Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 84: Crowning Glory
The day of the coronation dawned cold but clear. Very cold, in fact. Frost glittered on windows and icicles dripped from the roofs. The streets were slippery until the sun began to turn the slick spots into dirty puddles. That did not prevent the new Arl of Denerim from making a hasty departure from Bryland House with his wife, sisters, servants, and other impedimenta.
He had talked the seneschal of the Denerim estate into making the desired changes and preparations days before. A certain native charm, plus the strong likelihood of his confirmation made the seneschal wary of opposing or offending him.
Thus the living quarters were nicely made up, and the door to the dungeons in the arl and arlessa's bedchamber was camouflaged with a bookcase and some draperies to keep out the cold drafts from below. Kane wondered a bit about his deceased cousins. A castle had to have dungeons to lock away offenders, but why would the arl and his son want easy access for themselves? Everything he heard about them suggested they were a pair of sick bastards. There were rumors that the arl's son was a pervert who went trolling in the Alienage for elf women, and had orgies—four or five to a bed—with the elves and his own male friends. Vaughan had been killed by the darkspawn down at Ostagar in the midst of just such an orgy, and it served him right.
The old man was no prize, either. Kane had caught the drift of some of the Council's talk, and it sounded as if Arl Urien was taking coin from the Orlesians. Coin was always a good thing, of course, but the old man was bound to be caught out eventually. He was lucky that the Orlesians got him first. Of course, that was very likely to keep him from talking. Orlesians could not be trusted to keep their end of a bargain, which was enough for Kane. Father had had plenty of stories about what the Orlesians had done to their family during the bad years.
Still, he was a bit worried. Those two high and mighty foreigners who had shown up at the Landsmeet were clearly threatening them. Kane might be new to the Landsmeet, but even he could tell that the promise to leave them alone if they swore homage to the Empress was horseshit. Once you gave the Orlesians something, they'd always want more. It was like their neighbors back at home who kept suing to change the boundary stones.
He really had to stop thinking of the freehold as home. This place was home now. He'd found a good tenant for the farm now, and would get a fifth of the profits, either in coin or in kind. It was a good farm—for those who liked farming—and the tenant should do well from the deal. His father-in-law had advised him not to sell the farm outright. Over time, a lease like that was worth far more than anything he'd get in a lump sum. Arl Bryland's advice was sound. The man had always done right by him.
All except for saddling him with Habren. She was sulking now, wrapped up in her fabulous furs, her nose red with cold. She'd wanted to sleep late and move in later in the day. Too bad. This was his house, and he was in charge. Besides, there wouldn't be time later in the day, with everything going on.
"Kane?" Faline asked timidly, avoiding Habren's hostile glare. "Kane, could we go to the coronation, too? Corbus and Lothar are going."
"Of course you're going," he said. "It's a big event, and you need to be seen. And I've got a surprise for you. Wait right here while I get Habren settled in her apartments, and then I'll show you and Mistress Manda and Kyriel your new rooms." He waved at a footman. "Bring these ladies something warm to drink, quick smart!"
Escorting his bride to their quarters, he felt fierce pleasure in the possession of this place. A real palace, it was. He had found a room on the other side of the entry hall to use as an office. He needed a quiet place to meet with his officers and get his bearings. Urien had used his bedchamber and the sitting room that led into it as his own office; but Urien, of course, had been a widower for years. It looked like he had planned to stow Habren in an upstairs room and visit her when he was in the mood. Kane could not afford to have Habren tattling to her father right away, and so Habren and he would be together in those handsome apartments on the ground floor. Habren could take charge of them and fix them any way she liked. He would only be sleeping there.
Besides closing off the dungeons, he had made other changes. A new door gave passage between those rooms and the one adjoining. That had been Vaughan's room. Kane had decided to take it over, in order to have a place to retreat to when Habren had her courses or was in a snit. When she was breeding, too, which Maker grant was as soon as possible. Maybe having a bellyful would shut her up. There she was now, going yammer, yammer, yammer...
He'd let her start her primping for the coronation, while he went back to the girls. Imagine their faces when they saw the suite he'd arranged for them, and the new dresses he'd ordered for the coronation!
Anora also moved to new quarters that morning, too; though it was done far more quietly, with little noise and no drama. She had set things in motion the evening before, with a few words to the seneschal and the head housekeeper. the old rooms she occupied before her marriage were perfectly adequate: a sitting room, a bedroom, her maid's little room, and an attached bathing room. All had been scrubbed out and dusted. The dear old bed she ordered made up with some of the embroidered yellow silk bedding and hangings Anora had bought from an Antivan merchant last spring. She was also bringing her intricately inlaid writing desk, also imported from Antiva. The rooms would not look much like they had five years ago, once Anora was done with them.
Some things in the Queen's Apartments were Crown property and must remain there. Other things were Anora's own: her books, her jewelry, her clothes, the portrait of her mother. Those were going with her. And with them were special treasures and trifles—like Fergus' music box.
Rona, her maid, looked back at the grand rooms, now stripped of anything that said "Anora," and whimpered a little.
"Oh, Your Majesty! It's so sad."
"It's not. Don't talk so," Anora said calmly. "I am very happy at the result of the Landsmeet. I shall enjoy decorating my old rooms. They face northeast, and have a lovely view all the way to the sea. Come along now."
Bronwyn came by the Compound in the midmorning, but found no one stirring but the staff. Evidently everyone was still asleep, or hung over, or both.
"Shall I awaken them, Your Majesty dear?" asked Mistress Rannelly. She mouthed the words "Your Majesty" to herself again and again, bursting with pride.
"No! Maker, no," Bronwyn said, disappointed not to have a chance at a visit. "I'll see them later." Feeling wistful, she took a peek at her old room, and decided that if nothing went wrong in Ostagar, she would recall Alistair as soon as possible, and make certain that this nice room was his.
What was she going to do with Alistair? He was depending on her to let him remain a Warden. Before she started taking over his life, she must talk to him and find out what he'd really like to do. If he was determined to avoid the duties of a noble, she would have to find a way to appease the Landsmeet. She could, for example, give him a bannorn of the land around the old Warden outpost, which he could will to the Wardens. On the other hand...
