Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 81: Opening Gambits
Adam Hawke returned to Denerim two days before his mother's wedding. In fact, on his way he came upon his brother at Vigil's Keep. A small party of Wardens had returned to pick up the puppies and report to Varel. Carver was there, and the two brothers had a pleasant reunion. Rather than spending the night at the Keep, Hawke decided to travel with Carver. Besides, their mother's wedding was almost upon them, and Adam had much to discuss with Fergus, with Nathaniel, and with his own family, too.
Carver now had his own mabari, a cute little fellow he had unaccountably named 'Magister.' Adam's own Hunter sniffed approvingly. There was another puppy of the same litter that had not imprinted yet. Still waiting for just the right person, it seemed.
Carver introduced him to his fellow Wardens: a nice looking woman named Maeve and a big and healthy red-haired boy named Quinn. They had been chosen, apparently, because they could ride horses and make better time than the others. They told an extraordinary story. They had confronted a talking darkspawn in a big mine in the Wending Wood, and Carver could hardly talk about anything else. The ride was enlivened by Carver's recounting of the adventure, complete with gestures and sound effects.
"And Bronwyn rode a dragon. Zoooom! She flew! It was the neatest thing ever! You know, since we don't have griffons anymore, maybe we should raise dragons. If darkspawn can train dragons, we can!"
Quinn liked the idea. "The Dragonriders of Thedas! I'm with you. Maybe there's room up at Soldier's Peak for them."
Adam shook his head. "Surely you've heard the rumors that crop up from time to time? The ones about the Grey Wardens worshiping demons in secret, depraved rites? If it got out that the Wardens were raising dragons, they'd have the rest of the world marching on them."
Maeve shot him a cool look. "Maybe so. Maybe if we had dragons, we wouldn't care. People are always finding something to criticize, even when the Wardens risk their lives every day for them. I suppose no good deed goes unpunished."
Adam changed the subject to their mother's wedding, and what Carver thought of Arl Bryland. The two of them rode a little ahead of the rest so they could talk privately.
"He's nice," Carver shrugged. "He thinks a lot of Bethany. It'll be strange to have a stepfather, but he a decent man, and it's not like I'll be living with him. He's got two little boys, and I think he feels he needs help with them. There's that daughter, too, but she's getting married the day before Mother, and if all goes well for her at the Landsmeet, she and that pretty-boy husband of hers will be moving to the Arl of Denerim's estate."
"I've missed a lot while I was in Amaranthine," Adam said, "I never met the older brother—what's his name—and before I knew it, there was a message that he was killed in a hunting accident and his younger brother was inheriting and marrying Lady Habren Bryland instead. Her head must be spinning with all the different betrothals."
"Mother thinks she really likes this one. His name's Kane. He's all right, I suppose, but nothing much other than being really, really handsome. Bethany and Charade aren't taken in by him, though. They make faces behind his back and pretend to swoon. Mother told them to stop it, since Habren going to be our 'sister.' Step-sister, I always make a point of saying. So I guess this Kane Kendalls will be our step-brother-in-law. Oh, and Charade's got a suitor."
"Really! Who?"
"Arl Wulffe's oldest son, Rothgar. He's all right. Charade likes him."
"Does Arl Wulffe know that Charade has no dowry? Or maybe he thinks Arl Bryland will cough up the coin."
"Don't know," Carver said cheerfully, pleased this once to be the younger brother and not the head of the family. "Maybe he thinks you will."
Adam blew out a breath. Maybe. A lot of things would be expected of him if he were confirmed as Bann of the City of Amaranthine. He certainly wasn't rich yet— or not as nobles usually understood it— but he had done well so far.
All it had really taken was determination and a strong sword arm. The smugglers had flourished because that bitch Esmerelle had tacitly supported them. She took a fifth of their profits, and even so they were still making far more than they could if they had been legitimate traders, paying the royal tariff and all the harbor fees. Esmerelle might have scarpered off to the Free Marches will her slaving and smuggling fortune, but Adam had found the smugglers' hideout and their treasure hoard. It had been quite a payday. It was almost a shame he had to put them out of business.
Some of it had to be turned over to the Arl, of course; but the Arl was not there to see the whole of it. Nathaniel Howe's fallen fortunes would be significantly mended by the thousand-odd sovereigns Adam had sent him, along with a load of loot and the smuggler's high-quality ship seized in their sea cave. Adam had skimmed discreetly, but skimmed he had, and he now possessed a nest egg of six hundred sovereigns, along with chests full of jewelry, fine weapons and armor, luxurious furs, rich fabrics, and silk carpets. Some of these things were on his pack horses, to be given to his family.
He felt not the least guilt about it, either. It was easy for those born noble to tut about greed and dishonesty, but they had never wondered where their family's next meal was coming from. Mother would have a fine wedding present from him, and Bethany and Charade would have all the pretty clothes and trinkets they wanted. Carver? Maybe something for his room at the Wardens' Compound— an Antivan carpet or a set of silver cups. Carver was a Warden now, and pretty much set for life; but Adam still wanted him to share in his own good fortune. And their new stepsister, Lady Habren, must be given a notable gift, to celebrate her marriage and commemorate the union of their families. The smugglers had found just the thing for her: a double-handled loving cup of silver and rose quartz, designed for two to drink from simultaneously. It was costly and fantastical to the point of vulgarity, but Adam had heard rumors of Lady Habren's temper, but perhaps a rich present would keep her sweet.
So Mother and the girls would not be coming to live with him in Amaranthine. Adam felt a bit sorry about that. The City Keep was large and fine, and Esmerelle had been forced to leave most of the furniture. His own bedchamber had a broad balcony draped with long, gauzy curtains. He could he could step out there and survey the whole city below him.
Better yet, he could walk right up to the roof, where there was a lovely little garden and pleasure ground, and from there look out over the deep blue of the Amaranthine Ocean, right where it blended into the silver of the Waking Sea. He could see Fair Isle and Brandel's Reach stretching out to the north, and on a clear day he could look east, and see Alamar. The air was fresh and clear up there, and at night the stars shone down like a great bowl of diamonds. If only Mother could see it!
Probably she and her Arl would be going to South Reach, of course. Maybe, after the Landsmeet, Bethany and Charade could come stay with him. Stay as long as they liked, for that matter. There was plenty of room, and he'd see they had a good time. Winter was coming, but Amaranthine was on the ocean, and the sea breezes so moderated the temperature that it never froze hard there.
First, of course, he had to get through the Landsmeet. Fergus would back him, and Nathaniel Howe was not in any position to oppose him. In fact, it seemed to Adam that he was getting on well with Howe, who was not at all a bad fellow. Now that Mother was marrying Bryland, he could reasonably expect support from that quarter. If Wulffe's son was interested in Charade, the canny old arl would have every reason to support Adam as well.
A teyrn and three arls, all of whom commanded the loyalty of many associated banns. Probably more than enough. Adam did not think that Teyrn Loghain was any great admirer of his—and there was no reason for him to be, since they scarcely knew each other. Bronwyn, however, had been a good friend to the Hawkes, and Bronwyn was now Teyrna of Gwaren.
