he was my destined husband. I refused to acknowledge all the ways that it was bound to go wrong. I closed my eyes to his womanizing and his fecklessness and his self-absorption. I persuaded myself that they were irrelevant, since no matter who he slept with, I would always be Queen. But, as you see, Father, that's not exactly how it played out. I should have learned my lesson when he and I were children. Whenever anyone dangled something new and shiny before him, he forgot all his old toys. And so it was with our marriage."

"I know," Loghain said wearily, "that it became a state marriage. But Cailan did feel something for you."

"Not much, and not for long," Anora said, the words opening old wounds. "He was perfectly willing to get rid of me in order to be an Emperor. He had to know that I would have to be killed, and that you would have to be killed. How do you think I feel, realizing that the last time he was in Denerim, he was already planning my disposal? He didn't care. But Fergus Cousland climbed the Chantry to save me, and carried me out in his arms. Can you actually picture Cailan doing anything of the sort? Successfully?"

"I take it, then, that you've reconciled yourself to being Teyrna of Highever."

"And Chancellor of the kingdom, if that offer still stands. Have you told Bronwyn?"

"She did not seem averse to the idea."

Loghain said nothing more about that. Who could foretell the future? He had made his share of predictions, and most had not played out as he had hoped. Anora should accept that they were all playthings of Fate. What if Cousland got Anora with child? She, too, when presented with something new and splendid, might set aside her former ambitions.

"Have you and Cousland settled it between you?"

"Not yet. Father, I've been widowed for less than two months! I've given considerable thought to the matter. By the statues of the kingdom, any child of a widowed queen born within a year of the king's death is deemed to be the King's. I suppose I could have tried that with some strapping servitor, but it would have blow up in my face like one of your dwarven lyrium bombs."

She paused at the shocked, revolted expression on her father's face. Did he still think of her as a child? Or did he imagine she would have seriously considered such a scheme? Such an ugly, stupid scheme?

More mildly, she said, "Fergus and I cannot marry until the beginning of Guardian at the earliest. But yes, we will speak, and speak plainly to one another on his return. Let us set the matter aside for now."

There was much else to consider. There was the matter of the raid on Gherlen's Halt. When the news had first come, there had been little Loghain could do about it. Now however, he had decided to strengthen the garrison. Haglin had arrived in good time, and his rescue of the garrison had thoroughly rehabilitated him in Loghain's eyes.

The Empress must know by now—or would soon know—that her schemes earlier in the month had failed. Loghain lived, and Bronwyn lived. Anora lived and was still Queen. The Landmeet had been savaged, but the attack had stiffened their resistance. The Chantry's Orlesian agents were locked away in Fort Drakon. No one would dare put forth a pro-Orlesian policy at the Landsmeet.

Winter was almost upon them. Historically, the Orlesians had never launched a winter offensive. They relied so much on their horses that snowy mountain passes were impenetrable. Furthermore, they would not risk their warships on the Waking Sea at this time of year. No doubt they would send more agents, but Ferelden was safe from a major assault for at least a few months.

Perhaps he should go out to the border. Not now: that was impossible. But as soon as he was married, or perhaps right after Satinalia. he should take a look at the fortifications himself. In the meantime, he would send out reinforcements, plenty of supplies to see the border forts through the winter, and some of Dworkin Glavonak's fierce new inventions. They should work as well against Orlesians as they did against the darkspawn.

Bronwyn wanted to talk to her brother about his evident attraction to Queen Anora. She had wanted to talk to him ever since her eyes were opened to it, but she was very uncomfortable with the subject.

Oriana had been killed in early Bloomingtide. Fergus had lost his son and heir, darling little Oren. Ordinarily a year would be considered the minimum period of mourning, but of course Fergus needed an heir, and as soon as possible.

And the King was not two months dead! Anora had every reason to be angry at her late husband, but few others knew that, and many would be shocked if she immediately took up with another man—even one who had rescued her in such a heroic and romantic way.