On the other hand, he might have had time to think over his options. Teagan was right in one regard: if she could be Queen, Alistair could hold a title, too. If no one was badgering him and humiliating him, and telling him he was nothing and nobody, perhaps he would enjoy a place of his own where he could do as he liked. He would still be expected to serve as a Warden, as Bronwyn was, but surely Wardens were entitled to furloughs and respites, like other soldiers. She had no idea what they did elsewhere. It hardly mattered. They could do things as they liked in Fereldan. Perhaps a place of his own would give Alistair some pleasure, without burdening him with an undue amount of pressure. The important thing, she decided, was that it should be Alistair's choice. They should be getting another report from Ostagar today or tomorrow. If things were holding there, why not let him come north and introduce him properly?
"Ha! My Queen! It is so delightful to address you thus."
Bronwyn turned, smiling, to see Zevran's exuberant bow.
"I was wondering if I'd see anyone before the coronation," Bronwyn said. "I don't know what you heard about the Landsmeet session yesterday, but we had some fairly threatening visitors."
"Yes, the bad bad Duke and the most distinguished Knight-Divine. Not all that Divine, from what I can gather."
"Unfortunately, they weren't the only arrivals. We have reason to believe that some of their ship's complement slipped away before they could be interned. Perhaps it would be best to keep our eyes open today during the procession."
"My eyes are at your service, and are always open."
The Writ of Succession was a very splendid document, once the clerks got through with it. It was inscribed in black and red ink, and illuminated with gold and silver. The seneschal read it out in a stentorian voice, slowly enough that everyone could catch the provisions. Bronwyn and Loghain signed it, and it was witnessed by all the high nobles of the kingdom, and then sealed with the royal seal. Anora currently had possession of the royal seal, and passed it on to her father, with a formal curtsey. The sealing wax was red, too, and had gold ribbons appending from it. There was quite a bit of cheering, and then everyone had to be herded outside for the procession to the Cathdral.
Though put together in haste, this was done with decent dispatch. Word had been circulated last night, and so the men-at-arms and servants had arranged the horses and carriages. Everyone moved out in due order and proper regard for precedence. Three companies of Maric's Shield marched with the procession, carefully interspersed with the nobles and their retinues. Zevran. along with some other sharp-eyed agents, watched for disturbances in the crowds lining the way and for marksmen in the upper windows. Bronwyn was glad of her sable cloak over the armor, for it was unpleasantly cold. For that matter, she liked Loghain's crimson-lined bearskin: it contrasted handsomely with the silverite of his armor.
The two Orlesians were put in a carriage with all outward forms of courtesy and kept under guard. If anyone was so stupid as to attack the procession, the guards had orders to kill the Orlesians on the spot. The Knight-Divine was indignant, and Duke Prosper suave and perfectly philosophical. They both quietly agreed that they were somewhat surprised to be alive today and afforded the chance to witness the events for themselves. It was preferable to the boredom of their comfortable prison. Indeed, Duke Prosper found his room rather primitive. The food, however, had been plain but decent: sent up from the feast. If that was the best Ferelden could offer, Prosper wondered a little at the Empress' focus on this poverty-stricken little realm. So far he had seen nothing desirable in it but a few fine women. Queen Anora was lovely and dignified: not incapable of moving in higher circles. It was a great pity that Queen Bronwyn had not been married to Imperial Prince Florestan, according to plan. She was still young enough to be trained and molded into something better. Instead, she was the prize of that cunning, brutal peasant. A great pity, indeed.
All the knights and gentlewomen and guildsfolk were packed into the back of the Cathedral. The nobles paraded in and took possession of the front: noblemen and noblewomen, their sisters and brothers and in-laws and children and upper servants. The foreign guests were given quite a clear view. Both were manifestly unimpressed with Denerim Cathedral. Then Anora and Fergus entered together and stood at either side of the platform, since they were the highest in rank after the King and Queen.
Bronwyn tried to win a smile from Loghain, but got nothing more than a grunt. If anything, he looked sterner and grimmer than ever. The dogs were not left behind, and were wagging their tails, entranced by the infinite variety of scents. Bronwyn was surprised they could smell anything over the reek of incense. It was rising in great white clouds from the priests' censers. The smell would cling to their furs more or less permanently. The choir was beginning the coronation chant.
"That's us," Loghain said, "Come on."
"Really, Loghain!" Bronwyn whispered, biting back a grin. "We're about to be crowned, not hanged!"
He only scowled at her, so she controlled her amusement, instead assuming a benign but dignified expression as she marched down the aisle with him, perfectly in step. At the steps of the chancel, the Grand Cleric lifted her hands and began the rite.
"My lords and ladies and honored guests, I here present unto you your undoubted King and Queen, Loghain and Bronwyn. All you who are come here this day, do you swear homage and service to them in the Maker's sight?"
"Aye!" was the reply, more fervent from some throats than others. Duke Prosper smiled, faintly amused, trying to get a better look at the nobles' faces, but he was awkwardly placed for that. He could see the Wardens better, and some of them did not swear homage, but as they were Dalish elves and dwarves—and Wardens, after all, that was understandable. There was a strikingly beautiful woman amongst them, who said something, but clearly not 'Aye.' Most beautiful and splendidly dressed... the wife of one of the Wardens, he assumed: dark-haired and a bit farouche in her manner. The woman looked his way, and Prosper gave her a slight bow.
Muirin then administered the Coronation Oath:
"Do you, Bronwyn Cousland, and do you Loghain Mac Tir, promise and swear to govern the people of Ferelden according to the laws and customs of the kingdom?"
"I do."
"I do."
"Will you to the utmost of your power uphold Law and Justice to be executed in all your judgments?"
"I will."
"I will."
"Will you hold in your heart the Sword of Mercy, which separates true kings from tyrants. in performing Justice in the kingdom?"
Bronwyn glanced at the Grand Cleric, remembering the riddle in the Gauntlet. It had clearly made an impression on the Grand Cleric. Loghain scowled, not recalling that from Maric or Cailan's coronations. What was she on about?
"I will."
"I will."