The new Kendalls fellow might not even be voting until later on, but he was being sponsored by Bryland, and so it was unlikely he would oppose his father-in-law. The only wild card was the Arl of Redcliffe, and Adam could think of no reason at all why the arl of a distant southwestern realm would care about who ruled in Amaranthine.
As far as Adam could see, the only downside to being a bann of Ferelden is that everyone would be hounding him to marry. Adam had no objection to matrimony—in theory. His parents had been married and very happy. No one, however, was going to strong-arm him into taking on some chinless, inbred noble wallflower. There was nothing wrong with marrying to one's advantage, but when he did marry, he would uphold the family tradition, and please himself.
Not even the Wardens could believe how quickly they recovered from their injuries. Ordinarily, Anders would have given Aveline little chance of surviving her skull fracture and damaged spine. He certainly would never have expected her to walk and talk within three days. Holding her own in battle would take more time, but Anders and Niall agreed that Aveline was disciplined enough to make it, given proper care. For now, Bronwyn employed her for an hour or two a day as an administrative aide, which gave Aveline new insights into the workings—or not-workings—of the Grey Warden order.
Bronwyn's greatest worry was for Astrid and Tara and the party they had led. She considered sending a group of Wardens to West Hill, but Loghain proposed a simpler solution.
"Frandarel is here in town, and no doubt has a courier going back and forth to his estate. Have him take a letter."
So Bronwyn immediately composed a letter to her friends, asking for news, and telling them of finding the body of Griffith and another unidentified Warden in the cells of a darkspawn emissary in Amaranthine. She gave them some background on the Architect, with the consolation that there was no longer anything to fear from the creature.
"...Have this courier bring me a message from you as soon as possible. We can march immediately if you need our assistance..."
There were more letters to be written, as the days went by. Bronwyn wrote to her Grey Warden correspondents in Nevarra and Antiva to tell them that the Architect was dead. After further consideration, Bronwyn finally broke down and wrote to the First Warden. It was a frosty missive.
"The Architect is dead. This might be of some interest to you. I killed him in his hiding place in Amaranthine, which is an arling of Ferelden to the northeast. He had taken refuge in an abandoned mine, and was conducting experiments. His latest notion was to use a female Grey Warden for breeding. He had lately been using Grey Warden blood, originally donated by the Grey Warden Utha, to make darkspawn resistant to the call of the Old God, and thus able to speak and reason. We tracked down these "disciples" and slew them. Before his death, the Architect admitted that it was he who sought out the Old God Urthemiel and inadvertently Tainted it, thus beginning the Blight.
...it is unlikely this will ever cross your desk, as I understand you are completely controlled by your Orlesian handlers. That would certainly seem evident from the way you have consistently pandered to Orlais in your orders to me to desert Ferelden and leave it to the darkspawn. Perhaps it seems no great matter to you if a country you have never visited is destroyed, and no doubt it would give the Orlesians a great deal of spiteful satisfaction. How sweet it would be to them if a country that threw off their invasion were to fall to inhuman monsters, and how despicable the sort of minds that would find sweetness in something so vile.
That will not stand. I was told by Duncan that Grey Wardens fight the Blight wherever it may be found. It was found here, in Ferelden, and so my comrade Alistair and I saw no point in scampering away like cowards to an enemy nation that has ever worked both in open and in secret against us. Indeed, while we have fought the Blight, attempts have been made on our lives by Orlesian agents. While you may not care to hear it, the struggle against the darkspawn is actually going rather well. Furthermore, the dwarves, mages, and elves have honored their ancient treaties and are working with us to defeat the Blight.
Bronwyn Cousland MacTir
Acting Commander of the Grey in Ferelden.
Aveline raised her brows when she proofread the letter.
"That's strong language to use with the head of the order!"
"I meant it to be. It's true that he's unlikely to even see the letter. More likely it will be read and discarded by his Orlesian secretaries. Hector Pentaghast, the Warden-Commander of Nevarra, told me he is surrounded by them, and they act as gatekeepers for the information he is permitted to receive. The Antivan commander phrased it more gracefully, but it is clear that there is a great deal of dissatisfaction in the order with the conduct of the First Warden. Apparently, he is far more interested in the politics of the Anderfels than anything else. Another reason to take the supposed apolitical nature of the Wardens with more than a grain of salt."
The letter to the First Warden was enclosed with that to Hector Pentaghast. The packet was put in the diplomatic pouch for Cumberland, and put on a ship that was still braving the Waking Sea. In her letter to Pentaghast, Bronwyn had asked that he see that her letter to the First Warden was delivered. She had decided not to tell either of the men that the Archdemon apparently had withdrawn the horde from Ostagar. The Archdemon was very likely playing with them, and could return when they least expected it. Worse, it might to decide to attack somewhere else: at the access point in West Hill, for all she knew.
Aveline had been one of those who had placed some hope in the Architect's good faith, so Bronwyn made a point of having the red-haired Warden read the creature's notebooks. Bronwyn admitted that the schemes and plans might well have been made in good faith. The Architect had not been a being of pure evil. It had felt concern for the condition of his fellow darkspawn, and had wished to give them a better existence. It had not wished to slaughter the other races, but to find a way to live with them. However, its ideas still seemed hopelessly impractical to Bronwyn; impossible to put into action and with no guarantee of success. There was still the insuperable problem of attempting to be ally with the darkspawn while already being the allies of the dwarves.
"Even if all our hopes had been achieved," Bronwyn said, "Even if the darkspawn could be made rational, there was no reason why they would not fight the dwarves to the death for the control of the Deep Roads. Indeed, where else was there for them to go? We can't expect them to have been more high-minded and pacific than humans! Look at the Tevinters, or the Orlesians and the Nevarrans, with their never-ending war. For that matter, look at what the Orlesians wanted to do to Ferelden! Besides, they would still be Tainted, and thus a threat to all life on Thedas. Now if the Architect had found a way to cure the Taint..."
Aveline grimaced at the reference to the Orlesians. Bronwyn did not know about her Orlesian heritage, and thus did not know that Aveline was herself the daughter of an expatriate chevalier. Benoit Du Lac had fled Orlais and made his home in Ferelden after losing his patron to assassination. He had dreamed his daughter would be a knight, and raised her on a diet of adventure and derring-do. Even her name was a tribute to that image of female heroism, Ser Aveline, the Knight of Orlais.
Poor father. He was dead, and she was not a knight yet, nor likely to become one. He had sold everything he had to purchase a commission for her in King Cailan's service, but in many ways, Ferelden was not so different from Orlais. Without a patron, there was only so far one could go. Aveline, despite good service and brilliant skills, seemed likely to spend her career as a junior officer, supporting noble numbskulls with her sword arm and her experience. Rather than accepting the advances of men who had hinted that they would use their influence on her behalf with the right incentive, Aveline had chosen love, and had married a Templar with no more money or influence than herself. And now Wesley, too, was gone.
Still, she was a Grey Warden, and that was an honorable distinction. There was no greater danger than the Blight, and no greater service than combating it. And Bronwyn was noble, but hardly a numbskull.
