Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 86: Curious Forms of Torture
He was not understanding her very well. Or perhaps he did not want to understand her. Grand Cleric Muirin was having a difficult— an excruciatingly unpleasant— conversation with Ser Chrysagon de la Crue, Knight-Divine of the Grand Cathedral. An 'honor' guard had escorted him to her private study, and was waiting outside to escort him back to his quarters in the Palace.
"The rebellious priests are under the jurisdiction of the Chantry," he insisted. "They should be tried before a clerical court under canon law, and then punished as you see fit: consigned to the Aeonar, or committed to the discretion of the Divine. It is an outrage that they are being held by the secular authorities."
"Their crimes were not solely against me," Muirin replied. "They also harmed the Queen of Ferelden, drugging her and holding her against her will."
"Why?" the Templar demanded. "What was the reason? Did they think her to be enthralled? If so, they were within their rights to examine her."
Muirin looked him in the eye. "No one could have seriously imagined the Queen to be enthralled. Their motivation appears to have been not spiritual, but crass political ambition. They wished to deprive Ferelden of its head of state."
"You cannot prove that!"
"I have their confessions right here, Knight-Divine. Feel free to read them. They implicate a number of highly placed priests and Templars."
"Lies. No doubt obtained under torture."
"They have not been tortured. I visited them myself, though that was distasteful to me. It is not agreeable to confront those one thought of friends, only to discover that they wished to set one aside for their own purposes." She narrowed her eyes, trying to read from his how much he knew of this plot.
"You are playing a dangerous game, Your Grace," the Templar said, his voice ice cold. "You are reckless to accuse holy women, high in the councils of Her Perfection herself. This could be looked upon as a signal lack of faith and obedience."
"I am not accusing anyone," she replied. "I am telling you what is in the confessions. Read them yourself, if you like."
"I would not sully myself with such filth. Ferelden has become a cesspool of heresy. Mages have been unleashed on the land, unsupervised by the Templar order; mages are allowed to mingle with the innocent populace; a mage girl has insinuated herself into a noble family… I see a pattern of perverse disregard for the Prophet's commands. This Warden Bronwyn… this Girl Warden, has made herself Queen, and she favors mages."
"Perhaps she has been made to be Queen. There was great popular support for the ascension of King Loghain." She refused to respond in any way to the Templar's exclamation of disgust. "Her blood gives legitimacy to his rule. I have talked with the young Queen. I know her well. Her mother, the late, noble Teyrna of Highever was my good friend. Abusing Queen Bronwyn is perhaps not a wise course on your part, Knight-Divine. Queen Bronwyn has mages among her Wardens, it is true. That is no new thing. There have always been Grey Warden mages. There are Grey Warden mages in Montsimmard. However, I also have good reason to believe that the young queen understands the dangers of magic, but believes it to be the lesser of two evils, given the current situation in Ferelden."
"You mean the Blight."
"I do indeed. After a lengthy discussion, she explained to me her reasons for needing mages. I had no idea how magically powerful the darkspawn are. Queen Bronwyn informed me that out of a dozen darkspawn, at least one is a mage. Their magic is strong, and she believes that without magic to counter this danger, the Blight cannot be overcome. It is clear that the King is entirely of her mind in this matter. He, too, has fought the darkspawn."
The Knight-Divine pursed his lips, and sat back against his embroidered cushion.
"There is another way," he said, after some thought. "They could put themselves under the command of the Chantry, and commanded by the Knight-Vigilant, the Templars could lead them to victory."
"There is no precedent for that," Muirin pointed out. "The Templars have never taken an active role in the leadership against the Blights. The Wardens would not tolerate it; and only Wardens can end the Blight."
"Myths and legends!"
"I think not, Knight-Divine. The Divine herself has commanded that Wardens are not to be interfered with. I do not think we want to set ourselves against the Wardens. The Wardens of Montsimmard might have little use for the Girl Warden, but they will not appreciate any precedent that abrogates their authority." She tapped her fingers on the arm of her chair. "However, your idea of including the Templars in the effort against the darkspawn has merit. If a large number of them were discreetly introduced into the army, they could maintain a watch over the mages, as well as demonstrating their prowess in foiling the darkspawn's spells."