"Then as you have promised and sworn, so must you perform. May the Maker turn his gaze upon you and uphold this kingdom."
With a nod, she indicated that it was time to kneel. Kneeling in armor was no mean feat, and they had both practiced it, kneeling simultaneously on the left knee. Loghain chuckled silently as his joints creaked a bit.
Most of the Ferelden crown jewels had been lost in the Occupation. Maric had allowed a crown to be made, which he wore only rarely. Rowan, too, had a new consort's crown, but Loghain had seen her wear it only once. Cailan had had another, more gaudy crown made for himself for his coronation, and of course Anora had worn Rowan's crown.
Bronwyn, however, was not a Queen-Consort, but a Queen-Regnant. Very quietly, in the past month, a crown similar to Maric's had been fashioned for her, by the same discreet jeweler who had made her ruby headband. It was very simple: a plain band of gold that rose at six points to a dragonthorn leaf, a symbol of the resilience of Ferelden.
The matching crowns were presented to the Grand Cleric by Mothers Perpetua and Boann, and Bronwyn was crowned first, and then Loghain.
"Long life to the King and Queen!" shouted the herald.
"Long life to the King and Queen!" echoed the nobles, their spouses, their children, and their sister, cousins, and aunts, and everyone else in the Cathedral with the exceptions of the Orlesians, Lady Rosalyn, who feigned a cold, and Habren Bryland, who was distracted by Kane's perfect golden curls.
The crown was surprisingly heavy. Bronwyn had ordered Fionn to arrange her hair so the crown would sit securely on her head. Despite that, it tugged at stray hairs in a very uncomfortable way.
The new King and Queen took their thrones, and the Grand Cleric spoke:
"Hear now the words of the Prophet Andraste:
"Oh, my Maker, let me heed your words; for you said to me: You will be a shepherd to your people, and their captain. Give me wisdom and knowledge, that I may lead in your light. I will sing of your strength, in the morning I will sing of your love; for you are my fortress, O Maker, my refuge in times of trouble."
And the choir sang another hymn. It was very pretty, but Bronwyn could not quite make out the words amidst all the flowery ornamentation. Anyway, it was pretty. She glanced over at Loghain, who was massively unmoved by everything. Amber seemed inclined to scratch, but the the slightest motion of Loghain's hand froze her in her tracks. It was very interesting, seeing the nobles and gentry from this vantage. During her wedding, she had had only a glimpse of those attending. Now she could examine them at her leisure, while the choir warbled on and on.
The knights and their ladies were behind the nobles, and they looked quite amiable: quite happy to have Loghain and the Girl Warden on the throne. She knew some of Fergus' knights, of course, and remembered some others from Ostagar. There was Ser Elric Maraigne, one of Cailan's favorites. She had heard he was in Teagan's train now. He had been very devoted to the late king, and doubtless felt some satisfaction in serving his uncle.
How adorable Kane's sisters looked! She did not want to play favorites, but was forced to let her slight smile widen just a bit for them. They looked like a pair of Firstday lilies, clad in white and red. There were quite a few children here, the kingdom's future. She must make the effort to get to know them. Ah! There were Corbus and Lothar. She smiled at them as well.
There were her Wardens and her other friends, well-placed to the side of the western banns. No long faces, and quite a bit of curiosity. Bronwyn caught a number of eyes, and really was tempted to wink at Morrigan.
It was time for the Rite of Homage, and the nobles formed into a line by order of precedence.
Anora, as Queen Dowager, was first. She had a new gown for the occasion, one of rare changeable silk from the northern tropics, and it shone turquoise green in one light and pale purple in another. She wore pearls in her hair, and had done all she could to look as young, beautiful... and cheerful as possible. She had memorized the words of homage and could speak them without Sister Justine's soft prompting.
"I, Anora Mac Tir Theirin, Dowager Queen of Ferelden and Heiress of Gwaren, do become your liege woman of life, limb, and of earthly honor; and faith and truth will I bear unto you, to live and die against your enemies and the enemies of this kingdom. May the Maker witness."
She received the ritual kiss of peace on the cheek from both Bronwyn and her father, and Fergus was next.
"I, Fergus Cousland, Teyrn and Bann of Highever, do become your liege man..."
It seemed to take forever, and was by far the longest portion of the ceremony. There were over forty lords or ladies of the rank of bann or higher who needed to swear homage. Some of them were pleasanter than others. Some of them smelled better than others. Kane Kendalls was very fragrant indeed. Bronwyn did not dare glance over at Loghain. She kept the same expression of pleasant dignity on her face throughout, and her lips grew sore from kissing all the stubbly—or worse, bearded— cheeks. Fergus managed to keep his beard clean: why did Bann Frandarel use that horrible oil on his? Was he trying to poison them? Bann Adam, very considerately, had shaved this morning. The Queen's favor was his.
She could not imagine what Loghain thought of it. For men to greet each other with the kiss of peace was a custom that had gone out of common usage almost two centuries before. Now it was only used for the ceremony of royal homage and by some criminal guilds.
She would not laugh. She would not laugh. Thank the Maker, Bann Alfstanna was next; her cheek clean, smooth, and smelling faintly of apple blossoms.
Once homage was paid and the nobles were back in the places with their families, it was time for the Champion's Challenge. Like Maric and Cailan before him, Loghain stood, drew his sword, and issued it himself. Bronwyn had teased him about wanting to perform this part of the ceremony instead, but knew it would not be politic to press the matter. Besides, he looked very imposing, uttering the ancient defiance.
"If any person, of what degree soever, high or low, shall deny or gainsay us as to be the right sovereigns as King and Queen of Ferelden, then here stand I as Champion, being ready in person to combat with him; and in this quarrel will adventure my life against his, on what day soever he shall appoint."
Unsurprisingly, no one took up the challenge. They were all quiet as mice, in fact. Was Loghain smirking at the Orlesians? Bronwyn hoped not. It would be very inappropriate, though Loghain would say it was always perfectly appropriate to smirk at Orlesians, when not actually killing them.