The other major order of business was to sit down with Danith, and hear her report about the expedition to Soldier's Peak. Danith brought Niall and Maeve with her. In fact, the meeting was delayed until Maeve's later arrival.
"Niall understands more of the magic, and Maeve understands Leliana when she speaks of 'decorating.'" Danith admitted, "I sometimes do not."
Plainly the expedition had gone well, though that had been pushed to the side in the alarm caused by the Architect. Now Soldier's Peak was once again on everyone's mind.
"The Drydens quickly set to work repairing some of the buildings in the courtyard. They seem comfortable and content," said Danith. "The head of their clan, Levi, will go to the nearby towns and villages for anything they need. The Wolfs, too, are glad to have a place to live. They chose some rooms in the lower wing of the castle and cleaned them. They cleaned ours, too. It is their intention to eventually live in outbuildings or in cottages nearby, but they felt there was much to be done in the castle, and that building or repairing anything else must wait until spring."
Bronwyn nodded. "Very sensible. That is exactly what I wished."
"They are strange folk, and keep to themselves, but they appeared to be diligent workers. It is they who began work cleaning the interior of the castle, as it is a filthy place."
Everyone laughed a little. "So true," Maeve sighed. "I could hardly stop sneezing at the dust!"
"The old mage did not like them coming into his tower, but Jowan and Niall were able to persuade him that it was necessary to maintain the place. He did not allow them to enter his private room, however, nor his workroom."
Niall snorted. "I think Avernus got up to some pretty gruesome things, though I couldn't prove it. It'll probably be up to Jowan to get the place in order, thought I did what I could to help while I was there. We'll need a glazier, and I talked to Leliana and Master Dryden about that. There's a window in the workroom that has to be fixed, and the sooner the better. At least Jowan's room is decent. The women scrubbed it out and made the bed with fresh linen and a clean mattress. Jowan brought some of his things from the Compound, so it wasn't at all bad by the time I left."
"He's living in the Tower, then?" Bronwyn asked. She was not sure she liked that.
Niall nodded. "Avernus says that the mages always lived in the tower. It was sort of a Grey Warden Circle. I told Jowan that it was important that he come to meals, and he said he would. We put a big table in the main hall downstairs. There's room for everybody. Lita Wolf needed all the space in the kitchen to cook, she said."
"We fixed it up really nice, Commander," said Maeve, her face bright with the memory. "We found all sorts of things around the castle. There was a big iron chandelier in an upstairs room and we hung that from the ceiling. We found some good chairs, too, and even some hangings that weren't too threadbare. I'm so glad the civilians are up there, too. There's a lot of work to be done, and it would have been too lonely for the four Wardens otherwise."
"I brought you this," Niall said, handing Bronwyn a very old document cylinder. "In it are the original grants made to the Grey Wardens by the local teyrns when Commander Asturian first set up shop. Avernus knew where they were, and threatened death if I lost them. They're in Arcanum, but Jowan and I did a translation. It's a nice piece of land. The map is original, too. The Grey Wardens were given that whole lip of land that swells north. The south border is just below the entrance to the tunnels. and then east to the Coast Road. West it goes...there. Still in the mountains. Avernus says it goes all the way to the Highever border. It's as big as a bannorn. The lands changed a bit over the centuries. Depending on the how you read the map, the Wardens might be able to claim that little village on the Coast: Breaker's Cove. Avernus insists that we can. Jowan said that they'd make a point of visiting and looking the place over when they could."
Bronwyn nodded, fingering the parchments very carefully. Of course the border between Highever and Amaranthine had gone back and forth over the ages. It was annoying that there were no copies in the Royal Archives. Perhaps they had been destroyed by King Arland. They would have to match this map with an official current one. there was plenty to work with here, nonetheless. She would fight to keep the village. That could be very useful.
Maeve had lists of what Leliana said would be needed to renovate the second floor. She was very much of the opinion that it would not be prohibitively expensive to enclose the space into six sizable bedchambers. The staircase would have to be moved, but as it was a rickety wooden affair, it needed rebuilding anyway.
She loved the chapel, but decided that its third floor location was impractical. Andraste had been moved downstairs to the far end of the east hall, just outside the library. Everyone could see her there. Levi's cousin had forged a pair of tall and lovely votive candlestands to be placed on either side of the statue. Leliana hoped Bronwyn would not mind, but Leliana had thought that the big, out-of the way, open space might be just the place for a council chamber. The room attached, where they had found the remains of Commander Sophia, Bronwyn might perhaps want for her own bedchamber. It was a very nice room, now that there were no demons in it. It would need a bed, of course. Perhaps Bronwyn could send her some specification for the kind of furniture that should be commissioned.
In fact, Bronwyn thought those changes all very sensible, and said so. She was not sure when she would ever be actually living at the Peak, but surely she would spend some time there eventually.
Her imagination balked at showing her a picture of her there with Loghain. She simply could not visualize Loghain visiting the Peak. His jaundiced view of the Wardens was such that she would have to push merely to get the land grant recognized. That he would voluntarily be a guest of the Wardens was difficult to believe. Of course, they would be busy. Noble couples were often separated by their duties.
Danith was saying, "Hakan and Soren have also been very industrious. They believe that it will be possible to use dwarven runic devices to create a bathing room in the lower wing that will have hot water."
Bronwyn perked up quite a bit at the news. Danith continued.
"They concur that work is required on the foundations on the north side of structure. They recommend that in the spring we hire dwarven masons. They say they are needed anyway, for the castle should have stone stairs and a new floor in the front halls. They will make drawings of what is needed, and list the materials. They say it will take some time."
No doubt it would. Bronwyn was glad that the project was already underway. Hmmm. What kind of bed would she like in her room at Soldier's Peak?
Danith had left her meeting rather pleased with Bronwyn, and went to a late breakfast in a good mood. She and the Warden-Commander had not clashed much recently. She was not so pleased when she discovered that Bronwyn had taken charge of something—or someone—that Danith thought should be the purview of elves. She might not have known about Bronwyn's arrangements for the child Amethyne so soon, had she not overheard Cathair and Zevran discussing the matter.
"She is sending the child to a shemlen to learn music?" Danith's displeasure vibrated throughout the Wardens' Hall.
Zevran attempted to soothe her. "The child loves the lessons, my halla. Bronwyn has been generous in paying for them. For that matter, Leliana was generous in taking the time to arrange it all. See the child for yourself, and you will see that she is happy."
Cathair, who had found his visits to the Alienage interesting, said, "Music is always an honorable craft, lethallan, and there are none remaining in the Denerim Alienage adept enough to teach it."
Danith scowled. She often amused herself making plans for Amethyne. It gave her great pleasure to look forward to taking her to Marethari, to the clan, showing her the wonders of the natural world, far from the stink and noise of cities. She wanted to teach the child to name the flowers; to name the stars. Amethyne was an orphan. To give her a new attachment to the Alienage was not something in Danith's scheme for her.
"I do not wish the child brought up to be a plaything of the shemlens."
Nuala was enjoying her porridge. The shemlen woman who managed the housekeeping was very pleasant and friendly, and seemed not to care whether a Warden was of the shemlen, durgen'len, or elvhen. It was very unusual. The lodgings here were clean, and the food wholesome. Danith had mentioned the pretty child, and Nuala sympathized. She had felt sorry for the children in the Gwaren Alienage herself.