"Never!" Ser Chrysagon's wrath overflowed. "Never will a Templar submit to mere secular authority, much less submit to the command of that rebellious peasant, Loghain Mac Tir."
"If I may remind you, Knight-Divine," Murin said, her patience tight in her chest and fingers, "that Fereldans feel very differently about the events of the Orlesian Occupation than you do. Most found the experience extremely unpleasant. Loghain Mac Tir is not viewed as a rebel in this kingdom, but as a hero and patriot. The Chantry is above such political name-calling."
Brought up short, the Knight-Divine subsided for a moment. He was accustomed to the rhetoric of Val Royeaux, which took as received wisdom that Ferelden was a rebellious province that needed another—stronger— taste of the whip to bring it to heel. It surprised him that a Grand Cleric of the Holy Chantry could think otherwise. Clearly, this woman's loyalties were questionable. He finally said, "He is a peasant, all the same."
Muirin wondered what the Knight-Divine knew of her own humble origins. Everything, she imagined. She did not allow herself to appear offended. Instead, she decided to make clear her support for one Fereldan monarch, at least.
"Queen Bronwyn is quite able to discern between mages serving loyally under her direction and those who are beyond the pale. Only recently the Queen routed out a band of Tevinter blood mages here in Denerim. They were slavers, preying on a nation at war. They were executed, and the phylacteries with which they attempted their spells were destroyed. Nor is Queen Bronwyn an enemy of your order. One of her Wardens was a Templar who was commanded by his superior to join the order. He died in battle a few months ago, and his death is deeply regretted by the Queen."
Ser Chrysagon looked at her, his face expressionless, trying to gauge the meaning beneath her words. That the Grand Cleric favored the daughter of the late Prince Cousland was clear to him. Her own opinion of the usurper Loghain was not so clear. He sensed a divided loyalty there. Perhaps she, too, felt an instinctive disgust at the marriage of a young woman of high birth to an aging soldier-of-fortune sprung from the dirt of this barbarian land.
Taken all in all, the Empress would not object to Bronwyn Cousland—unmarried to Loghain— as a subject queen, acknowledging the suzerainty of the Empress. That she was a Warden was awkward, and a very bad precedent. However, the Theirin line, save for a single unacknowledged bastard, was at an end, and the other Cousland had deferred to his sister. Her claim was unquestionably superior to anyone else's.
In the course of their voyage to Ferelden, Ser Chrysagon had gone over the Theirin genealogy with Duke Prosper at very great length, looking for likely puppets. Emperor Florian had grossly erred, when he placed his mad cousin on the throne here. All could have been secured, had he also forced Meghren into a marriage with a daughter of Ferelden. Instead of fighting the Fereldans in open battle, they should have seized the Arl of Redcliffe's daughter by stealth. Lady Rowan would have been Meghren's queen, and that might well have been enough to pacify the barbarians. So many opportunities lost; so many mistakes that glared forth, seen in hindsight.
Was it possible to separate the young woman from Loghain? Sooner or later, he would have to go. All the assassination attempts had failed thus far. The man was absurdly hard to kill. Prosper's own original preference was for the Cousland girl to be married to an Imperial Prince. Chrysagon had suggested a marriage instead to the bastard. However, the Duke had learned, through a Warden cousin, that Grey Wardens were infertile, especially two Grey Wardens together. Now that they had met the headstrong Girl Warden, it was clear that that she would not do. The bastard might be more tractable. There was no possibility that the Empress would marry such an person, but there were her cousin's three daughters, now in comfortable, remote, but implacable imprisonment in the Chateau Solidor. The older ones were almost beyond the limits of the marriageable by now, but the youngest might be grateful enough for her release to marry with good grace a barbarian bastard and do as she was told thereafter. What was her name? Eponine? Celandine? No, Eglantine.