Then the choir burst into song, and they all trotted back out of the Cathedral, to be acclaimed by the people of Denerim, which lasted some time. Loghain at length grew impatient, and they mounted their horses or climbed into their carriages or resigned themselves to a cold march, processing back to the Landsmeet Chamber. This time they went by way of the East Dock Bridge to the King's Way, and back to more work, work, work. Remembering those Orlesians currently running loose, she kept her smile in place, but her eyes wandered the crowd and the upper windows of the taller buildings, prepared for an attack. Anyone who was lying in wait on a roof would be half-frozen by now.
Nothing worse befell them than some bunches of holly and sweet pine tossed at their horses' feet; and some very silly professions of love directed at Bronwyn. Others in the crowd were waving rolled-up parchment at them. Petitions, probably. Bronwyn knew that the Landsmeet was far from over.
Getting through the crowd near the Palace complex was even worse that the crowd by the Cathedral. Loghain was glad when all the parading and gawking and foolish ceremony were done with. The Orlesians were escorted away and locked up again, which gave him considerable satisfaction.
There were some major announcements to get out of the way. Thefirst was the appointment of Dowager Queen Anora as Chancellor of the Realm. This raised a stir. It was an unconventional choice, and a number of people scrutinized Bronwyn narrowly, hoping to see signs of disaffection. But Bronwyn knew her part and herself said something in support of the appointment. She and Loghain were fighting a war. They would be away from Denerim a great deal of the time. They needed someone in the capital to keep the government running smoothly.
And they did have to discuss the Blight. Bronwyn gave a report about the Warden's activities.
"The darkspawn have been contained for the moment in the vicinity of Ostagar, with only minor exceptions. There have been fewer darkspawn seen in the area over the past few months, and Wardens have been patrolling all of Ferelden to find the stragglers. No darkspawn have been found east of the White River, and none have been seen in the Bannorn north of Lothering, with the exception of the renegade incursion in Amaranthine. Those darkspawn were hunted down and annihilated. I am awaiting reports from the Wardens sent on the western patrols. As the Wardens must recruit and train heavily, the King and I, with the agreement of the Council, have returned the fortress of Soldier's Peak to Warden control."
Naturally, people wanted to know where that was. When given the location—on the north coast between Highever and Amaranthine— interested faded. No one except for Nathaniel Howe and one of the new banns was being deprived of anything, so there was nothing for anyone else to complain of.
"So if it's all going so well," Bann Frandarel asked, "are you sure it's really a Blight? Maybe it's just a minor incursion."
Every man and woman who had fought at Ostagar turned and stared blackly at him.
"Really?" Loghain glared at him. "A 'minor incursion' that killed Cailan. Is that how you would describe it? Thousands of darkspawn don't look so minor when one is actually facing them. What do you say?" he asked, turning to Bronwyn.
"Bann Frandarel, it is unquestionably a Blight. I have seen the Archdemon myself when I was traveling in the Deep Roads. It flew over our heads, in fact. A high dragon, bigger than any other I have seen, and foul with Taint. The darkspawn were obeying its commands. No, I wish I could say otherwise, but it is definitely a Blight."
"But where is it now?" asked Bann Alfstanna, confused. "How can it move so quickly through tunnels, if it's so large? How could it fly over your head? Where was it that you saw it?"
The dwarves present chuckled among themselves at a surfacer's ignorance. Bronwyn gave her Wardens a look and then answered the bann's question.
"Until one has seen the Deep Roads with one's own eyes, it is impossible to imagine their scale. Imagine the Imperial Highway—superstructure and all—under the earth. Now imagine it twice and wide and three times as high, with walls magnificently carved. Imagine huge chambers and caverns leading off from it. Yes, there are tunnels there too, like forest paths. However, I saw the Archdemon in a place called the Dead Trenches, where there was not only a huge complex of high chambers, but a vast chasm plunging to unimaginable depths. The horde was marching there, while the Archdemon bellowed on high."
Impressed, the nobles considered this image. Then Teagan asked a sensible question.
"The Archdemon doesn't have to return to Ostagar to come to the surface, does it?"
"No," Bronwyn confirmed. "It could go anywhere, but there are only certain access points that would be convenient for it. Those are the places the Wardens have been scouting. Aside from Orzammar, which no Archdemon has ever successfully stormed, there are known access points in Amaranthine, in Gwaren, to the east of Lake Calenhad at the north and the south ends of the lake, at Ostagar, and near West Hill."
Bann Frandarel knew about the Deep Roads access at West Hill, of course. How could he not? His bannorn had been ravaged by the Occupation and the great, disastrous battle there. Everyone knew the story, but it had special meaning for him. The last thing he needed was the Archdemon popping up in his bannorn.
"So we need to be keeping special watch in those places ... is that it?"
"In some more than others," she agreed. "Since there are are so many caves and tunnels at Ostagar, creating easy egress for the Horde, we've kept a large garrison there, along with a unit of Grey Wardens. From Senior Warden Alistair's report, they've had great success in destroying the remaining darkspawn on the surface there, and they've also descended into the Deep Roads to engage them. We're working on charting where the most darkspawn are at the moment, but as I said earlier, we'll know more when the reports from the western patrols arrive."
Then Loghain took over, discussing how the levies would rotate, giving the soldiers regular furloughs. Some would be assigned to support the Warden patrols. Others would be sent north, to garrison duty there. He had a comprehensive defensive strategy he had been working on for years, and now he could make it a reality.
"You all heard that strutting Orlesian yesterday. The Orlesians are waiting for an opportunity to invade. We need to be ready come spring, which means improving our fortifications at the mountain passes and strengthening the Coastlands from the Waking Sea Bannorn to Denerim. I mention the Waking Sea Bannorn for obvious tactical reasons."
Bann Alfstanna straightened proudly, "Your Majesty, it's true. On a clear day, it's possible to see across the Waking Sea from the Virgin Rocks to the Planascene Islands near Kirkwall. No fleet could pass undetected. I can build and man a watchtower, and I shall have it done before the first of Drakonis!"
Loghain gave her a look of approval. "Well said. We will be talking to quite a few of you over the next few days. Ferelden will be ready for the Orlesians, if they dare to come. We'll meet again tomorrow afternoon. The Council," he added grimly, looking at the high nobles, "will meet at midmorning tomorrow."
