Victory at Ostagar:
Chapter 85: Winter Dreams
Bronwyn could not leave the coronation feast as early as she would have liked. She had just been crowned Queen of Ferelden, and was expected to celebrate. Indeed, she needed to celebrate for two, since Loghain was at his sardonic worst. Nobody expected anything else of him, however. It was Bronwyn who had to attempt to be charming and gracious; who had to dance with the nobles and chat with the noblewomen. All things considered, she would rather round up her Wardens and go back to the Compound.
But her Wardens were apparently having a wonderful time: dancing, drinking, flirting, talking. The elves stuck together but were not entirely segregated, since most of the other Wardens were perfectly friendly with them. Maeve was trying to teach Cathair to dance, and Toliver had actually persuaded Danith to dance with him. There were a few guests who clutched their pearls and their purses as if expecting the elves to rob them at knife-point, but they were mostly older. Bronwyn made a point of staring hard at those who had a problem with her Wardens.
While her conversation with the Grand Cleric had been fruitful, she regretted her impulsive revelation. Now the Grand Cleric believed that Bronwyn had disobeyed a command straight from the Maker not to pursue the throne, but to take heed instead to her own spiritual welfare. Apparently, while Bronwyn was favored by the Maker, there was only so much favor she could count on, and she might have lost future protection by her rebelliousness. Personally, Bronwyn found it hard to believe that the Maker cared. Perhaps Andraste did—a little— but that too was doubtful. The Prophet had left her mark on the place where her Ashes were kept, but was that her living will, or simply a last footprint before she departed for the Maker's side? Bronwyn knew she was vain, but she was not so vain as to expect the Maker to step in and save so much as a cat from the darkspawn, much less Bronwyn herself.
The Grand Cleric also apparently believed that Bronwyn had been manipulated into a loveless political union. Bronwyn's personal feelings for Loghain were none of the Grand Cleric's business. Besides, half the time Bronwyn herself hardly knew what those feelings were. Loghain could be magnificent one moment and completely impossible the next.
There were Anders and Morrigan, in their finery, dancing the Nevarran. They certainly made a handsome couple. Quinn was hanging back shyly, his eyes huge at the splendor of the scene. Carver was dancing with his cousin Charade, and Niall was dancing with Aveline. She was as tall as he was, and pretended to dislike dancing, but was quite good at it, really. Aveline had surprised them all by wearing a gown to the Landsmeet feasts: a becoming gown of brown velvet and yellow brocade. The Compound's storeroom had been short of fine clothing for women, but Bronwyn had commissioned Rannelly to remedy that.
Where was Zevran? Not dancing. There he was, prowling the edges of the hall, a predatory smile on his lips, apparently unarmed but actually carrying at least a dozen weapons. He was taking threats to her safety seriously.
The dogs were happily socializing with one another. There was an occasional scrap over treats, but no one questioned Scout's authority. The mabari puppies were romping adorably, chasing after someone's lapdog.
Her crown was so heavy. No heavier than a helmet, of course, but it did not fit as well, and the weight was pressing into her temples. Taking it off would be considered a terrible omen, so that was out of the question.
She hoped that the Grand Cleric would speak with the Knight-Divine soon. They would then know whether he was a honorable man of the clergy, capable of understanding rational arguments; or if he was a well-briefed political operative with a set agenda. If the latter, then it would be wise to keep him here as long as possible, so that their enemies had less time to plan. Not that his absence would stop them. They would undoubtedly arrange two or three contingency plans. However, not even the Orlesian Empire had the resources to ready an army and a fleet for an invasion unless they were planning to launch it. For all the Empress knew, the Landsmeet was sending her their submission as of this moment. Besides, Orlais was already embroiled in a war with Nevarra. Could the Orlesians really handle a two-front war?
Could Ferelden? That hit closer to home. If the darkspawn and the Orlesians attacked simultaneously, it was doubtful that Ferelden could withstand them, unless Ferelden was very, very clever and very, very lucky.
"Your Majesty, may I have the honor?"
Nathaniel was before her, bowing. The minstrels were playing the introduction to a contredanse called Osen's Lament. Why not? Loghain was in deep conversation with Bann Frandarel, sketching out a map on the tablecloth with a knife and spilled wine. She smiled, gave Nathaniel her hand, and let him lead to the top of the set: twenty couples, men facing the women. The slow drumbeat signaled the dance proper, and they began.
Dancing brought a genuine smile to her lips: especially dancing with Nathaniel, who danced so well and whose height made him a far better partner for her than most. They came forward, right palms touching, and circled each other. Maintaining eye contact at this point was demanded by etiquette. At the next measure, they broke apart and ducked under the raised arms of the other couples, weaving in and out, the rest of the lines following.
The tune was old and melancholy, but very beautiful for all that. Bronwyn glimpsed Morrigan, further down the set, being taught the steps by Niall. Bronwyn wondered if she realized that the song was the plaint of Osen, grieving over the loss of his beloved Flemeth, as he waited on the shore for Bann Conobar's men, whom he knew were coming to kill him.
The line of dancers swayed with the drumbeat: their garments crimson and azure, viridian and gold; velvet and satin and the finest white linen. Bronwyn swayed with it, caught up in the delight of the moment, happy to be dancing and not planning to kill monsters or outwit foreigners. Bethany Hawke, lovely in velvet and pearls, was gazing at Nathaniel, her mild dark eyes slipping away from her own partner. The girl saw Bronwyn notice her, and she blushed and looked elsewhere. Bronwyn smiled archly. Nathaniel clearly had an admirer.
They made their twisting way back the top of the set, and circled each other once more. Nathaniel said, "You seem to dance none the worse for the weight of a crown, Your Majesty."
If he could be formal, so could she. "I'm glad you think so, Arl Nathaniel. It's actually quite the struggle to keep it on my head."
He granted her a wry laugh. "And after less than day! That hardly bodes well."
She laughed, too, and was about to answer him, when a blare of trumpets drowned her words.
The minstrels broke off their playing in a ragged discord. The dancers murmured and grumbled.
The seneschal bellowed, "My lords, ladies, and gentlemen! I have been advised that the temperature is dropping dangerously, and that the streets are icing over. For your safety, the King has ordered the suspension of festivities for the evening!"
A buzz of disappointment rose up, punctuated by some alarm. Families drew together, and there were calls for servants and cloaks.
Some of the servants had gone to Anora, who was directing them to spread out strips of carpeting on the palace steps going down to the inner courtyard. Bronwyn felt a moment's vexation that they had not come to her first. Of course Anora had been queen here for five years and knew all the procedures. And Bronwyn had been dancing.
Loghain had his hand out, a peremptory gesture for her to join him. Bronwyn gave Nathaniel a smile and a shrug.
"Duty calls, my lord."
"Always, it would seem," he agreed, rather grimly.