He gave the Grand Cleric a mirthless little smile. All these possibilities lay in the future. For now he must make a polite pretense to accept the throne's current occupants. "It is a relief to me that the Queen has some degree of regard for the Templar order. How unfortunate that this individual died in battle. It was not… how shall I say… a deliberate accident?
"It was nothing of the sort," Murin said, nettled by his tone. "I have had the story both from the Queen and from a former lay sister who is also a Grey Warden and who was present."
"A lay sister?" Ser Chrysagon considered that. The Queen did not object to the religious among her Wardens. It might thus be possible to infiltrate her people. He knew of some good men— and at least one good woman— who would appear to her to be promising candidates. "Very interesting. However, there is much going on that must be set right. I am told that there is an absurd story that the queen located the tomb of the Prophet and sent the Sacred Ashes to Denerim, where they were used to raise Queen Anora from the dead!"
"Queen Anora was not dead," Murin said, "but she was certainly healed by the Ashes."
A pause, and a certain change in the atmosphere. In the course of the conversation, Ser Chrysagon had begun to believe that the current Grand Cleric was someone he could work with. Not so, apparently. He hardly knew whether to laugh in her face or admonish her.
"You believe this ridiculous story?" he asked, with exquisite skepticism
"While I was unconscious during the healing of the Queen, I was quite awake when Queen Bronwyn used the remainder of the Ashes to heal a child in my presence, and that of a conclave of priests and Templars." She reached over to the table beside her armchair. "Here is a copy of the report of the conclave. It is yours. It is a faithful account of the…" She paused at the edge of the abyss, and then took the plunge. "…the miracle. Bronwyn put the Ashes in the mouth of a child dying of a growth in her brain. No mage could cure her. In moments after the Ashes were administered, the child was entirely cured: walking, talking, and asking questions. Included in the report is the Queen's account of how they found the shrine in the Frostback Mountains. The conclusion of the conclave was unanimous. I urge you to read it, and then we should speak again."
Either she was mad, or she was using this false miracle for political ends. He had not suspected that Grand Cleric Muirin had become some sort of Fereldan zealot. With a smile and a bow of perfect courtesy, he took the report, and then, after receiving the requested blessing, he took his leave. He did enjoy a good piece of fiction, now and then.
"I think we should all go," Tara said, bouncing a little in her chair. "I think we should all go together. If we meet something nasty, then we can fight it off better. We should load up some supplies and then get try to get to Denerim as soon as we can! Won't Bronwyn be surprised?"
Astrid did not agree. "We're not finished with our explorations. I need to go west and see if we can complete the link with Orzammar. They should be kept apprised of the darkspawn movements, even if there's no reason to visit the city. I can send a message by one of the Legion when we're close enough. Why don't I take half of the Legion and the Wardens and go west, and you take the rest and head to Denerim? You can have a pair of my scouts who were with me at Kal'Hirol. Look." She pushed the map over. "Here is the tunnel that apparently leads out and turns east. The next step is to see where it goes. Based on Bronwyn's letter, it must pass close under this Vigil's Keep. Her map shows how the tunnels there connect with the mine. That would be an excellent place for the Legion to bivouac. From there, from her our account, it's only a half-day's march to Denerim. If you choose your weather wisely, you should make it safely." She added, "I am glad that Aeron survived."
They were both weary of West Hill, but had very different goals in view. Tara wanted to see her friends again, and sleep once again at the Wardens' Compound, the most agreeable place she had ever known.
Astrid, on the other hand, had news to share with former friends and allies in Orzammar. With luck those people would once again be friends and allies. She had won two thaigs and had found six golems. She had gold to finance her return. It was a curious form of torture to be racked by hope and possibility after all she had endured—and considering what she must still endure to reach the shining, distant goal.
She must start small, and must manipulate the news in the way most favorable to her. She might not wish to enter Orzammar right away, but she must get close enough that her messengers would transmit the correct information. Furthermore, she must punch her way through to the Deep Roads near Orzammar, thereby proving that she had cleared the Amgarrak Road. That was a spectacular achievement, and would spread her fame throughout the dwarven realm.