It was already late, and already cold, and there was another feast awaiting them. They adjourned, and Bronwyn and Loghain marched out of the Chamber together, past the bowing nobles. They did not miss the worried faces.
Bronwyn got the note from the Grand Cleric, requesting a private audience. She smiled to herself. The poor woman was doing her best to delay the awful meeting with the Knight-Divine. Still, why not talk to her?
The Grand Cleric had not been hostile. In fact, she could have been a great deal more difficult and obstructionist had she wished to be. It was natural that she should be loyal to the Chantry and revere the Divine. It did not follow, however, that she wished Orlais to rule in Ferelden. The Chantry was not utterly a puppet of the Empress, or there would have been an Exalted March on Nevarra long ago.
The servants had moved Bronwyn's belongings to the Queen's Apartments during the Landsmeet session. Bronwyn explored them uncertainly. Some of the rooms were known to her, and some were not. This area was a labyrinth, with main corridors and back corridors. One such corridor led from her private sitting room to the Little Audience chamber. Another led to the Family Dining Parlor. She walked from room to room, here and there, moving things to make them more to her taste. Fionn was already in her new room nearby. There were two more rooms for maids or ladies-in-waiting. The bathing room was very nicely arranged, with a boiler something like the contraption at Bann Ceorlic's manor in Lothering. Bronwyn snorted at the sight. Had she known about this, she would have made herself queen earlier.
Bronwyn let Fionn unbuckle her armor, musing over the letter. The presence of the Knight-Divine suggested that the Chantry was looking for any excuse for an Exalted March. She needed to talk to the Grand Cleric in a calm, private, rational way, and find out exactly where she stood.
"Fionn, find one of the footmen and have them see if the Grand Cleric is still in the Landsmeet chamber. If she is, request her presence. I shall meet with her in the Queen's"—she broke off, remember that it was hers now —"in my private sitting room. And once she is here, I wish to be undisturbed."
It would take some time to find the Grand Cleric and then bring her back, so Bronwyn indulged briefly in the bath Fionn had drawn for her, and ordered tea and sandwiches. Maker knew she needed something after all that had gone on today. She smelled like dragonbone and horse sweat, not the most attractive odors individually, and fairly repugnant in combination. Then she threw on a plain green gown and let Fionn paint her freshly clean face and attempt to do something with her hair. The crown had played havoc with it.
"Will you be wearing the crown to the feast tonight, Your Majesty?"
"That's the plan. I shall have to be careful sipping my soup, lest it slip forward and fall into the bowl," Bronwyn shuddered and grinned at the same time, imagining the scene. It would certainly enliven the evening.
She looked much better by the time the Grand Cleric's arrival was announced, and not wanting to keep her waiting, sent Fionn to fetch her tea and went out herself to greet the older woman.
"You must be exhausted after the ceremony, Your Grace," Bronwyn said, somewhat concerned. "Please sit."
"Thank you, Your Majesty. I am rather... done in."
"I was about to have some tea. Do join me."
Muirin did not look well: face greyish, skin sagging, dark shadows beneath her eyes. The strain of the situation showed even in her posture.
"Please, Your Grace, tell me what troubles you?"
A faint, rueful laugh. "Your Majesty, that would take more time than you can spare before dinner. However, some specific issues do relate to you. You do understand, I hope, that the Knight-Divine is here, ready to find a pretext for an Exalted March?"
"I do. Just as Duke Prosper has all but declared war. There is little we can do to pacify the Empress, short of abdicating and abasing ourselves before her. However, I am hoping the Knight-Divine can be made to see reason. He is very exercised about poor Bethany Hawke, and yet there is indeed precedent for her status: a precedent that was accepted in the past. No one threatened us because Enchanter Wilhelm was allowed his freedom."
"That was then, and this is now. At the time of the accession of King Maric, the Chantry was very concerned that Ferelden was so antagonized by the actions of the Grand Cleric Bronach that they would break with the Chantry entirely. And frankly, Orlais was sick of war with Ferelden. We are facing a new generation. Furthermore, Wilhelm was a single case. Since the beginning of the Blight, the Knight-Divine might well see a pattern of defiance and heedless pandering to the mages."
Bronwyn bit back the reflexive defensiveness, and thought about it objectively. "All right, let's talk about the situation in the country and the numbers we're discussing. At the time of the Bloomingtide Battle there was a grand total of seven mages with the army. I will explain in greater detail later why that simply was not enough. I recruited thirty-three more mages for the army, and conscripted two at the Circle for the Wardens. Between those recruited for the army and the Dalish I now have five Warden mages, plus one auxiliary, for it is the tradition of the Wardens to accept help where it can be found. One of them is a Dalish elf. Jowan, a former Circle mage, I came across when he was defending a group of refugees from a darkspawn attack. One of my Circle mages recognized him and conscripted him on the spot—" she laughed at the memory "—telling him that if she had to be a Warden, he did too. I don't doubt, based on her story and on that of the late Wynne, that he had committed a serious crime at the Circle, but I strongly feel it is better for him to expiate his guilt by defending this country. Of the Circle mages who went to Orzammar, three became Wardens, and five have died in battle. Wynne was killed here in Denerim..."
Here she could not help but shoot a grave look at the Grand Cleric.
"...which leaves, as I reckon it, thirty-two mages either with the human forces in the army, or in the Wardens. I do not have exact figures of the numbers of the Dalish, so let us set them aside for the moment. So, that gives up thirty-two mages operating largely without Templar supervision. The number no doubt seems alarmingly large to you. To me it is frighteningly small."
Muirin looked at her, considering. "'Frighteningly' small?"
"Your Grace, we are not going to vanquish the Blight without the mages. It can't be done. I like to think of myself as a pretty impressive warrior, but I can't tell you the number of times that the mages have saved my life, or enabled me to kill an enemy. Without mages in the Wardens, I would be dead now. Anders saved my life and my face in the Dead Trenches."
"Tell me."
So Bronwyn told her the gruesome story of how she first met a Broodmother; how she had recklessly charged the monster, how she had imagined she might be able to communicate, how she had suffered for her overconfidence.