"Danith, you said that the hahren of the Denerim Alienage was far wiser and more understanding of the Dalish than the woman in Gwaren. Steren and I would like to visit the Denerim Alienage to see how it is the same—and different—from the one we saw before. Let us go there today, and visit the child, and you can judge for yourself if she is being treated well, or not."
Zevran thought Nuala a very sensible young woman—and very attractive too. Of course, it was necessary to admire her from a respectful distance as she was very much spoken for.
"An excellent suggestion. Let us go this morning. I believe... yes... I am certain that today is not the day the child goes to her lesson, and thus she should be at home in the house of the hahren."
"It is a great misfortune for our cousins in the Alienages," said Steren, "that while they have hahrens, they have no Keepers. It seems... wrong."
"The priest-folk steal all those who could be Keepers away," Danith said bitterly. "Like Tara. They hate magic and those who have the power to use it. Jowan told me that the priests killed the old woman who was sent to care for the shemlen Queen. She was a healer and meant well, yet no one speaks of punishment for the murderers."
"The Templars wear helmets that conceal their entire head," Zevran pointed out. "No one can identify the killers, and the Chantry is not being forthcoming. Besides many in this city do not consider the killing of a mage to be murder."
"From what Adaia told us," Danith said tartly, "they do not consider the killing of an elf to be murder, either."
"Some do not. That is so," Zevran agreed. "And for that reason, prudence and preparation are vital when exploring the delights of this city. I myself shall be ready presently. Who wishes to go with me?"
All the elves did, and as soon as breakfast was over, their party set out. Danith was not so stubborn as to not to take Zevran's remarks about prudence to heart, so all the Wardens wore their griffon-embroidered tunics. Cathair, mindful of his host's slender means, took along a fruitcake, donated by the Wardens' kitchen, and a bottle of sweet wine.
Five armed elves attracted quite a bit of notice on the King's Way. The wealthy owners of the fine homes lining the wide street huffed and puffed and whispered amongst themselves. Their servants and guards were more forthright about 'uppity knife-ears.'
"Do you suppose, lethallin," Nuala inquired with feigned innocence, "that they are speaking of us?"
"Of course not," Steren assured her gallantly. "They would never speak so of Grey Wardens and allies against the Blight that threatens us all."
The guard at the Alienage gate eyed the bottle and parcel in Cathair's arms, licking his lips, apparently inclined to exact an entry toll. His fellow guard muttered, "Don't be stupid," and the gate was opened without further conversation.
Valendrian was welcoming as always, and very appreciative of the gifts. They spent some time in pleasant talk, introducing Nuala and Steren.
Little Amethyne was brought forth and greeted Zevran and Cathair as old friends. It made Danith a bit wistful that the child hardly remembered her at all.
Amethyne, when asked, was charmed to tell them all about her music lessons. Mistress Zoe was wonderful, and said she was a very good singer; Mistress Zoe was teaching her to dance and to play on the mandore; Mistress Zoe was helping with her reading. Mistress Zoe had pretty things in her house: a carved screen and draperies of lavender gauze; cups of dark-blue glass; brightly colored rugs and hangings. She had a whole box of different kinds of flutes; and drums and lutes of all sorts. She had a chest full of clothes she wore to perform in. Amethyne had a green hair ribbon and green stockings she wore to her lessons, and she had a tambourine, and would they like to see it? Without waiting for a reply, the child rushed to her chest to retrieve it, and then danced about them, jangling out a stirring rhythm, twirling around the grownups with the grace of a falling leaf.
Too soon, Valendrian gently quieted her, and told her to put her tambourine away. Zevran, thinking about the gate guards, felt a little concern.
"She does not go alone to her lessons, surely."
Shianni, spoke up, full of hot indignation. "Of course not! I go with her every time, and I wait until it's time to take her home!"
Danith, very sensibly, said nothing to denigrate the child's pleasure in her lessons. Music was indeed an honorable craft. Perhaps, when Amethyne had learned all the shemlen had to teach, her curiosity might be roused by the chance to learn the music of her ancestors. The clan would be delighted by this talented little girl.
The wedding of Habren, daughter of Leonas Bryland, Arl of South Reach, and Kane Kendalls, heir-presumptive of the Arling of Denerim, was celebrated quietly, in the privacy of the family chapel at the townhouse of the bride's father. The wedding guest list was small and select: The bride, her father and brothers; the groom and his two young sisters; the father of the bride's betrothed and her sons, daughter, and niece. After that, the guest list became a little more political: the Brylands' near cousins, the Teyrn of Highever, and the Teyrna of Gwaren. Naturally, the Teyrn of Gwaren accompanied his young wife. Nor could the Teyrna of Gwaren's stepdaughter be forgotten, especially since she was Queen Dowager and current administrator of the realm.
A planning difficulty arose when Habren declared that she wanted no dogs at her wedding: no dogs at all. That was obviously a slap at little Killer and the dogs of the two Hawke lads, but Bryland was forced to point out that if she insisted on excluding them, she would offend both the Teyrn and Teyrna of Gwaren, and he could not permit that.
For most Fereldans, a bridal party of sixteen—or twenty-one, when one did indeed include the dogs— would not be considered a particularly small, private wedding, especially since the guests included some of the most powerful people in the kingdom. However, it was certainly not at all like Habren's first, disastrous wedding in Harvestmere. Bryland still wished he could erase that day from his daughter's memory. From his sons' and his own, for that matter.
The marriage ceremony was held in the late afternoon, followed by a sumptuous but private dinner. Bryland himself was exhausted by the end of it. Leandra had been an immeasurable help at pulling it all together, but Habren had resented every suggestion she made. Bryland had been forced to arbitrate their discussions. Leandra managed to keep her temper, under the worst sort of provocation. Bryland could only admire her for it, and swear to himself to make it up to her, once Habren had gone to her own household.
"She's so rude," Bethany whispered to Charade, angry for her mother's sake.
"I guess that's only natural," Charade answered, with dead-pan sarcasm, "when you're extra important."
"Mother told us to give her a chance, but she's had all the chances she's going to get from me. It's going to be horrible, living here for the next few days. I hate to leave Mother to deal with her, but I'm liking more and more Adam's suggestion to go stay with him for awhile."
"It's only five days until the Landsmeet," Charade pointed out. "I hope they vote about Denerim right away. The sooner they go away the better. I'm sick of that smarmy nancy-boy, too."
Carver overheard them, and snorted a laugh. He absolutely did not care what Habren thought of him. She had no sort of power over him whatsoever. She might make things unpleasant for Mother, and that was rotten, but Mother could have put off her marriage to the Arl until Lady Snot was out of the house. By now, he suspected Mother wished she had.
The gifts helped… a little. Habren could hardly be got to say a word of thanks to Ser Adam, handsome and pleasant as he was. For that matter, he was the only member of the Hawke family to wring a civil word from her at all. Habren really liked the loving cup he presented to her, especially since part of it was pink, her favorite color. Unfortunately, she added a remark about how much handsomer it would have been had it been of gold, rather than silver. Ser Adam's composure was unruffled; he had his mother's good manners. Habren liked Adam's present, really. In fact, she liked it so much that she ordered it placed on the table so she and Kane could use. It harmonized nicely with her pretty pink gown.