And why would Bronwyn object? Astrid could think of all sorts of reasons why having an underground route across Ferelden to Orzammar would please her. The humans might be accustomed to winter, but none of them particularly enjoyed it. If there was a way to move from east to west in comparative comfort, it would be a tremendous tactical advantage.
The one person she must not take with her was Brosca. She must not even let Tara and Brosca realize her ultimate objectives. Tara would tell Brosca, and Brosca, devoted to her noble-hunting sister and her little nephew, was a loyal supporter of Bhelen. Astrid liked Brosca quite well, and did not want to fight a duel with her unless it was absolutely necessary. If Brosca was kept far enough away, the likelihood diminished to nothing. Better to present her with an accomplished fact, and the proof that her loved ones were safe and cared for. Little Endrin was still an Aeducan, after all. For that matter, Brosca and her sisters were Aeducans by adoption. Astrid wished them no harm, indeed. Her vengeance would fall on Bhelen, and Bhelen alone.
And some of his toadies, she amended in her thoughts. Vartag Gavorn had to go. A few others. Of course, if she were declared a Paragon, she might not even have to kill anyone. It might even be possible to leave Bhelen on his throne, as long as he was firmly under her thumb.
Probably not, though, she reconsidered. After all, King Valtor had not hesitated to turn on a Paragon, and had ordered Caridin to be made a golem. Bhelen was a tricky little swine, as she had every reason to know.
"I'm going to write a letter to Bronwyn," she finally told Tara. "I want you to take it to her. I want to explain exactly what it is I'm trying to do. I think she'll be pleased. I know the Legion will, if they're able to fight through to Orzammar and get resupplied there. You take half and I'll take half. Take that big tub of lyrium we found. Take Catriona with you to make up your numbers. It really works better to keep her away from Velanna."
"Are you going to take all the golems?" asked Tara, rather unhappy at the prospect. "I know it sounds like my end of the road will be all cleared out, but something might happen...
Astrid really did want to take them all. If she did enter Orzammar, her entrance must be memorable. However, perhaps five might be enough.
"Perhaps it would be best if Shale traveled with you," she suggested. "I'm not sure that Orzammar is ready for a talking golem."
The Shaperate might try to claim the golems or at least claim jurisdiction over them. It was all very well for Rune, and for Tom, Dick, Harry, and Valtor—as Tara had named them. Shale, however, might not be best pleased to be treated as a possession. And Shale did have a way of expressing itself very frankly. Astrid was going to have to be tactful if she wanted to be accepted once more as a dwarf among dwarves.
"Shale!" Tara squealed, delighted. It was so much nicer to talk to a companion instead of talking to a control rod. "Where's Brosca? I've got to tell her! And I've got to tell Shale!"
Brosca was unsurprised at the news, and very pleased to be going with Tara to Denerim, especially since Astrid seemed to want to reach Orzammar, but not actually enter Orzammar. Bhelen would be tremendously pleased if the whole road was opened up again, and would probably throw a party for the Wardens if they visited.
No. He wouldn't. Not if Astrid were there. Brosca kept forgetting that Astrid was Bhelen's sister. Sure, there was bad blood between them, but why not make up now? Bhelen was King, and Astrid was a Senior Grey Warden. That was really important, too. Besides, didn't Astrid want to see their mutual nephew, little Endrin?
Thinking of Rica and Endrin almost made her ask to travel with Astrid. The little guy must be growing. Rica must be prettier than ever, and covered in silk and jewels. Even Ma might have mellowed a little, with regular meals and all the drink she wanted. Humans talked sometimes about being homesick, and Brosca wondered if that was what she was feeling. Of course, she had no home in Orzammar, unless the Grey Warden hostel there counted. She would never fit in at the Palace. But Astrid would.