"My face was literally hanging off my skull, and I was blind. The creature's poison changed the very color of my eyes. My friends finished off the creature—with some effort—and Anders then worked wonders on me. Generally his healing does not leave noticeable scars, but you can see from this—" she leaned forward so that Muirin could get a better look at the long white scar "—how bad the original wound was. Blind as I was, I believed that I would have to order Alistair to take command, and leave me behind while he continued the mission—"
"Leave you alone?"
Bronwyn smiled ruefully at the Grand Cleric's horror. "Blind, I would have been useless, and there was no time to lose. We had to find a Paragon to break the deadlock in the dwarven Assembly. Anders talked us all into a few hours rest while his healing could work. I owe him my life. That is the most striking example of all he has done for us, but far from the only time he has saved my life. As for Tara, the other Circle mage, I will trust you with the information that she was another member of the party that found the Urn. Yes. She, too, a mage, was found worthy to stand before the Urn. And without her, Cullen would not have been the only one who perished in the battle against the false Andraste. We could not have killed the dragon without her. We simply could not have. Our weapons had next to no effect on the creature. I told you at the conclave of how we killed the beast. Without Tara, it would not have happened."
The tea came. Bronwyn smiled faintly, noticing that Fionn had been listening in slack-jawed awe to the story. Bronwyn poured for her guest, and urged her to take a sandwich or some of the cakes.
"It's a long time until dinner," she urged. "and I'm ravenous myself."
To her surprise, Muirin found she had an appetite, which had not been the case for several days. The tea, too, was very soothing. "You are loyal to your Wardens, Your Majesty."
"We're loyal to each other. Really, I genuinely have had no serious problems with the mages among us. I've heard some theories that what makes us Wardens makes it impossible for a mage to turn into an abomination, but I don't know if that's true or not. However, I want to get back to the need for mages. It's been a long time since mages were needed. Really, you have to go back over two hundred years, after the failures of the first Exalted Marches against the qunaris, to the time when the Divine Hortensia III unleashed the mages. They pushed the Qunaris off the continent with the exception of that one base they have left. And the last time before that, mages were used liberally in the Fourth Blight. Battlemagic saves lives. It's easy to forget it over the generations, but it genuinely makes all the difference, and I am convinced that it's what's going to make all the difference now."
Muirin sipped her tea, thinking it over. Now and then, various priests and Templars petitioned for the Rite of Tranquility to be used on all mages. Muirin had been in Val Royeaux the last time such a proposal was put forward. During the Occupation, Meghren had a mage close in his councils, and there was suspicion that that the mage had controlled him, or at least had enthralled him into his worst excesses. A number supported the idea of getting rid of the mages altogether. Revered Mother Polymnia, the Starkhaven priest who sponsored the petition, had argued for Tranquility's essential mercy.
"Your Perfection, I beseech you to imagine a world in which no Templar need slay a hapless mage. All alike, whether voluntarily rendered or capture apostate, would be dealt with the same gentle care. No longer would they be tormented by these unnatural powers or by demons of the Fade. Instead, those so afflicted can be released into society, unable to cause harm; the more skilled of them can be given useful employment. Grant all Templars the authority to use the Rite whenever they find a mage…"
Muirin had met Mother Polymnia, and believed her absolutely sincere in her conviction that hers was the humane and loving solution to the ages-old problem. Her opponents were not always so sincere. Some had rationally pointed out that giving Templars so much independent power might lead to corruption, and innocents being made Tranquil who were not actually mages. It was hard to prove such allegations, but there were rumored instances in which inconvenient heirs or heiresses had been just so disposed of. Others thought it not kind, but cruel to deprive mages, already deprived of freedom and family, of even the power to feel love or repentance.
There were others, of course, who did not want to dismantle the Circles, as they gave employment and promotion to a large force of Templars who otherwise would be living rough as they combed Thedas for apostates. There was corruption in Circles, too: opportunities to extort coin from the anxious families of mages; opportunities to skim coin from the importation of lyrium; even opportunities to smuggle lyrium themselves. There was also an outcry from prominent families of incarcerated mages, who were horrified and repulsed by the Rite.
The actual reason, however, that the Divine would not assent to mass Tranquility was a hard-headed, practical one. As a politically-savvy Orlesian priest had finally explained to Muirin, you never knew when you were going to need the mages. Both the Blights and the Qunari invasion were cited as examples. And then as Mother Nicollette pointed out, it would be absolute madness to in effect disarm themselves with the Tevinter Imperium still in existence. It was a bastion of magical power, which would no doubt be delighted at the opportunity of enslaving Thedas all over again.
"We have to leave a few of them alive and unimpaired to keep the training going, ma chére. The best of the best. That is the point of the Harrowing, n'est-ce pas? The skilled but less magically powerful can be made Tranquil and productive. The weak—or the troublemakers—fail their Harrowings. Yes, yes. The failed Harrowings are important as examples, you see… how did the poet put it? "Pour encourager les autres.'"
And so, in essence, Bronwyn was making the same argument that Mother Nicollette had, all those years ago. Mages were useful. Mages had pushed back dangerous enemies in the past, and that was exactly what Bronwyn wanted to do now. The precedents were good. It would give her something to work with, when she faced the Knight-Divine.
She was concerned, however, that Bronwyn had made so many good mage friends—like the passionately Libertarian Warden Anders— that she was unable to perceive the real danger magic posed. That point must be addressed.
"Your Majesty, Queen Anora mentioned a blood mage coven. What can you tell me about that? Do they still present a danger? How can the Chantry help you with that?"
Bronwyn had a refusal on the tip of her tongue, and then thought that if nothing else, the late Ser Friden ought to have his name cleared of the charge of desertion.
"It was a rather unpleasant adventure. I must ask you to keep this quiet, as it could start a panic, but even more importantly, it would prevent us from capturing more of the band. The mother of a Templar, Ser Friden, approached us. Her son had disappeared after telling her that he was on the trail of a band of blood mages. After waiting in vain to hear from him, she approached his officer with the information, but he dismissed her, and told her that Ser Friden had been noted down as a suspected deserter. It seemed a sad case to me, though to be honest I didn't know what we were really going to find at the time. Some of my mages insisted that the that this 'band of blood mages' must be harmless apostates, and begged me to be merciful."