There was no dancing. There was some pleasant music played through dinner by a lutenist and flute-player. The meal was very fine, and the three courses sufficient entertainment in themselves. With such a small number of dinner guests, the cooks could be fanciful.
Too fanciful. In honor of the recent victory in the Wending Wood, Bryland had ordered the creation of some remarkable... objects. Were they cake? Were they even edible? They were pink and green, and very nice little statues of dragons they were: necks outstretched, wing spread as if to take flight.
Loghain stared at the offending dessert in front of him, wondering how the bloody hell he was supposed to eat it. Bite its head off first? That sounded fairly barbarous, even for him. Bronwyn rose to the occasion.
"How exquisite!" she gushed to Bryland. "Really, it's just too pretty to eat! Oh, almond paste? How clever. The wings are particularly fine. This may sound odd, but if they're almond paste they likely could last forever if one covered them with a varnish. Would you be offended if I preserved mine as a keepsake?"
"Not at all!" Bryland replied, pleased that she was pleased. "I'll have it sent on to you when its ready. Anyone else want to keep theirs?"
This offer caused some anguish in the hearts of the younger guests. All the children wanted to have little dragon models to play with, but they also wanted to eat as much marchpane as possible.
Seeing this, Bethany and Charade looked at each other, and then Charade whispered to Faline Kendalls, "Go ahead and eat yours. You can have mine and Bethany's later."
Carver was not so discreet. He said to Bryland, "Why don't you have mine treated as well, my lord?" He waggled his brows at Lothar. "It would be just the size to fight your toy soldiers!"
Adam agreed, "That's a fine idea. Let me contribute mine to the war effort, my lord."
Bryland was pleased with how kind and generous Leandra's family was. Kane Kendalls liked anyone who paid attention to his sisters. Habren, on the other hand, made a point of slicing through the neck of her own dragon. She then daintily stuck it with her little two-pronged silver fork and ate it, humming with satisfaction.
Fergus had been on the point of offering his own dragon to the children. Now that they each had one—and Bryland or Leandra should have anticipated that wish—he desisted. The dragon was actually quite tasty, and he reflected that the one on Habren's plate was the only kind of dragon she would ever slay.
What a tangle it all was. The more he saw of Kane Kendalls, the worse he felt about the man being given the Arling of Denerim. Kane and Habren ruling Denerim? How could that be a good thing? Kane would be an Arl because of who his great-great-grandfather was. And now, because so many other issues were interdependent, Fergus could not vote against him without offending Bryland. He would just have to hold his nose, vote for Kane, and hope for the best. His eyes met Anora's, and he knew without words that she felt exactly the same.
"My lord… my lady. Let me offer my congratulations."
Leonas and Leandra offered their own, answering bows. "Thank you," said Leandra, Arlessa of South Reach. "We are so happy, Bann Warran, that you could join us today."
Leonas added, "My daughter Habren you know, of course. This is her husband Kane Kendalls, the heir of Denerim. My boys Corbus and Lothar… and I don't know if you've met my stepdaughter Bethany or our niece Charade. And here are my stepsons: Ser Adam Hawke, and the Grey Warden Carver Hawke."
More bows and compliments.
It was quite the line of well-wishers. Leonas Bryland winked at his bride. She, poor woman, was trying hard to remember the name of each and every guest. She had actually been rather good at this sort of thing, back in her youth in Kirkwall, but this was her first real test in the political fields of Ferelden. Even Habren understood the importance of seeing and being seen—and being moderately pleasant— for the success of Kane's bid for the arling of Denerim.
Habren looked radiant—blissfully happy—uncommonly pretty. Dressed in a gorgeous rose-pink gown made for the occasion, she clung to the arm of her handsome young husband, gazing adoringly at him. People were inclined to be indulgent of the newlyweds. A number of women nodded, agreeing that Habren had just needed a husband, after all. And such a husband! Most, though not all, thought him the best-looking man in the room.
"The new arlessa's son are both very fine men," Bann Bonnam's younger sister said. "Particularly Ser Adam. Of course, I prefer dark hair to gold. And then there is Arl Nathaniel…"
"Eww," one of her friends expressed her disgust. "How can you find him attractive? That great beak of a nose! He's the son of the Wicked Arl, and probably just like him."
"Don't be stupid. The Couslands are getting on with him, and they certainly wouldn't if he were 'just like his father.' There's Teyrna Bronwyn talking to him right now. I think he's very striking in his own way, and so tall and well-formed. And he's certain to be confirmed in Amaranthine."
"Well," another young lady said, "if you want to talk about attractive, eligible men, there's Teyrn Fergus. Doesn't he have the nicest smile? So roguish."
"He's taken."
"No!"
"Of course he is. After what he did for the Queen?"
Though not on the scale of Habren's first wedding, Bryland's celebration of his own included every noble present in Denerim. To the feast, at least: he insisted on having the ceremony performed by the family priest in the family chapel. Truth be told, Bryland was still angry and suspicious of the Chantry. It was one thing to have faith in the Maker and his Prophet. It was quite another to kowtow to a lot of Orlesian rigmarole. And it would take a great deal to wipe away the impression made by Knight-Commander Tavish and his Templars, as they trampled wedding guests in their determination to put the Grand Cleric's safety first and foremost.
Hence the only priest present was their own Mother Carenagh, a white-haired, self-effacing old lady perfectly happy to sit with the lesser noblewomen and listen to them natter about grandchildren. It was well-known that there was a great deal of frustration and teeth-gnashing in Chantry circles about being excluded from such an important political event as the Arl of South Reach's wedding; Bryland simply did not care about it.
Leandra was more nervous about such defiance. It was all very well for Leonas to declare Bethany free of the Chantry supervision and for the Queen to second it. That the Chantry felt in the least bound by secular authority seemed to her more than doubtful. In the current atmosphere, perhaps they would not pursue the matter. Leandra was quite sure, however, that they had not forgotten about Bethany Hawke.
But no one was questioning Bethany's right to be here—at least openly. A few brows had been raised. A few women had blushed and looked confused. Bethany had not had to endure anything worse than that. Even a Chantry ally like Teagan Guerrin had been spoken kindly. He was a good man, Leandra understood, and while he might think that all mages belonged in a Circle under Templar supervision, he would not think it necessary to be rude to them if they were not.
Young Arlessa Kaitlyn needed his support, anyway. She was a sweet, shy girl, and obviously in awe of her husband. Perhaps it was the age difference. On the other hand, there was an even greater age difference between the Teyrn and Teyrna of Gwaren, and nobody had noticed Bronwyn being particularly timid in Loghain's presence. There she was, in her signature red, laughing. Well, people were different. There seemed to be real affection between the Arl and Arlessa of Redcliffe, but Leandra thought there was a certain lack of balance, since Teagan Guerrin had bestowed wealth and a great title on her, and she had brought nothing to the marriage but her youth, beauty, and gentle nature.