Bronwyn took her place beside Loghain, and the disgruntled guests bowed to them. Then they left the hall together, once again in perfect step.
"The party's over, Ketil!" shouted Idunn.
"Speak for yourself!" her fellow Warden shot back, moving among the emptying tables to finish off anything left in wine goblets or ale tankards. The dwarf stuffed some sugar cakes into his pockets, and snatched up a meaty muttonbone like a mace, gnawing at it between gulps of liquor.
The nobleman dancing with Aveline was not ready to go home either. "What a stormcrow our new King is! I thought marriage would have mellowed him!"
"It's just possible," Aveline suggested, "that the weather really has turned bad. It would be a shame if horses—and people— broke their legs on the ice."
"True, I suppose… but Loghain's a gloomy sort all the same. My thanks for your company, Lady Warden. A pleasure."
The parties of the Arls of South Reach and of Denerim collected by the doors. Adam and Carver, concerned for their family, joined them there.
Habren shrieked in horror at Kane's suggestion that they simply walk to the estate—which was practically next door. Carver and Adam caught each other's eye, knowing that they must not wince visibly. They were in complete agreement about their new stepsister, the Arlessa of Denerim.
"My shoes! My gown!" Habren shrilled. "You can walk if you like, but I simply can't! I can't!"
"The ladies aren't shod for this weather," Bryland remarked to his son-in-law, not unreasonably. "Loghain's right to send us home. I had a look outside. It's getting bad. The servants are having to help the older people down the steps."
"Don't worry, Mother," Adam soothed. "We'll get you into your carriage."
"If it's really bad," Kane said, thinking it over, "perhaps you and your party should spend the night with us. The King will expect us early tomorrow, anyway."
"That's kindly thought of, but I think we'll manage. Women like to sleep in their own beds. And I believe Bann Adam is riding back to Highever House with Teyrn Fergus."
Kane caught the brief looks of horror on the faces of Arlessa Leandra, her daughter, and her niece at the idea of spending a night under Habren's roof. The days before the move had been hard on them. Or rather, Habren had.
Really, he could hardly wait himself to sleep in his own bed, for that matter. The place was his…all his. And the girls would be safe up in their nice little nest.
"Come on, then. Jancey, hold tight to me…"
Tipsy and laughing, the Wardens held their own procession through the palace, on their way to the side door that led to the little courtyard facing the Wardens' Compound. Ketil was not the only one to gather up some treats "for later."
"Where's Carver?" asked Quinn, looking around.
"Helping his mother and sister," said Aveline. "He'll be along later."
The guard at the door wanted to talk to them, "One of the servants came looking for your earlier, Wardens, but there were orders not to let anyone but royal messengers into the Hall during the feast. I tried to back the girl up, but my officer wasn't having it. The girl said there was a Warden come from the west, and not in the best shape, either."
Anders blinked, trying to force back the fog of wine. "Well, then, I'd better have a look at…him? Her?"
"Dunno, Warden. The girl went back without saying much more. You might want a word with the Queen when you can. I warned old Gowan she wouldn't be best pleased, but he said the King's orders were the ones he's following."
Morrigan smirked, hoping she would see Bronwyn's face when she heard of this. If her friend imagined she was on some sort of equal footing with that masterful Loghain, she was manifestly mistaken. Morrigan had tried to warn her, but she had not listened.
The guard opened the door for them, and the bitter wind rushed down the corridor, blowing up under the skirts of those women who had worn them. Aveline sighed, accepting it as the price of vanity.
"Ooo!" Maeve squealed. "Bloody cold, that wind! Move it, Anders!"
A faint mist was drizzling down, half ice, half water, and it froze on contact with the cobblestones of the courtyard. Idunn, pushing impatiently past the rest, felt her legs shoot out from under her, and she was promptly sitting on the ice, her skirts over her head. Ketil bawled with laughter, pointing at her, Maeve, indignant on Idunn's behalf, shoved him, and he slid out as if on skates before sprawling face-down. The mutton-bone skittered away into the shadows, and Ketil wailed his bereavement.
More laughter. The Wardens tried to cling to the stone wall for balance, but that, too, was iced over. Aveline, not tipsy like the others, was making slow, dogged progress. quinn drew his boot knives, and dug them into the wall, one hand, and then the other.
"It's like climbing a mountain," he said cheerfully. "Only sideways."
The elves, more sure-footed, fared better. Danith moved gracefully into the lead, glad she had not worn foolish shemlen skirts. Zevran smirked as he caught up with her, shifting his balance from one soft boot to the other. It was actually rather diverting.
The door to the Compound opened, spilling light onto the courtyard. It shone like a mirror, the filth concealed by a layer of crystal.
"There you are, at last," cried Mistress Rannelly, popping out to scold them. "And not before time! Come along now, and no nonsense!"
Morrigan fumed, wishing she could shape-shift. She could, but it would force her to leave her splendid gown behind her. She must find some sort of way to enchant her new clothes in the same way as her battle robes. And the shutters to her room were probably fastened. It was the courtyard, or nothing.
Niall was faring better than some, digging the end of his staff into the ice and then sliding along. At least he did until he tried to help Idunn up, and they both went down. Ketil did not even try to get up, but scrambled along on his hands and knees, cursing.
The servants poured boiling water on the steps to the Compound and melted some of the ice. The Wardens were hauled up by eager hands from within.
"Such a night!" Rannelly fretted. "Go inside and get some hot cider in you. You, too, Warden Anders dear, and then we need you to look to poor Aeron. He's in a bad way, but I'm sure you can fix him up in a trice."
"I'll come, too," Niall promised, slipping on the threshold. "Here, Idunn. Did you bruise your knee?"
"It's nothing," that sturdy warrior insisted. "Where's the cider?"
Rannelly, concerned about Aeron, and feeling he would need some quiet, had put him to bed in one of the empty rooms in the Tower, rather than in the Junior Wardens' quarters. Anders and Niall hardly recognized him. Nor did Danith. As the Senior Warden by rank present, she felt she ought to find out what had brought him here and how he had been hurt.
She paused at the sight. His nose was black with frostbite, and he was bald, his scalp scarred pink and angry.
Anders did not say what he thought on seeing him. He had already slipped into his Healer's demeanor.
"Let's have a look at you. Not the weather I'd choose for trying to head-butt the walls of Denerim. Yes, I can save your nose. Let's have a look at your feet and fingers…"
Lights glowed blue from the mages' hands, and Aeron began to look at least a little more human.
"Your Majesty, Warden Anders says you need to come, and if you don't he'll come get you himself!" Fionn declared, scandalized and excited. "Warden Danith, too!"
Loghain glanced up under his eyebrows. "Did someone not make it back to the Wardens' lair in one piece?"
"No, Your Majesty, it's a Warden who came all the way from West Hill. He's had a fearsome time, and he's froze near to death!"