She looked longingly at another sandwich. Cucumber. Lovely. The sooner she finished the story, the sooner she could gobble it up.
"However, we found the hideaway on the ground floor of the building to which Ser Friden's mother directed us, and very shortly it became apparent that these were very dangerous people. Leading down into the cellars we encountered a Tevinter blood mage—"
Muirin gasped in alarm, but Bronwyn gestured for her to wait. "—a Tevinter blood mage leading a unit of first-rate mercenaries: well-armed, well-fed, and well-equipped. That was only the beginning. There were at least a dozen mages with a force of three dozen mercenaries and some mabaris. They occupied a large, well-built underground complex that extended from a warehouse in the southwestern portion of South Docks all the way to the waterfront. There were fine living quarters, storerooms, treasure chambers, a drinking hall, a kitchen, a dining hall, a council chamber," she paused, "and a vile and shocking chapel in which the Tevinter were performing what one of my mages told me were Death Magic rituals. We found remains there of men tortured and flayed. Perhaps Ser Friden was among them, but nothing was identifiable. I do think it probable that he was killed by the Tevinters."
"Maker have mercy!"
"We had a very perilous fight from room to room and corridor to corridor. There Warden Jowan saved me—and others—from a blood mage attack. We managed to take one mercenary prisoner, and also a young Tevinter mage. We discovered that the Tevinters had been operating out of the complex for fifteen years."
"How could they not be noticed?"
"We found phylacteries there. Many phylacteries. We destroyed those of living people. Some of the local priests and Templars were bespelled to look the other way, we believe. Others were phylacteries of very prominent people. Anora mentioned Arl Howe for a reason. There were others. The Tevinters found it very diverting, tricking the savages. The mercenary is still in Fort Drakon and has yielded quite of bit of information. The Tevinter mage was questioned and then executed, as he was simply too dangerous to keep alive. He had quite a tale to tell: the Tevinters for years have lured newcomers of any race to the city to the site and then either killed them to enhance their magic—or shipped them off to Tevinter for sale. The head of this coven was in league with the Tevinter who worked with Rendon Howe to enslave the Highever Alienage. It was a very large operation. We have been reading their records and letters with great interest. They've made fortunes off the Fereldan slave trade, and the dislocation due to the Blight was a windfall for them. The Tevinters send a new ship every spring and every autumn. We found their ship in the harbor, and liberated the slaves on board. They were all so pitifully enthralled that they had no real memory of what had befallen them. We gave them coin, and referred the women and children among them to the Chantry for further assistance."
Muirin set down her teacup and rubbed her face, deeply distressed. "Under our noses! Fifteen years?"
"Fifteen years. The Tevinter was very smug about telling us how profitable the investment was. He even tried to bribe Loghain to let him go. He looked upon us as primitives… or as mere livestock. They have been collecting blood from all sorts of people in all sorts of ways, and I warned Anora about the laundry and her monthlies. The Tevinters paid servants to sell the soiled bandages to them. They may even have obtain some of the priests' blood in that way."
"I am overjoyed that such things are no longer an issue for me," Murin confessed with frank relief. "Did they… enthrall other important figures?"
"King Cailan's phylactery was incomplete. As was my father's."
"Blessed Andraste!"
Bronwyn took a moment to enjoy the cucumber sandwich, and let the Grand Cleric process the story. Of course it would be deeply alarming to her. It was still deeply alarming to Bronwyn. She poured Muirin another cup of tea.
"I was so naive when I first found myself in command of the Wardens. I thought the other nations would unite against the common threat. I thought people would understand the danger and put their selfish concerns aside. Not so. Not so at all. The Tevinters care only for the gold and power they can wring from us. The Orlesians have done nothing but take advantage of our situation and throw obstacles in our way. They are clearly intent on winning back their lost "province," whether by politics, or by default, when a ravaged, vacant territory to their east is left ripe for colonization. No other nation of Thedas has stepped forward to assist us. As I told the Landsmeet, everyone expects the real blow to be struck elsewhere. We have only our allies by treaty: mages, Dalish, and dwarves; and the Dalish and dwarves I only won by great effort. Technically, all the mages of Thedas should be marching to our aid, but alas, we only have thirty-odd Fereldan mages."
"Teyrn Loghain seems bent on have a mage in every company in the army."
"It would be tremendously useful at any time, simply for the value of their healing skills. When fighting the darkspawn, it's beyond price. You heard at the Landsmeet of the darkspawn incursion in Amaranthine, of course."
The Grand Cleric shuddered. "Led by a talking darkspawn."
"Led by a talking, thinking, immensely powerful darkspawn mage." She gave the appalled Muirin a nod to punctuate her words. "Darkspawn have tremendous magical power. I would estimate that one out of every dozen or so darkspawn we meet is a mage of some sort."
"Really?" Muirin's eyes widened, taking in the implications. "I had no idea. That is... shocking."
"Cullen, as you can imagine, was a tremendous help in dealing with such creatures. Without him, it's left to our mages to disable the magic users. The darkspawn use crude but powerful spells. How some come to have magic is a puzzle to me, since genlocks are clearly offspring of dwarven women, and dwarves have no connection with the Fade and no magic. Hurlocks are spawned from human women—"
"Oh, Bronwyn!" Murin cried in distress. "Those wretched, unhappy creatures! Do you truly think they no longer are aware of their plight?" She collected herself, and said, "I beg your pardon, Your Majesty..."
"Call me Bronwyn, while we're in private," Bronwyn waved that off. "It's hard to say, though at the very least, I believe they must have forgotten their prior existence. Certainly it is a great mercy to end those monstrous lives. One thing about them that puzzles me is that shrieks, or more properly sharlocks, which are the offspring of elves, do not have magic users among them. They do not even use weapons, relying on their fangs and claws and their powers of stealth. Curious. At any rate, what I am attempting to make clear, Your Grace, is that we are facing a vast and powerful enemy that wields a great deal of dangerous magic. Removing magic from the army is tantamount to disarming us. We cannot win without proper weapons."