Then she rebuked herself. She had no claim to such a marriage as she had made today. Leonas was bestowing everything on her, and she had not even youth to give him. Of course, that they were not distant in age was also a good thing. It was easier to understand one another; easier to be friends. And what a good friend he was… how kind to her children.
She looked at her own family with a great deal of joy and satisfaction. Such a good-looking family, and rising every day in prospects. The boys were so handsome, though Carver would insist on wearing gloomy black. Adam was fine as a peacock in peacock blue. She had told the girls to keep back their beautiful new gowns for today, and they were wonderfully becoming. Adam had brought them all wonderful jewels, too; the amazing amethyst earrings she herself wore today were one of his wedding gifts to her. Bethany had a lovely sapphire necklace, and Charade one of yellow topazes that made her eyes snap.
Leonas had given her a opulent pearl necklace as well as her diamond wedding ring. Amazing jewels—the sort of jewels she would have had if she had married the Comte de Launcet, so many years ago. She was so glad she had not.
Things had been a bit touchy, a few days before the wedding. Habren had inherited most of her mother's jewels, which was only right and proper. However, the South Reach Circlet had been in the Bryland family for many generations, and was always worn by the Arlessa. Habren had fussed about it, until Leonas had promised Habren a tiara, since Habren thought the Circlet old-fashioned and 'tacky,' now that she could no longer have it.
Leandra was wearing the Circlet now: a delicate confection of gold wire, pearls and amethysts that resembled a wreath of violets. If she did not feel like a queen, it was because she felt like something even better: a woman honored by the love of a kind and generous man; a woman who now never need fear for the security of her children.
"Has the world turned upside down?" Teagan wondered to himself over breakfast.
"I beg your pardon, my lord?" Kaitlyn asked softly. "Is the porridge not to your liking? Do you have a headache?"
"No, no—I'm quite all right. Simply puzzled at all the changes since I was last in Denerim. I hardly know the place."
Kaitlyn thought Denerim the most wonderful place on earth, and the Redcliffe estate undoubtedly the loveliest house in it. She tried to say something cheerful.
"It was a nice party last night, wasn't it? I have never danced so much in my life! Everyone was so kind to me."
"Very nice," agreed Teagan, though with an edge that Kaitlyn took as a warning to say nothing more about it. Seeing her shrink away, Teagan was ashamed of himself.
"Where's Bevin? Still asleep? He certainly had a good time."
Kaitlyn bloomed anew. "Oh, yes! Arl Bryland's sons were such good company for him, and the darling little girls, too! I hope he can see more of them."
"I hope so, too."
He certainly did. It would entertain the lad. Teagan had learned that a bored Bevin was a diabolically mischievous Bevin. It would be unfortunate if political differences spoiled a chance at friendly companionship.
Who would have thought Bryland so anti-clerical? Teagan was deeply shocked that the wedding had not been held at the Cathedral, with the Grand Cleric officiating. In fact, the Grand Cleric had not even been invited. Granted, he had not been in Denerim for Lady Habren's ill-fated first wedding, and he had not heard enough to be somewhat understanding of Bryland's anger at Knight-Commander Tavish. It was clear that the Templar officer, in misjudged zeal, had not risen to the occasion, and had in fact made things worse. The attack had been a horrible experience for all concerned, and Teagan completely agreed that it was probably funded by someone high in Orlesian circles. And then there were those two priests, hirelings of the Orlesians, who had tried Maker-knows-what with the Queen...
That was no reason, however, to blame the Chantry. The priests should have been turned over to the Grand Cleric for punishment, especially since Her Grace had also suffered from their treachery. And Bryland's step-daughter was openly an apostate, and countenanced by all the nobles of Ferelden! The Queen's declaration of her freedom had no standing in canon law at all. Yes, the girl seemed sweet and pretty and good-natured, but laws were laws for a reason, and it was wrong to put a single individual above them, no matter how important her stepfather was. After all, wasn't that what had caused the disaster at Redcliffe? Isolde putting Connor above the Chantry's law?
But Bryland's marriage... Teagan did not know the lady. He did not know any of this Hawke family, and had never heard of them until he arrived in Denerim. The mother was from a noble Marcher family, they said, but had married a Fereldan commoner. Amell. Teagan had vaguely heard the name, but had no idea if the woman's claim was genuine or not. The elder son had been knighted by Cailan, and from the talk in Council, was being seriously considered for a bannorn. The younger was a Grey Warden, and Teagan suspected that was how they had got their foot in the door. The niece was being pursued by Rothgar Wulffe, who had danced with her a scandalous five times at the wedding feast last night. A very lively, spirited girl. And that left the daughter. The apostate. Both Wulffe boys had danced with her. Nathaniel Howe had danced with her. Twice. Had the world gone mad?
Worst of all, Teagan was chagrined to find so little debate going on as to who should next wear the crown of Calenhad. He had expected more tension in Denerim. He had expected anxiety in the Royal Council over the changes that must take place with a new, unknown monarch. He had readied his opening moves, only to find that the game was all but over. Those in the know—even those who merely claimed to know—seemed to believe that the succession was settled. Loghain Mac Tir and Bronwyn Cousland would be the next King and Queen of Ferelden. Leonas Bryland spoke of it with calm certainty. Teagan nearly fell out of his chair when he first heard the words.
Loghain Mac Tir! King Loghain! Teagan did not think of himself as one mired in tradition, but the whole concept of the son of a freeholder, not even a generation away from the farm himself—that such a man would sit on the throne of Ferelden…
Words failed him. Thought failed him. There was somehow a positively demonic alliance between the Couslands and MacTirs to seize control of the kingdom. Who could have foreseen it? Teagan certainly had not. The noblest of the nobles and the farmer? For that matter, Loghain had never even been a freeholder himself: his father had been dispossessed before his death. Eamon had had plenty to say about Loghain in private: about his mysterious, unsavory power over Maric; about his arrogance and presumption; about his origins, common as dirt.
Yes, Loghain had done a very great deal to aid King Maric in restoring the rightful line of Calenhad. For that, he certainly deserved rewards. Eamon had thought that a knighthood and a fine manor would have been sufficient for such a man. If Loghain had had the least shred of decency and modesty, he would have expected no more. Instead, he was raised to Teyrn of Gwaren, elevated above the heads of all but one of the ancient nobility, Ferelden's natural leaders. Eamon had waxed particularly wrathful that the man's daughter should be Queen of Ferelden. Teagan had not been quite able to echo him there. Anora had been brought up a nobleman's daughter, and her education and conduct had always been satisfactory in every way. Cailan had been fond of her, and personally—though Teagan did not brave his brother's anger by saying so—he preferred that Cailan marry a Fereldan girl he liked rather than some foreigner who would drag Ferelden into foreign disputes and foreign wars and foreign ways unacceptable to the majority of Fereldans. But it now seemed to him that Loghain was using his daughter's bereavement and her status as Queen Dowager to seize that to which he had no rightful claim.