Bronwyn began pulling on her boots. "Who is it?"
"I don't know him, Your Majesty. The name's something like Ayron or Iron. Nobody I've met, but he's a Warden, sure enough."
"Aeron," Bronwyn said to Loghain. "He was in Astrid's unit."
Loghain turned to the maid. "Tell the footmen and stablemen to spread cinders on the path to the Wardens' Compound. We'll be going back and forth quite a bit, it seems. Carpet, wood chips… anything. Go now."
Fionn disappeared. Bronwyn looked at him, in the process of throwing on her plain green gown and her sable cloak. Loghain was reaching for a leather doublet.
"We?"
"Of course. I promise to put my hands over my ears if I think I might overhear any Warden secrets."
It was a nastily cold walk, though the cinders gave them purchase on the ice. The dogs cheerfully trotted along, charmed at the prospect of a walk. A detail of six guardsmen escorted them, clanking in front and in back, and then up into the Warden's Compound. For a moment, Bronwyn wished she still lived there. It smelled wonderful: all spiced cider and well-soaped woodwork. Danith met them at the door, gave Loghain a slight look askance, and then started talking. Up they circled; up the spiral staircase inside the tower. The guards were left to wait in the warm kitchen.
"He brought a letter from Tara," Danith told them. "He passed your courier to her on his way, but decided to let the man continue with your letter, with his message that they had met and exchanged words. By that time he was on foot. He was sent alone because they could buy but one horse, and he could ride well. Anders and Niall have been doing their best to heal his injuries."
The tower was quiet. Danith lowered her voice. "Anders grew impatient with all of us crowding around him, and ordered anyone who could be not be of use to go to bed."
Anders looked up as they entered, his face grim. Niall, washing his hands, turned , gave Bronwyn a hesitant smile, and then blushed and bowed at the sight of Loghain. Maeve, sitting on the other side of the bed with a bowl of broth in her hands, did not try to get up, but nodded with nervous respect. Loghain gestured, and the dogs found a corner and sat quietly. Amber whimpered in sympathy, sensing that the human in the bed was badly hurt.
Aeron's head and hands were swathed in bandages. The sharp scent of healing herbs lay on the air like a warm and heavy hand. The wounded Warden was propped up on pillows, and rolled his head to greet the new arrivals. He managed a weak smile.
"Commander… Teyrn Loghain. I'll try to lie at attention."
Anders scowled at them, clearly worried that they were going to make a childish scene because a wounded man did not know their current titles. Loghain rolled his eyes at the mage. Anders was not daunted.
"Frostbite, exhaustion, two neglected wounds, and some badly-healed burns. I wanted him to get some sleep, but he insisted that he needed to make his report to you."
Niall found a chair and set it beside the bed. He looked around for something for Loghain, who waved the mage's fussing aside, shaking his head.
"I'll stand back here out of the way." He leaned back against the wall and folded his arms, watching and listening.
Bronwyn sat, trying not to show how appalled she was by Aeron's appearance. She recalled a thick head of black hair, but in between the bandages she saw only pink skin. The blankets were rolled up to give access to his feet. His face, too, was scarred, and he seemed to have taken a bad wound across his chest and shoulder.
Bronwyn softened her voice to the appropriate tone for a sick room. "Aeron, I'm glad to see you alive and in such good hands. How are your companions? Are Tara and Astrid all right?"
His eyes glittered in the candlelight. Clearly, he wanted to unburden himself before he could settle down for the rest he desperately needed.
"Tara's fine, last I saw her. There's a letter for you on the chest over there. Sorry there's blood on it, but you should be able to read most of it. Astrid took a bad wound, but she was doing better the day I left. That was the twenty-fifth. Maybe she's able to fight again."
"What happened?" That did not sound good at all.
"I'd better tell you in order. Tara's got a lot of the story in the letter, and the places we saw darkspawn marked on the map. We came up alongside the Lake and met some darkspawn here and there. Nothing much on the surface. We joined up with the Legion at Lake Belannas. I was in Astrid's party, so we went below. A little south of the northern access point we had a nasty fight with a big force of darkspawn. We lost Liam there, and I got my head set ablaze." He snorted, a little bitterly. "'Friendly fire,' I guess you'd call it. Velanna's aim wasn't exactly perfect. Anyway it was bad, and we needed some rest afterward. We met up with Tara and her people at that little inn by the lake, and then they went down to the Deep Roads for their turn. They came across more darkspawn. All heading west, Tara said to say. Bad fight. Shook up some our people." He paused, chuckling.
"Oh! Forgot to tell you. We've got some golems now. Bloody useful in a scrap. One of them can talk. Found it south of Lake Calenhad. Goes by the name of Shale."
Bronwyn glanced at Anders, wondering if Aeron's mind was wandering. Anders shrugged.
Maeve gave Aeron another spoonful of broth, and the man went on, eager to have his say.
"So we made it to West Hill and they put us up in the old fortress. It's better than the Deep Roads, I can tell you! I was a bit out of it… still in a lot of pain, so I slept until Tara's people and the Legion arrived. I heard about that fight later… Anyway, the next morning, we found that Walther and Griffith had bailed on us. Gone."
"They deserted?" Bronwyn hissed. "Deserted?"
"I don't know what else to call it." Aeron glanced uneasily at Loghain. "Sigrun told me that those fights in the Deep Roads scared them shitless. Tara and Astrid said to keep it quiet…"
"I won't say a word," Loghain muttered, meanly pleased to know that even the mighty Grey Wardens sometimes had feet of clay.
"Astrid said that if they ran, they weren't fit to be Wardens anyway, and Brosca hoped they'd freeze. Tara felt bad, though. They were her own men, and they ran out on her like that. Bastards. We don't know where they went."
"We do," grunted Anders. "Griffith, anyway. He got as far as Amaranthine and was killed by the darkspawn."
"Walther, too, probably," Bronwyn considered, remembering the flayed, unidentifiable body on the Architect's rack, and the compassion she had wasted on it.
"Serves them right," Aeron snarled. "Bastards. Anyway, we put some feelers out in the Deep Roads around there. Astrid wanted to go east and look into some old thaigs she'd heard of. I wasn't fit to go—bloody lucky for me!—but Astrid took some Wardens and the Legion and was really chuffed at first to find a thaig untouched by the darkspawn… locked barrier door and all. Nobody had been there in ages. Except it wasn't quite empty. First they found some golems. Then they found out that some inventors were doing experiments back in the day, and they made a flesh golem out of casteless dwarves. It woke up and went crazy. Killed a bunch of the Legion and the scholar that Astrid was friends with. She killed the thing, but then the head came loose, ran around on these little legs, and jumped Astrid. And then…" he grimaced. "It bit her hand off."
"Maker!" The word burst, in unison, from every human in the room. Danith winced in sympathy.
"She survived, though," Bronwyn said anxiously.