"I was concerned that you did not understand the dangers of magic. Allowing mages such a great deal of freedom..." Muirin waved her hand. "I don't understand why you're doing this."
"Because I think it's time to offer the mages something for good behavior. Some sort of incentive. Now, they have nothing. When an apostate is caught, there is no reason for them not to fight to the death. No reason not to give way to the demons. Why not? If they surrender they are subject to summary execution. If they are young enough—say under twenty-five, they are subject to imprisonment for life at the best, or to being stripped of their humanity and turned into empty tools or playthings. Or they are still executed if they are unsatisfactory in some way. Now I do believe that the Circles are certainly vital institutions of training and discipline. My late friend Wynne believed that as well. I simply think that mages who prove themselves exemplary—like Bethany, like Wynne— should be rewarded sufficiently to make other mages wish to emulate them. We've doing the same things for ages, and nothing has changed. Maybe it's time to try something different."
"You are still deeply grieved at the fate of Senior Enchanter Wynne."
Bronwyn was not going to budge on this.
"I sent her to Denerim and failed to protect her. I will always feel partly to blame. Let us imagine, Your Grace, that one day, when Mother Boann was returning from some deed of charity, she was attacked by four heavily-armed thugs. They smashed her skull and killed her. They looted her body and stripped her naked. To hide their deed they burnt her like rubbish, and then pounded the remains to a smooth powder and used it to fertilize their gardens. How exactly would you feel about those men?"
"I do not deny that there was great wrong-doing there. Abuse of power, certainly, and perhaps a cynical choice of timing."
"Cynical, certainly," Bronwyn agreed. "We've now got quite a bit out of Mother Heloise. They knew all about Wynne. They wanted to dispose of her just before the attack, and leave no time to find another Healer. They intended the deaths of many others. My point is that the Templars had the right of summary execution. Wynne—who had not committed any violent acts— had no right of appeal to some Chantry official who could have investigated her claim to be under the command of the Grey Wardens."
Muirin thought this over. "The Templars would not appreciate any limitation of their powers."
"Maybe they don't have enough to do. How many Templars are in Ferelden, anyway?"
Murin hesitated, but decided this was not an unreasonable question. "At last count, five hundred twenty-eight."
"Maker! I realize that the Templars for some unknown reason feel that the Blight is none of their concern, but can you imagine how useful even a small force of Templars would be? If they could be got to concentrate on the darkspawn mages they would be formidable indeed!" Bronwyn sighed. "I really miss Cullen. He was a wonderful young man."
Muirin took a little spice cake, and ate it thoughtfully. Bronwyn was not so hopelessly hostile to the Chantry as she had feared. There were ways—honorable, helpful ways— to win her confidence and favor. There were contributions the Chantry could make to restore their prestige. The great obstacle was the Knight-Divine. What were his orders?
"If the Templars are to help in the struggle against the Blight, they must know where to go," she remarked. "Where is the Archdemon now?"
"Your Grace," said Bronwyn. "That is exactly what I am trying to find out." She glanced out of the darkening skies. "Look at the time! It is growing late. I am sorry to end our very interesting conversation, but I must prepare for tonight. You as well. It is too late and too cold for your to return to the Cathedral. Could I not have a servant show you to a room here for you to rest and refresh yourself in?"
"That would be very much appreciated, my dear Bronwyn." She rose carefully to her feet, still rather weary. "Perhaps we can speak again soon, after I have my interview with Ser Chrysagon."
"I believe we must," agreed Bronwyn rising herself. She was about to ring for Fionn when the Grand Cleric asked a final question. It had plagued her ever since the conclave.
"My dear Bronwyn, when you were in the Temple of Andraste, what did the shade of your father say to you?"
The memory, as always, was vivid. Bronwyn bit her lip, knocked off-balance by the direct question.
"I have never told anyone," she said. "I do not know whether what I saw was my father or some other Sending." She was seized with a painful longing to tell the story to this old friend of her mother—someone she had known since childhood. Simply talking about her father was a comfort. In fact, there was no one else she could tell.
"This must be under the seal of the confessional," she said.
The Grand Cleric was suddenly concerned, almost wishing she had not asked. "Of course. On my vows as a priest."
Bronwyn swallowed. "The being looked and sounded exactly like my father. He spoke... lovingly."
Muirin nodded, encouraging her to go on.
"But he also was concerned for me. He said, 'I must warn you, my child: you reach for an earthly crown, but the kingdom you must conquer is the kingdom within. That is the one realm that will be yours in eternity.'"
"Bronwyn!" cried the Grand Cleric. She reached for Bronwyn's hand and clutched it in her own aged one. "What have you done?"
"What was necessary," Bronwyn shot back. "The country needs Loghain as its King. It was the only way."
"No!" Muirin contradicted her fiercely. "It was the easy way! Oh, my dear..."
"What's done cannot be undone," Bronwyn told her. "And you must never divulge this."
"Nor shall I. But I shall pray for you."
Thanks to my reviewers: EmbertoInferno, reality deviant, KnightOfHolyLight, Herebedragons66, Nemrut, Gene Dark, Josie Lange, Trishata96, Verpine, Costin, Sizuka2, Teutonic Knight 92, darksky01, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, Mike3207, Kyren, Reyvatiel Songstress, MsBarrows, RajkeeshJ4, Oleander's One, Robbie the Phoenix, JackOfBladesX, Koden21, Phygmalion, Spoit0, Jenna53, Halm Vendrella, almostinsane, Silverscale, Kempe, Shakespira, Zute, AD Lewis, mille libri, Have Socks. Will Travel, ricca, Psyche Sinclair, and Tsu Doh Nimh.
In Voltaire's satire Candide, for failing to successfully engage the enemy, an admiral is executed "to encourage the others" (Fr. "pour encourager les autres"). Of course, this is ironic: the intention is actually to terrorize the man's peers.
In a conversation with Sebastian Vael in DA2, we learn there is indeed a Rite of Confession in the Chantry, and that brothers and sisters as well as priests are empowered to take confession. Nothing is said about Templars, so I presume they cannot.