And Bronwyn Cousland! What an artful schemer she had turned out to be! No wonder she was determined to suppress Alistair's claim. When they had spoken of the matter, Teagan had presumed that she wished to see her brother on the throne. While he thought her wrong, he could at least understand it. He had thought it was natural affection that was behind her dismissal of Alistair's rights. Not so. It was her own vaulting ambition: an ambition so fierce that she was ready to set aside her duties as a Grey Warden, set aside her own brother's superior claim, set aside the blood of Calenhad, and set aside her own decency, and marry Loghain Mac Tir, a man old enough to be her father!
And what did Fergus Cousland think of being put aside like this? What did he think of his sister's degrading marriage? Teagan had tried to draw him out a bit. Fergus seemed the same open-hearted man Teagan always had believed him to be, but either that was a pose, or the man truly had no pride at all. He must have been offered something to make it worth his while, but Teagan had not yet grasped what it was. Wulffe had mentioned that Fergus was Bronwyn's heir, but what difference did that make? Bronwyn was young and presumably fertile, and would no doubt produce a half-dozen scowling, black-haired little Mac Tirs, spreading that upstart blood throughout the noble houses of the kingdom!
Teagan could have kicked himself all the way back to Rainesfere. He should have gone to Ostagar and forced Alistair to attend the Landsmeet. Even if he could not win the crown, he should be given some sort of official recognition. Teagan had loved his brother, but now felt that Eamon had been disastrously and shamefully wrong in his treatment of King Maric's natural son. For that matter, Maric himself had been wrong. He had visited Redcliffe. He had seen the boy himself: seen his shabby clothes, seen his relegation to the stables. How could a man not value his own flesh and blood? If one was careless enough to beget bastards—and Teagan himself had always been very careful—one ought to provide for them decently.
It did not help that Alistair himself had written, assuring Teagan that he had not the least desire to be King. He did not want to attend the Landsmeet. He was happy as a Grey Warden: happier than he could make Teagan understand, because he felt that his life had meaning and purpose it might not otherwise have had. It hurt, because Teagan knew that Alistair's rejection of the Landmeet and the nobles in general had everything to do with the way that nobles had treated him. Alistair had seen their true face, and it had not been pretty.
But could he, in good conscience, swear fealty to Bronwyn and Loghain? That was a vexing question; a dire moral dilemma. He would have to seek counsel, and now that he was in Denerim, there was no better place to go than to the Grand Cleric. The Cathedral was only on the other side of the Market from the Redcliffe estate.
"My dear," he said to Kaitlyn, "I'm off to see the Grand Cleric. Then I'll be going to the Council meeting. Don't expect me at noon. There are some men I must meet."
"But you will be back before dinner?" Kaitlyn asked anxiously. "We are invited to dine with Lady Rosalyn and her sons."
"That's right: Ceorlic the Third is back from Markham to claim his father's bannorn. We'll probably talk about him in Council. I'm glad to have a chance to meet him after all these years. His brothers, too. Don't worry, I'll be back in plenty of time."
"Would it be all right," Kaitlyn asked timidly. "If I went... out? Out to the Market?"
"It's cold," Teagan said absently. "Of course you should go if you like. Have a good time. Buy something pretty. Take Musgrove and Pasco with you—and your maid. If you take Bevin..." he snorted "...Maybe Musgrove should keep him on a leash!"
He threw on a cloak and stalked across the Market, wanting to collect his thoughts. He glanced up and saw the new window in the tower chapel. Fergus Cousland had crashed through the old one when 'rescuing' the Queen. Teagan wished he had been there, so he could gauge the actual degree of danger in which she had been. The stories being told were absolutely absurd. He found it hard to believe that those two wicked fools would have been allowed to harm her. Bann Alfstanna's brother, for that matter, a Templar of good repute, had led the opposition to the plotters.
It was not surprising that the Grand Cleric Muirin agreed to see him at once.
"My lord... such a pleasure. You did not bring your bride with you today?"
Teagan almost blushed, somewhat taken aback. He should have... certainly... but his mind was in such a whirl...
"Perhaps tomorrow, Your Grace. I wished to speak privately, and to seek your advice on a matter that troubles me deeply."
"Then sit, my son, and tell me. I shall have some tea brought to us."
The story came out in a rush: not simply his current anxiety about the succession and the general state of the country, but twenty years of repressed worries and regrets. The story of Alistair and his wrongs loomed large in all of this.
Muirin knew perfectly well who Alistair was, of course. She had fought hard against Duncan to keep the poor boy. Alistair was not particularly devout, and certainly not a serious-minded lad. His inappropriate levity was clearly a defensive response. Still, his trainers felt he had genuine potential as a warrior, for he had picked up the skills of a Templar with remarkable ease. For him to devote his life to the service of the Chantry had seemed to Muirin a beautiful thing. It would have purged the dishonor of his birth and mitigated his father's sin. He would have had a knight's standing, and been respected and honored wherever he went. On the other hand, for an innocent, good-natured boy to be condemned to the brief, ferocious existence of a Grey Warden, fighting Tainted monsters in the bowels of the earth— that had seemed cruel and ugly to her. The Rite of Conscription, however, was absolute. Muirin had been saddened and somewhat bewildered at the boy's manifest joy in being carried off by Duncan. Where had the Chantry failed him?
With a sigh, she understood why being relegated to the Chantry to get him out of the way would have prejudiced him against it from the first. To be sought as someone of value, as Duncan had sought him, rather than be given away as something useless to be got rid of—as Arl Eamon had ... Well, of course Alistair would be flattered by that. And Duncan had always had a way about him... swaggering, mysterious—romantic, even. Alistair had immediately fallen prey to the man's charisma. The boy had longed above all for a father, and had at last found one.
Not that Muirin had not worried about Duncan's motives, in seeking control of the King's natural son. Duncan had come from Orlais, though he claimed Highever birth. Who knew what he had in mind for the boy? However necessary the Grey Wardens were, they were definitely a necessary evil, in Muirin's opinion. They had clearly done great harm to Bronwyn.
Furthermore, Eamon had felt it was extremely important that Alistair not marry and beget children who could challenge the legitimate royal line. Now, of course, that was a moot point; but at the time it had made sense. What an irony that all of Eamon's efforts had resulted in the direct line of Calenhad being cut off from the succession.
For that was Teagan's other trouble.
"I feel tricked, Your Grace," he said frankly. "I had no idea that Bronwyn Cousland was seeking the Crown for herself. She said nothing about it when she visited me some months ago. We discussed Alistair, and she gave her reasons why she thought he ought not to be considered. Most of them involved the lack of hard evidence supporting his claim. But if people only looked at him, they'd see the truth in his face! Then, too, she urged the lad's own disinclination. That, too, was Eamon's doing. He drummed into Alistair's head from the first that he must never seek the throne, or even put himself forward in any way."
"My lord," Muirin asked, "do you believe that Alistair is happy as a Grey Warden?"
"He says he is. Bronwyn says he is, and that he's doing well. I suppose if she becomes Queen, he'll eventually be made Warden-Commander. That's something."
"It is a very great thing. And he is a Grey Warden in the very time of Blight. Perhaps the Maker is His wisdom saw farther than all of us when he made his plans. Perhaps Alistair was needed as a Grey Warden just as much as he needed to be a Grey Warden. Can you answer me this: if you brought Alistair to Denerim, and forced him to seek the Crown, do you believe that there is any likelihood that he would gain it?"