Anders was making furious grimaces, as if it were his fault that he could not be in two places at once. Niall blew out a breath. Maeve dabbed up the broth that had spilled onto her lap. Loghain stood motionless, back in the shadows. The man seemed to have his wits about him, wounded and sick or not. It was still a lot to take in.
"Yeah," Aeron agreed. "She's a tough one. She's having the Legion smith forge her some things for her left hand… it was the left hand she lost. They can make her some weapons that she can strap on to the stump. Can make a sort of hand, too, for everyday. She's been out of it for the fighting or exploring, though, you can imagine. Tara wanted to send a letter and they didn't have any horses at the fort, believe it or not. Said the Bann took them with him to Denerim. Couldn't find any at the freeholds, either. Tara went all up and down the coast. Said she thought people were lying to her, hiding their stock. Maybe so. Saw some other things, too. And then we had a bad storm and couldn't go anywhere for days…"
His eyelids drooped briefly. "Had a chess tournament… nearly killed that bitch Velanna…" He roused himself. "Right. Then the weather broke and a farmer sold us a nag and I set off. Tara couldn't leave with Astrid in the shape she was, and anyway she says she can only ride if somebody's riding with her. Catriona and I were the only candidates, and I got the short straw. No use telling you about the road, except that I didn't run into any darkspawn. Thank the Maker. And I fucking killed the bandits that shot my horse. Tobe the chandler found me in the snow and let me ride in his wagon. He'll sit at the right hand of the Maker someday." His face went slack, and he swallowed. "That's all, I guess."
Anders said, "Maeve, spoon him up a bit more broth, and then I'll give him a sleeping potion. He's done enough talking for tonight." He whispered to Bronwyn, "When he's slept himself out, I think a dose of the improved Joining potion will be just the thing for him."
Bronwyn leaned over the wounded man, and put a gentle hand on his arm. "You've done brilliantly. Sleep now."
She took Tara's thick letter from the chest, gave a quick nod to her Wardens, and left the room with Loghain.
"I've got to read the letter now," she murmured to him, as they descended the stairs. "Maybe she needs help."
Loghain was fixed on the bits of useful intelligence he had gleaned from the rambling report. Most of all, he wanted to get his hands on the elf's map and focus on the places where darkspawn had been seen on the surface. A very good thought, that. Tara was a sensible little girl—just the sort of mage Ferelden needed. Golems? He remembered a golem from the Rebellion that belonged to the mage named Wilhelm. A very useful tool.
Rannelly brought them more candles, and they sat together at the long table in the Wardens' Hall. Bronwyn popped the seal and carefully opened the parchment. The dark-brown bloodstains had not soaked all the way through, fortunately. She pulled the map out and smoothed it carefully, laying it on the table. Loghain drew a candlestick closer and scowled over the markings. There were circles with numbers in them, carefully marked in red ink. There were annotations along the side of the parchment, giving more dates and details.
Bronwyn took up the letter. Most of it was legible.
Dear Bronwyn,
Is that too informal? I don't know how to write military-style.
Greetings, Commander:
Is that better? Anyway, we've made it to West Hill, and it's a complete dump. The seneschal didn't even want to let Astrid in, but she told him off. The housekeeper is nice, though.
I'm writing this for both Astrid and me. Astrid got hurt a few days ago, but she's doing better. She's determined to be back fighting the darkspawn. I wish I could do more for her. I hate being such a pathetic Healer. The next time I see Wynne, I going to beg for remedial lessons!
Bronwyn sighed. Of course Tara could not know that Wynne was dead... murdered by Templars.
You'll see from the map that we went due west when we left Ostagar. We trailed some darkspawn for quite a ways, and we found them where it's marked on the map. We turned north then, because we were worried about meeting the dwarves on time. As it was, we were a little late. Anyway, it worked out. Do you remember that golem control rod I bought at disgusting Sulcher Village? I found the golem! There's a lot to tell about that, but I'd rather tell you in person than put it in a letter. So anyway, I found the golem and it worked! Better yet, Shale isn't just a thing. It can think and fight on its own. It agrees that the darkspawn need to be killed, and so it said that it had nothing better to do than to come along with us. And it doesn't eat anything and never needs to sleep, so it's a terrific guard on watch at night! I think it likes Astrid better than me, because it's very snarky and calls me "the Cute Little Mage," but it always calls Astrid "the Warden."
Shale's made all the difference against the darkspawn…
"That's interesting," Bronwyn said to Loghain. "She says that the golem they found can think and act on its own and joined them voluntarily. I've never heard of such a thing. Incredibly useful, though."
She read on, through the awkward misunderstanding at Redcliffe; through the march upcountry. Tara was very precise about the darkspawn seen by both parties. Here and there were sentences that sounded more like Astrid, and which Bronwyn suspected were dictated by her. More details emerged about their battles, and Bronwyn pointed out the sites on the map. Loghain grew impatient with her, and asked that she read aloud. Liam's death, their difficulties with Velanna, their curiosity about the condition of the fortress were recounted. Tara told of the desertions and apologized for her shortcomings as a leader.
It never occurred to me that anyone would desert. They know they can't stop being Wardens just because it's hard and scary. We decided that our mission here was more important than chasing a pair of cowards, but I don't know if you'll agree. We don't know where they went, though Catriona thought they might go east, since the passes west are blocked. There's a fishing village not far from West Hill, but nobody admitted to seeing Walther or Griffith, and nobody said they'd hired a boat. In good weather, it's not hard to sail to Kirkwall, I'm told, but a lot of the boats are in dry dock for the winter.
Then came the horrific events at Amgarrak Thaig.
"They'd been lucky up to that point," Loghain commented, after hearing the full story. "And if the dwarves get a clean, uncontested thaig out it, they'll consider the losses justified. The golems, too, are quite the prize."
Bronwyn did not think it was lucky to lose three Wardens, but continued reading without bothering to argue with him.
Astrid is determined not to let the loss of a hand slow her down. While the smith forged her prosthetics, I took some parties out, partly to look for some horses, and partly just to scout. I went up and down the coast and I noticed quite a few Templars traveling on the Imperial Highway. That made me curious. When weather permits I'll do a little more looking into where they're going.
Astrid wants to explore the Amgarrak Road farther in each direction. She wants to know if it's possible to get to a thaig called Kal'Hirol to the east. It's probably under Amaranthine. It was very important to the smith caste. She also wants to know if it's possible to make it to Orzammar by the Deep Roads from here in West Hill. We thought we should let you know what we discovered so far. You may want us to join you in Denerim. Astrid thinks it would be great if we could get there—or as close as possible— by the Deep Roads, because then we wouldn't have to worry about the weather!
So that's what we've been up to. We're sad about Liam and about Astrid's hand, and mad about the desertions. We hope things have been going better for you. We heard that the Queen was cured, so that's all good.