And while she rather liked Anora, Bronwyn was not sure she would be the kind of wife that Fergus needed: she certainly would be nothing like Oriana: sweet, refined, bringing him specially brewed herbal tea of an evening. Anora was an educated, intelligent, cultivated woman, yes: but she was also calculating, proud, and fiercely ambitious.

Of course, being Teyrna of Highever might satisfy some of that drive to power, but it would be power shared with Fergus, who would not leave it all to her, as Cailan had.

There was also the essential qualification. Could Anora give Fergus an heir? She had failed to produce a prince of Ferelden. While that might indeed be attributed to some lack of Cailan's, it was still something to raise concerns.

Last of all, and deeply, deeply troubling: did Anora feel anything for Fergus, or was she simply seizing on the future heir presumptive to the throne in a preemptive power grab? The thought of Fergus trapped in a loveless marriage was beyond painful.

On the ride from Vigil's Keep, she finally forced herself to speak. Behind them, Adam Hawke was in conversation with Nathaniel Howe about the harbor fees on Marcher imports. Bronwyn took a deep breath and said, with pitifully false ease, "So…you and Anora?"

He grinned at her, seeing through her in an instant.

"Could be. We'll have to see. It's early days yet. She's a splendid woman."

"I agree. As long as she makes you happy. It's just that…"

He raised his brows, "What?"

"She and Loghain are so close…so much in each other's counsels. Occasionally I wonder if there's room for anyone else."

"He seems to have made room for you. I think Anora can be similarly flexible…with the right encouragement."

"That sounds vaguely indecent."

He laughed. "I hope so!"

The dwarves had made an efficient camp on the shores of Lake Belennas. Tents were erected, latrines dug, and food prepared. Nonetheless, no one was particularly happy or comfortable. In Orzammar, there was no such thing as weather. Up on the surface, there seemed to be nothing else.

A sentry gave a shout.

"They're coming!"

"Not before time," growled the commanding officer. A motley group of Wardens came over the crest of the nearby hill, led by an elf and the woman who had once been the daughter of the King of Orzammar.

"You were supposed to be here on the twenty-third, Wardens!" Rodyk, Captain of the Legion of the Dead, gave the late arrivals a hard look, which melted into a gape of awe at the sight of what was towering over the dwarves, the elves, and even the humans.

Astrid smirked. "Sorry for the delay. We took a detour, and now we have a golem!"

Crystals glittering in the noonday sun, an army in itself, Shale lumbered forward, stopping only inches from the shocked and intimidated dwarves.

"Am I expected to take a bow?" Shale asked. "Make a speech? Yes, it does seem to expect something of the sort. At least it probably does not expect us to perform death-defying tricks, like the village idiots of Redcliffe."

"Yes, he does," Tara said airily. "Maybe not tricks, but definitely things of the death-defying persuasion. Everybody expects that of Wardens."

Thanks to my reviewers: Oleander's One, KnightOfHolyLight, Blinded in a bolthole, Phygmalion, Rake1810, JackOfBladesX, Chandagnac, Mike3207, Zute, Guest, EpitomyofShyness, Shakespira, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, Kira Kyuu, Jyggilag, Guest, BanGeekNinja, Rexiselic, Phalanx213, timunderwood9, kathik9, Jenna53, Have Socks. Will Travel, Josie Lange, Nemrut, almostinsane, darksky01, mille libri, Girl-chama, and Tsu Doh Nimh.

If I have not listed you by name, it is because ffdotnet's new system calls you "Guest" if you do not log in. I had a number of reviews labeled "Guest."

In reply to one of the Guest reviews: While Avernus does not fight using blood magic, he would certainly be considered a blood mage and a malificarum by the Chantry. All his research is based on blood, and the powers he grants each category of player with his new formula are all blood-based.

Hey, Leandra is only about 42 at this point, and is a beautiful woman with a terrific figure. So her hair is grey? So what? People often went grey earlier than they do today, since we now have effective hair dye.

The Architect might have established his laboratory in the Wending Wood mine by now, but has not built up his army of Awakened yet: I have decided that he did not dare do that until the Archdemon was gone. Nor has the Mother been turned. That will happen sometime in the next six months.