"No. Things have gone too far. Bronwyn and Loghain have too much support. I'd have to prove them guilty of some great crime in order to undermine them. I can't understand it. Everyone seems to want Loghain to be King. Bronwyn at least has the royal blood of Calenhad, but... Loghain!"
"Remember, my lord, that Calenhad himself did not have royal blood until he was crowned. A Blight is the most terrifying of mortal dangers. At such a time it is natural that people look to a hero to save them. Whatever else you may think of Teyrn Loghain, a hero he certainly is."
"And Bronwyn. The Girl Warden. The Dragonslayer." Teagan shook his head and clasped his hands before him, not quite wringing them. "I don't gainsay that Bronwyn has done a great deal: raised armies, fought in the Deep Roads, even taken part in killing a dragon or two. That makes her a good diplomat and a mighty warrior. Will it make her a good Queen? And she's a Grey Warden herself! I am not afraid to speak my mind before the Landsmeet. I only wish I knew what my mind was!"
How could she comfort him? Bronwyn Cousland's ascension to the throne seemed inevitable to her, too. She had prayed about it, feeling that the young woman had made her share of mistakes. The marriage to Loghain, so obviously a political ploy, seemed one to Muirin; and one likely to cause Eleanor's daughter a great deal of heartache. The pursuit of the Crown was another. Her stubborn championing of the outcasts of the world, elves and mages alike, was evidence of a generous heart but not proof of sound judgement. However, Murin could not oppose her.
"Bronwyn Cousland," she said slowly, "is, I believe, smiled on by the Maker. Yes. I believe He regards her with favor. I cannot tell you why, for I have sworn certain oaths, but I have had seen proof that both the Maker and the Prophet have found her particularly acceptable to them. If they so regard her, then it is not for me to denounce her."
"I have heard rumors." Teagan stared at her, in suspense. "I heard rumors that she had somehow found the Urn of the Sacred Ashes. That the Queen was healed by them. Do you believe this to be true?"
"I have seen what I have seen. Personally, I wonder at Bronwyn seeking something so commonplace as an earthly crown, but perhaps she is the Queen that Ferelden needs now, in this crisis."
Bronwyn decided that today was the day to present the Warden's old claim to the Council. She had gone over it with Loghain, who did not like it, but understood. It was a good piece of land, though underpopulated these days. The only settlement was the village of Breaker's Cove, which Bronwyn insisted had always been part of the grant. Records indicated that the Wardens' lands had been made part of the Drake's Fall bannorn, which was currently vacant. Fergus had considered one of his men for it, but was unlikely to refuse his sister the old Warden lands. Ser Giles would simply receive a smaller bannorn. As he was a landless knight, and the grant would be a surprise to him, he was not likely to be put out.
Nathaniel Howe also assented, as the grant was actually Amaranthine territory. Bronwyn's Wardens deserved whatever they could wring from the Landsmeet, in his opinion. The horror of the Architect had not made a brief impression. Comprehending the creature's plans was a nightly burden in his dreams. Anything that could be done to stop the darkspawn must and should be done.
It was a tricky legal question, Teagan pointed out. While the old grants seemed genuine, the lands had been confiscated when the Wardens were exiled. The question was, did the King have the right to confiscate lands granted to the Wardens? Or did the Warden's right supersede the power of the Crown of Ferelden? If the latter, was that a precedent they wanted to set?
"I think," said Anora, "that rather than basing the claim on these documents, we should simply use them as a reference to determine the extent of the holdings. The Wardens are in the midst of a Blight and deserve some reward for their service and sacrifice. And since the bannorn of Drake's Fall has been vacant since the Orlesian occupation, there no one to be deprived. Why not simply make a new, royal grant of the same lands?"
Loghain was proud of Anora for so neatly disposing of the matter. He added an addendum of his own: that Fereldan Warden-Commanders must be Fereldan indeed. It would not do to put such a fortress in the hands of the kingdom's enemies.
Fergus grinned at his sister. "It looks like Soldier's Keep is yours. When do I get to see it?"
The last, frantic deals were made; the last promises, the last horse-trades. All that remained was to see if they would hold good.
The Sixth of Haring dawned at last. Snow fell on Denerim in great feathery flakes. In the Landsmeet Chamber, huge fires roared into life early in the day. The seneschal hoped that they would take some of the clammy chill from the air. If people were uncomfortable, they were more likely to quarrel.
He muttered to his assistant, "And from quarrelling it leads to fighting; and fighting leads to killing; and then Maker knows what at the end of it. On the other hand, if we keep them cozy and not too drunk...with luck, we'll have a repeat of the One-Day Landsmeet in Good King Darlan's time!"
Nobles and their families poured into the Landsmeet Chamber, eyeing each other warily, like dogs establishing precedence. For that matter, their dogs were much the same. Some nobles were confident, some were anxious, some were hopeful. All were dressed in their best: either their best doublets and gowns, or their best trappings of war. In the cold of winter, the nobility of Ferelden was a garden of garishly bright flowers, interspersed with gleaming metal.
Bronwyn and Loghain, both clad in armor, clanked into the Landsmeet, their faces stern and serene, but their minds whirling. They were not only ones prepared for battle. Bryland, too, wore his plate, and Howe and Wulffe their archers' leathers. Fergus Cousland wore his grandfather's elaborate silverite armor, the same armor his father Bryce had worn when he refused a kingdom. Teagan Guerrin was impressive in his new dragonbone mail. Kaitlyn drifted in at his side, her hand on his arm, looking about her in wonder, unaware of the admiration she excited in her ethereal blue gown and her silver-fox cloak.
The trumpets rang with the royal fanfare. Anora, dressed in magnificent but sober dark blue velvet embroidered in gold and pearls, appeared from the rear hall and made her way with great dignity to the throne.
The seneschal bawled out, "Your Graces! My lords, ladies and gentlemen! On this sixth day of Cassus, the thirtieth year of the Dragon Age, the three hundred and eighty-sixth from the founding of the kingdom, by command of Her Majesty, Queen Anora, I declare this Landsmeet in session!"
Thanks to my reviewers: sizuka2, Basani, Nightbrainzz, Chandagnac, Jyggilag, Mike3207, Sarah1281, sleepyowlet, darksky01, KnightOfHolyLight, Rexiselic, Psyche Sinclair, Doom-N-GloomGal, JackOfBladesX, Oleander's One, Adventfather, Notnahtanha, Robbie, the Phoenix, Costin, yamilian, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, glamasaurus, Jennaa53, Shakespira, EmbertoInferno, Zute, Phygmalion, Nemrut, Tsu doh Nimh, Have Socks. Will Travel, mille libri, anon, Khamael, and Heretherebedragons66.
The next chapter is absolutely the Landsmeet.
A mandore is a small, four-stringed lute; an ancestor of the mandolin, and also known as a mandora or a mandola (Loosely, there are variations in the instruments).
I decided that a Grand Cleric would genuinely think that being a Templar was a better thing for Alistair than being a Grey Warden.
Cassus is the formal Tevinter name for the month of Haring