The next few words were scratched out, but they appeared to say
"Well, take care of yourself,
Love,
Tara,"
Bronwyn grinned, imagining Astrid telling Tara that she could not close an official report with the word "Love." Underneath the scratching was
"Respectfully submitted this twenty-fifth of Umbralis.
Senior Warden Astrid Aeducan
Senior Mage Warden Tara Surana"
Loghain was still thinking over the possibility of traveling by way of the Deep Roads. He had done it himself years before. Would it be possible to enter them—perhaps at that mine, perhaps at Vigil's Keep, and find this Kal'Hirol? His imagination was fired by the idea of a secret way under the surface, safe from Orlesian spies, impervious to weather. If he could get troops and supplies all the way to Orzammar this winter, it was not at all far that to Gherlen's Halt. It might be a way to foil the potential invasion. How populated with darkspawn was this Amgarrak Road?
"You have a map of the Deep Roads, of course," he remarked to Bronwyn
"Several. You're referring to the Deep Roads under Ferelden, I daresay. It would be something if we could clear out the darkspawn from here to West Hill."
"Or farther."
"I think," Tara said, "that we've discovered the site of the Aeonar Prison. Right there up on that bluff."
They were south of West Hill, walking along the shores of the Bay of Dane. Rocky islets dotted the grey sea. Further northon the horizon, purple smudges hinted at the larger islands of the Waking Sea Bannorn. In sheltered places, the tidewater was frozen. They were not far north of where the Imperial Highway blended into the somewhat cruder Fereldan North Road. It was cold, but not as cold as the past few days, and Tara had wanted for some time to have another look at this place. Six Wardens could deal with anything aside from the cold. Astrid had taken the golems with her on her own mission in the Deep Roads, since Tara had hoped to be somewhat inconspicuous while she prowled this strip of coastline.
"Really?" Brosca asked. " The Aeonar Prison? What's that?"
Surprised at the blank faces, Tara realized that there was no reason for dwarves or Dalish to know anything about it. Catriona frowned, drawing out a thread of memory.
"It's a prison for mages, isn't it?"
"Clever girl," Tara praised her. "That's the story, anyway. It's what they threaten bad little mage boys and girls with, along with Tranquility and summary execution. I was expecting a tower, but maybe this makes more sense."
Gesturing at the crumbling, squat stone structure only visible from the shore, she told them what she knew.
"Back in the bad old days of the Tevinter Imperium, the Tevinters occupied what's now Ferelden, just like they occupied everywhere else. They had two sites dedicated to magical experimentation at the extreme ends of the Imperial Highway. The southern one was the fortress of Ostagar, which looks out over the Kocari Wilds. That was the farthest reach of the Imperium, and the fortress was there to hold back the southern barbarians. At the other end of the Imperial Highway, so the story went, was the Aeonar, though the exact location is supposedly a secret known only to a handful of Templars. Not long after the death of Andraste, some of her disciples stormed the Aeonar and slaughtered all the magisters there. According to legend, it was an eerily silent massacre, for the invaders burst in while all but one of the mages was in the Fade. The attack permanently damaged the Veil and left the place haunted, so eventually the Chantry decided to use it as a prison. They say they hold accused and maleficarum and apostates there, but it doesn't look all that big to me."
Brosca nodded, sizing up the remains of the little fortress. A pillar slanted over an entryway thick with sere and frozen weeds. To a casual observer, it looked like a ruin, but the road leading up to it seemed to be in good condition. Not far from it was a sturdy stone cottage and a good-sized stable and barn.
"It's set into a pretty big hill, so probably the prison bits are underground. Maybe it's a lot bigger than it looks from outside. Why a prison? I thought your Templars just killed mages they didn't like."
"So they do. But I think it wasn't always that way. From what I can gather, the Templars' powers and authority have grown over time. I don't know who they keep there now. The only person I've ever heard of who was sent there wasn't a mage at all."
They were still curious, and she wondered if Jowan would forgive her if she tattled, but then decided that Jowan could get stuffed. She was the one who had suffered the most from his crazy attempt at romance.
"Jowan—yes, our Jowan—and I were at the Circle together, and one day he takes me aside and tells me he's fallen madly in love. That wouldn't be so bad, but the girl he's fallen for is a Chantry initiate…"
Catriona gasped. The rest still looked blank. Irritated, Tara explained.
"That's like an apprentice priest. Her family gave her to the Chantry, and that meant that once she took her vows she could never marry or… do anything else like that...especially with a mage."
"No sex?" Brosca squawked. "That's… unhealthy!"
"It is unnatural and spiritually harmful to repress such urges," agreed Darach.
"That's what the Chantry says, though. No sex ever," Tara confirmed. "If Jowan had gone looking for the worst girl in all Thedas to fall in love with, he couldn't have done better. And then he introduced me to her, and it seemed that she felt the same about him, though I don't know if she was sincere, or if she was just looking for a man to rescue her from the Chantry. Anyhow, that's when Jowan got his brilliant idea about escaping the Circle. Lily told him that the Knight-Commander was planning to make him Tranquil. To this day, I don't know if that was true, or something Lily made up to give him a push."
Sigrun looked at her shrewdly. "He wanted you to help them bust out of there."
"What else?"
"This is really interesting and all," grumbled Jukka, "but it's Stone-sodding cold out here. Maybe the people in that house or hut or whatever—" he pointed at the stone cottage "—maybe they'll let us sit by the fire."
Tara grinned, hugging her cloak tighter. Going into that particular cottage was just what she wanted to do. If this place really was the Aeonar, than there would be lookouts and guards posted at the cottage.
"Sure. Come on. Anyway the long and short of it was that we didn't take enough time to plan well, because Jowan thought they were coming for him the next day. We got caught and only Jowan managed to get away. The Knight-Commander told Lily she was going to the Aeonar, and I got locked up in the dungeons. Why didn't they send me to the Aeonar?" She shuddered, and not only because of the wind. "But that's a story I prefer not to share. I wondered about Lily, though. I suppose they'd make her serve out her novitiate at the Aeonar, and make sure she couldn't get away. It's probably not a very nice place."
As they approached the cottage, Tara took a good look at the fort. It a appeared to be built into a good-sized hill that rose up in back of the building, and loomed over it. How had the Tevinters managed that? Magic? Or maybe that hill was a later addition, with the intent of camouflaging the structure. No one would notice anything about it from the Imperial Highway, other than the side road diverting toward the sea and the cottage. The locals had told her that the soil here was particularly rocky and unwelcoming, and that the water hereabouts were treacherous, and full of submerged rocks. Fishermen would not risk these waters, with so many safer and better places to ply their trade. Smugglers would find it too dangerous to be profitable. No wonder it was wild and desolate, with no neighbors in sight.
"A stable!" muttered Catriona. "We should see if they have any decent horses."
Tara smirked. "I expect they do. Really good horses. Great big war horses."
It took some loud knocking and tough talking even to be admitted to the cottage by the four tall men inside. They were dressed like simple countryfolk, but neither Tara nor even Catriona was fooled for a second. Simple countrymen did not carry themselves as these men did. There were no Templars insignias in sight, nor large pieces of plate armor, but there was a large shrine to Andraste, complete with candles.
"We're just Grey Wardens," Tara said, smiling innocently. "We're patrolling for darkspawn. Can we warm up at your fire?"
"Grey Wardens?" said the one who was obviously the leader, a strapping fellow with dark hair in a short military cut, his beard perfectly groomed. "We heard that the darkspawn were all in the south."
"Nothing to worry about," Tara said, not meeting the man's eye. "Just a routine patrol." It sounded like the biggest, fattest, lying cover-up in the world. Tara smiled to herself, hoping they never slept easy in their beds again.
"Got anything to drink?" Brosca asked, shamelessly out for what she could get.
"I'll make tea," offered a handsome young six-footer.
"Tea," Sigrun grumbled, rolling her eyes at Jukka.
"We noticed your stable," Tara remarked. "We're looking for horses."
"We have no horses for sale, Warden," the leader said, his face wooden.
"Really?" Tara pressed. "We'd pay top price. Three... even five sovereigns!"
Catriona whistled, as if impressed by Tara's munificence.
"Wow," said Sigrun, awed. "Five sovereigns! I bet poor farmers could live out here for a year on that."
"There's not much I wouldn't sell for five sovereigns," agreed Jukka. "Including me." He leered at Sigrun, who punched his arm.
"We need our horses for farming," the leader told her haughtily.
"What farming?" Catriona shot back. "I didn't see any fields around here."
"Don't lie to us," Tara growled. "You're bandits, aren't you?"
"Or Orlesian spies!" Catriona hissed.
"We're not spies!" protested the boy with the teakettle. "Or bandits either!"
"And don't even think," snarled Tara, seeing one of the men's hands moving toward his belt knife, "of pulling weapons on us. Either we'll kill you, or you'll kill us, and then our fellow Wardens, who know where we are today, will hunt you down and kill you anyway. Killing Grey Wardens during a Blight is just about the worst crime you can commit. And if you ran off, Bronwyn the Dragonslayer would find you, and then slaughter you and your families and burn your house down. It's a thing she does."
She actually considered killing them, swept by the surge of bitter anger that Templars always roused in her. They did not grasp, since she was wearing Spellweaver, that she was really a mage. The dwarves would not care, and Darach would probably rather kill them than not. Catriona would be scandalized, though, and Tara liked Catriona. If they gave her an excuse, though...
The leader glared at her. "We're not bandits."
"Or spies!" repeated the boy.
"Shut up, Desmond," the leader ground out.
"Shut up, Desmond," Sigrun chirped.
"We're just teasing you," Tara said genially. "We totally know you're Templars."
Four expressions of gormless shock on four handsome, square-jawed faces. Tara explained her reasoning.
"You're too well-groomed to be bandits, and Orlesian spies would be taunting us with silly accents."
"Not if they were really good spies," whispered Catriona.
Brosca snorted. "I don't think these guys are really good spies."
"Stop it!" shouted Desmond. "We're not spies at all!"
"Shut up, Desmond," Tara admonished him. "Where's the tea? You want to know how we know you're Templars? We know you're Templars because you're dicking us around when we've been out freezing our arses to protect you and the rest of the world from monsters. If you were really farmers you would have offered us something to eat, and invited us to come sit by the fire. You didn't. Ergo, Templars."
"Warden," the leader said to Catriona, "you should control your people."
The tension ratcheted up a notch.
"Excuse me?" Tara said, "You are presuming that because Catriona is human, she's in charge. Grey Wardens aren't bigoted, unlike nearly every other institution in Thedas. Actually, I am the Senior Warden here."
Five cups of tea were nervously poured and silently consumed.
Tara set down her cup—it actually was quite good tea, and warmed her up quite a bit.
"That old ruin..." she began, with false casualness. "Have you seen any activity there? It's just the sort of place that darkspawn love to hide out in."
The Templars practically seized up. The leader huffed, "We know that there are no darkspawn there, Warden."
"Really? Are you sure? It would be really bad for you if you were mistaken. We could check it out for you. No problem at all."
"That is unnecessary. We use it for storage, and we have never seen anything strange there."
"If you say so. Thanks for the tea, gentlemen."
Bracing themselves against the cold, the Wardens left the door wide open as they departed. A little way down the bluff, their muffled sniggers burst into outright laughter.
"Why are Templars always so handsome?" Brosca complained. "What a waste."
Perhaps a hand had been worth it, after all.
Astrid's spirits overflowed with grim jubilation. The mission was a blazing success. With Amgarrak as a base, she had led the Legion and the golems through minimal resistance to the prize of prizes: she had found Kal'Hirol.
It was a haunted place, but with the touch of living dwarves, the phantoms were already fading. Before they disappeared completely, Astrid's troops saw the last stand of the casteless here: deserted by the rest of the inhabitants; giving their lives so that the uncaring and ungrateful could escape to safety. They passed a pitiful ghost of a frightened child bidding farewell to her mother; they witnessed more ghosts forever girding themselves to endure hopeless battle. Above all, they met the shade of Dairon, the warrior who had rallied the casteless. In a vast hall, he gave a stirring speech to his unlikely soldiers; in a small alcove, he died, trampled by an ogre. A legion scout found a tablet there, hastily inscribed by Dairon, with the names of the casteless who took up arms to protect their fellow dwarves. Astrid promised them that she would do all in her power to see that the tablet was taken to Orzammar and delivered to the Shaperate. Such sacrifices should never be forgotten.
Blighted and foul as the ancient smith thaig was, much of its greatness remained. It had been magnificent, once, with its mighty halls, its vast trade quarter, its murals of polished stone. Myriad dusty corners were heaped with plunder; the wealth of the mines was fabulous. Among the rest of the booty, they were hauling out a tub of lyrium that would supply the Wardens for generations to come. That was the least Astrid could do for the order, which had given her a second chance at life and glory.
While the Legion, accompanied by Shale, spread out to map the thaig, and while Velanna and Ailill slept, Astrid led Falkor and Askil on the search for the lost treasury. When they reached the first of the huge, sealed stone vaults, Astrid lashed out with the sharp edge of the hook that was her new left hand, and cut through the lead seal with a stroke.
It was… intact. And richer than any dragon's hoard. Gems, armor, gold, works of exquisite artifice were exactly where the last lord of the thaig had left them. This was not going to the Wardens. It was the property of the dwarven people, and Astrid would administer it in such a way that it would give them a leader better than Bhelen. It was divided and sorted, and the best of it placed in a trunk that was loaded onto one of the golems. Falkor and Askil were given generous shares of their own. The entry to the treasury was then carefully concealed. On the return journey, they had hidden some of the treasures in a secret place Astrid had discovered in Amgarrak. Some lined her pockets, and would smooth her way.
Their return march was smooth and unopposed. If there were darkspawn, they were far away in twisting side tunnels. In due course, they reached the West Hill access point.
"We'll leave the wagon here, Warden?" asked Rodyk.
"Yes," Astrid said. "We'll want it for taking more supplies in to Amgarrak."
"That's right," snarked Shale, "you have the golems to fetch and carry for you now."
"Not you, my friend," Astrid laughed. "We must leave you free to squish the unwary!"
She had slipped into command of this unit of the Legion almost imperceptibly. Rodyk was an excellent officer, but seemed instinctively to defer to her. It would not be difficult to bring him into her circle of supporters. She thought about Amgarrak a little more.
"Soon we'll want to stock it with tame nugs and deepstalkers, but we'll need a garrison there permanently to look after the creatures. Let's see what we can scrounge from the Daces." She smiled to herself. "I found the controls to the hydroponics operation and switched them on. By the time we return, we should have harvestable lichen. By then, of course, we'll also want someone overseeing it."
"Good thinking, Warden!"
The cold above was a shock. The Legion, to a man, groaned aloud at the prospect of the march to the fortress. The golems—or at least Shale— were smugly indifferent to the temperature. Astrid paused to raise the dwarves' spirits.
"Legion! Stone knows how the cloudheads put up with this, but if they can do it, so can we! In a few days, with any luck, we'll be back down here again, and there will be proper dwarven food in plenty in Amgarrak Thaig. So suck it up, and let's go drink up the surfacers' ale!"
The cheering died down as they marched away. The snow had drifted in places, but West Hill rose up, guiding them. Astrid felt the thump of the shield on her back beat a going-home sort of rhythm. The smiths had done a brilliant job for her, both with her hook-like appendage, and in fashioning her shield in such a way that she could catch hold of it and fit her hooked forearm into the custom-designed grip. When she was fighting, she hardly felt the lack of a left hand at all. Her right hand, dexterous as ever, found its way into a pocket, and played with the jingling gold.
As they drew closer, Astrid could make out the tiny figure of Tara up on the battlements, waving at them like mad.
"Astrid! Come on! We've got a letter from Bronwyn!"
"Sit down, Warden," said Ser Cauthrien. She was not sitting herself, but wrapped in a heavy soldier's cloak and gazing out the window at the ravens dancing in the snow. She looked back at Alistair. He was watching her, apparently waiting for the axe—whether real or metaphorical—to fall. Rumor said he was the bastard son of King Maric. She had no trouble believing it. She had known the late king well, and as time went on she could see the resemblance between the young man and Maric more and more clearly. And he acted like King Maric: the self-deprecating humor, the cheerful courage... She could see why Loghain had taken Alistair under his wing. Even more clearly, she could see why he had kept the boy away from the Landsmeet.
"I've had a letter from the Teyrn," she told him. "Based on the intelligence we've been sending him, he thinks we should wrap up operations here at Ostagar. We haven't seen darkspawn on the surface since the middle of last month. For that matter, you Wardens haven't seen darkspawn in the Deep Roads without traveling for two days on the Helmclever Road. You haven't found darkspawn on the Gwaren Road at all."
Alistair grinned, and pointed out, "We haven't gone all the way to Gwaren yet. On the other hand, in Bronwyn's last letter, she told me how far Danith's group made it coming on the Gwaren Road coming west. Between us we've nearly gone the full length of it. They didn't find anything either. I sort of promised Bronwyn that she'd be able to walk from Ostagar to Gwaren without getting her feet wet."
Cauthrien snorted. "We have other problems to deal with. With the Orlesian attacks, it's clear that the Empress is getting ready to make her move. What about the Archdemon?"
"Can't help you there." Alistair's smiled faded. "It can't be anywhere close. Either we've killed all the darkspawn... I wish... or the Archdemon's taken them somewhere else."
"Do the Deep Roads lead south of Ostagar?"
Alistair frowned. He had never even thought of that possibility. "Not in any of the maps we've seen. I can ask Kardol."
"Do. Loghain wants the army to start a withdrawal north when the weather permits, starting on the tenth of Haring. Wardens, dwarves, elves, mages, and all. He's sent the wagons on their way to us. We'll leave supplies for a small garrison and courier station, but that's it."
She had already spoken to the dwarves. Based on the Warden's scouting efforts, they were planning on going up the Helmclever Road. If things were too hot there, they felt they could make it as far as the Belannas access point, and then travel on the surface along the Lake Road. Otherwise, they intended to continue their march north, engaging the darkspawn all the way to the access point at the north end of Lake Calenhad. She had suggested that they go on to West Hill, a fortress large enough to give them shelter and a mustering place. There was, after all, no reason to persuade them to go to Denerim.
Some of the elves would head north with the army, and then turn east into the Brecilian Forest, looking for the ancient elven temple that Bronwyn had found. Many, surprisingly, had elected to winter over at Ostagar, watching the Blightmouth.
"Well, you see…" Merrill had explained in her sweet, lilting way. "We're actually quite comfortable here. The Wardens have been so very nice about freezing out the Taint in the forest that the game is coming back. The old towers and barracks give us shelter and the halla safe stabling. Keepers have no problem melting the snow so the hallas can get at the dry grass. As for me, I'm bound for Denerim, with some of my people. I have no doubt that Bronwyn will make the other shemlen keep King Cailan's word to us, but perhaps it would be a good idea to tell her what we'd actually like."
Cauthrien turned her attention back to Alistair, who seemed rather excited at the prospect of leaving Ostagar.
"I'm expecting a letter from Bronwyn any day," he said.
Cauthrien, her face carefully stoic, passed him a griffon-sealed parchment. "This was in the courier's bag."
"Thanks!" He broke the seal, and looked up at the knight with a sheepish grin. "Mind if I look at it now?"
"Go ahead."
Denerim, Haring 1, Dragon 9:30
Dear Alistair:
Yes, you can come back to the Compound. You've been a very good boy indeed.
Seriously, the news from Ostagar is wonderful. You've done a splendid job clearing the lands of darkspawn. Give my regards to each member of your team as well: they've earned recognition and rewards.
So bring them home with the rest of the army—or at least that portion of the army that is going to Denerim. Not all of it is, but that is Cauthrien's concern. What I want your people to help with is getting our clever dwarven engineers back safely with you, along with the contents of their workshops. This is your primary mission, after taking care of the Wardens, of course. We will make certain that the Glavonaks have the best facilities to continue their researches. I've even given thought to Sten having a properly proportioned bed!
Adaia, of course, will be glad to see her family again. Vaughan Kendalls and his father are no more; and I believe the cousin in line to inherit the title cares nothing for them. None the less, I want Adaia to make a habit of wearing her Grey Warden regalia. In fact, I want all of you to wear it. It is your best protection against impudent fools. Obviously, I am most concerned for Adaia and Siofranni— and Petra, too. When Petra comes to Denerim, we shall look into having a staff made for her that can be taken for a sword or some other sort of non-magical weapon. And we'll buy some armor that she finds comfortable.
It's hard to tell where the darkspawn will strike next. I've just returned from Amaranthine, where there was a serious darkspawn attack. It was led by an emissary who could talk. No. I'm not joking, unfortunately. It called itself the Architect, and it was trying to make the rest of the darkspawn into thinking, talking creatures as well. Luckily, we found it and killed it, along with all its minions. It had even enthralled dragons! Altogether it was very alarming. The Landsmeet looks to me to tell them where the Archdemon is, and of course, I have no idea. I've heard from some of the other Wardens of Thedas. They don't know either, but everyone thinks the blow will fall within their own lands. I think we've got to be prepared for the horde to pop out anywhere.
However, from your account, the Deep Roads are clean around Ostagar for long distances. Therefore, we've going to have to keep patrolling everywhere else. Danith found nothing in Gwaren or east of the White river. I haven't heard from Tara or Astrid yet. However, I want to patrol more in the north myself. If nothing else, we'll send a party back to Ostagar in the early spring, but there's no reason for you to have to winter there.
I do have some wonderful news. We have laid claim to the old Grey Warden fortress on the Coast, called Soldier's Peak. It's been deserted since the days the Wardens were banished, but we found it in surprisingly good condition. I have no doubt I can persuade the Landsmeet to renew our grant. In fact, I'm so sure of it, I've sent Leliana, Jowan, Hakan, and Soren to work on the place over the winter. Leliana has wonderful ideas for making it a comfortable home for the Wardens. A summer home, at least. I have much more to tell you about it when you return to Denerim.
I wish you could have been here for my wedding. We had a wonderful feast and lots of entertainment at Highever House. Try to get here before First Day, and we'll have another feast, especially for the Wardens!
Loghain is sending a lot of empty wagons along with the supplies, so you can pack up all the things you've collected in the past few months. He's also sending sledges to mount on the wagons if the snow is too bad. Wrap up warmly and be sure to wear your mittens!
Along with the letter, I've sent a package of treats for you all. They were to be delivered to the Wardens' Quarters, so hie thee off there as soon as you can, before they're all gobbled up!
Your sister,
Bronwyn
Glowing with joy, he looked up at the not-unsympathetic Cauthrien. She, too, was eager to return to Denerim, and be once again at Loghain's side, where she belonged.
Alistair said, "Bronwyn writes that the Wardens are to take care to get all of the Glavonak's things to Denerim safely. Adaia will be glad that she won't be out of a job!"
"Yes… those are useful weapons against any enemy. I'll make certain that you have all the wagons you need for that, Warden. Nothing must prevent them arriving in Denerim. You're dismissed. Why don't you tell your people the good news?"
He beamed, and went his smiling way, running up the circling staircases of the Tower of Ishal to find his friends and the intriguing package. Bursting into the Wardens' quarters, he gave a yell.
"We're going home!"
Asa and Ulfa were there, absorbed in a chess game. Oghren was the only other occupant, slumped in a ale-fueled haze. He squinted at Alistair.
"We're goin' to Orzammar?"
"Um… no. Denerim."
"Huh."
Alistair reddened. The Wardens' Compound in Denerim was the closest thing to home he could claim. Denerim was Adaia's home. Anybody else's... not so much.
"When are we going?" Ulfa asked, her eyes fixed on her Queen's knight.
"In a few days, when the wagons arrive and the weather seems good enough." He prowled the room and then grinned at the sight of a large crate, marked with a griffon. "Bronwyn sent this for all of us. I guess I should wait until everybody's here." He thought a bit more. "In fact, why wait? Let's call everybody in. We'll want to start packing."
"Packing the loot, anyway," Ulfa agreed, with a wolfish smile that Asa returned. They had done very, very well from their explorations of the Deep Roads.
They were busy playing chess, so Alistair picked on the idler in the room.
"Oghren—find Sten, Emrys, and Nevin. They're sparring in the practice room upstairs. I'll go get Adaia and Siofranni. I've got to talk to the Glavonaks, too. We Wardens are in charge of helping them move their workshop."
Asa snarked, "I look forward to being blown sky-high."
Alistair did not, but asked, "Does anybody know where Petra is?"
"Visiting her mage buddies, I reckon," rumbled Oghren. "Taking tea. Plotting to turn us all into nugs."
"I'll find her on the way. Don't anybody touch this box."
Excitement bubbled up again. He raced down the stairs, wanting to see Adaia's face when she heard the news.
Thanks to my reviewers: EmbertoInferno, KrystlSky, Eva Galana, Mike3207, Nemrut, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, KnightOfHolyLight, Enaid Aderyn, Robbie the Phoenix, darksky01, le-maru, timunderwood9, SkaterGirl246, Herebedragons66, Psyche Sinclair, kdarnell2, Phygmalion, Tsu Doh Nimh, Jenna53, Gene Dark, almostinsane, JackOfBladesX, TSLi, Zikarn Krais, Guest, Bob, Have Socks. Will Travel, lemonjay, RakeeshJ4, Shakespira, mille libri, Guardian1165, Zute, and Josie Lange.
I'm getting some genuinely fascinating ideas and insights from you. I really appreciate your interest, even if I don't make corrections very fast.
Umbralis is Firstfall in common usage (November).
I'd like to point out that we never ever hear in canon of a mage being sent to the Aeonar, "the mages' prison." So what's up with that? Maybe it's something else now, though the old story still works as a threat. It might be used as a Templar base to the northwest of Ferelden, close to the sea (though not close enough to a good anchorage to attract the attention of smugglers of fishermen), and not far from the Orlesian border.
I received an unsigned review that I found particularly interesting:
Bob: One of the things that bothered me in DA2 was that we are presented with the Seekers who are supposed to be a check on corruption in the Chantry and the Templars, but they aren't. At all. If they were doing what was allegedly their jobs they would have stomped down ** the leadership of the Kirkwall Templars after the first time they assassinated the Viceroy of Kirkwall to install a puppet. The message, "We'll kill you if we don't like how you are ruling your city-state and you can't do jack about it because we're the Church, so suck it," is the sort of thing that starts religious wars.
Me: Not going to get any argument from me. I don't think the developers have done particularly well in differentiating the Seekers from the Templars, or demonstrating that the Seekers are effective. And now we know that the next game is "Inquisition," which means we have to put up with yet more of the Chantry, front and center. I'm much more interested in the continuing struggle against the darkspawn.