Surfacers didn't care that Brosca was a Duster. Most didn't even know what 'Duster' meant. Sod Orzammar! It would be good to see the Boss again and stay at the Wardens' Compound. Astrid had told her it was a fine place, better even than the hostel in the Diamond Quarter. Brosca would have a private room, though the idea struck Brosca as odd and uncomfortable. She had never slept in a room by herself in her life. She hoped that someday she could to find someone who'd share the space with her. That person wouldn't be Cullen—no one would be, no one ever could be—but she wouldn't be so completely alone.
They moved out the next day, each laden with supplies purchased from the storerooms of West Hill. Tara gave handsome gratuities to those who had made their stay agreeable, mostly notably the housekeeper. The golems pulled the wagons, and some of the West Hill servants went with them, to return one of the wagons to the castle. The other was dismantled, and lowered into the depths of the Deep Roads. The wagon that Astrid had used on her last journey was waiting, untouched, exactly where she had left it.
Each of them would now have a wagon full of supplies to help them on their way. Each had a map, though both maps were more than a little vague in places. Astrid told Tara where she would find the supplies left at Amgarrak Thaig —though not the location of the treasure caches either there or at Kal'Hirol.
"Take care of yourself, Duster," Astrid said, bumping a fist against Brosca's.
"Yeah. You, too, Your Ladyship."
"You should be safe in you do enter Orzammar," Tara said anxiously to Astrid. "You should be safe because you're a Grey Warden. You've got the five golems, and we cleared out a lot of darkspawn. If King Bhelen causes trouble, you come right back to us, right?"
"Of course, " Astrid assured her. "I don't intend to get into fights I can't win against fellow dwarves. I can always have Rodyk there take a message into Orzammar. Or send another Warden, like Falkor."
Falkor, indeed, was the messenger she intended to send to her old friends in the Assembly. He was from a respectable warrior-caste family, and his status as a Grey Warden would raise his status even higher. If she could win her way through the Deep Roads to Orzammar, Astrid had a very good chance at turning the game in her favor.
There were hugs and backslaps, both among the Wardens and the Legion. A lot of friends had been made during their expedition. Some regretted the path where duty lay, and some were immensely pleased.
One of them was Catriona, who was fairly dancing at the prospect of a journey to Denerim. Not only that, but a journey far from the odious Velanna.
Velanna, seeing the backs of the other party, as they trudged east, proclaimed her satisfaction to her friend Ailill.
"We may be out of sight of sun and sky, but at least we no longer have to look at a shemlen face!"
Shale's hearing was quite keen, and the golem heard the remark. Curious that elves should be so exclusive. Elves and humans were all equally squishy in Shale's estimation.
Tara had no great love for the Deep Roads. It was a misery to be in them, remembering all the horrible things that could happen. Some of the most frightening moments of her life had been spent underground: most notably the time she had thought Bronwyn had been mortally wounded. This time, though, it was really not so bad. She had Brosca with her, which always gave her confidence, and Sigrun, Jukka, Darach, and Catriona as well. They were all good friends by now. It was a remarkably congenial team.
And Shale. Shale might be the Mighty Golem King of Snark—and Tara took great pleasure in calling the golem that—but having a companion of solid rock as big as an ogre and just as strong was a great comfort.
The warriors of the Legion with her were solid support, too. Their sergeant, Byerolf, was Jukka's good friend, and by extension, friendly with them all. They were moving along with the ease of long practice.
They had a good night's safe sleep in clean and empty Amgarrak Thaig. Byerolf had been there on the last expedition, and could show them around. They saw the growing lichen, the big workrooms, the sheltered sleeping chambers... even the now-operational bathing rooms. There were also the more unusual sights: the lyrium well and the Fade switches. Tara had read the ancient research notes through carefully when Astrid was out of action, and was quite sure that nothing would induce her to play with things so utterly, pointlessly dangerous. The Tevinter mage they had hired... Nereda... had been some sort of charlatan. A vicious lunatic. To murder dozen of casteless dwarves and then to meld their preserved flesh together into that...thing! Proper words failed her. Proper thought failed her. The Chantry was full of lies and propaganda, but it was possible that some Tevinter mages were just as bad as the stories made them out to be. Especially Tevinter mages who were clearly out for all the coin they could make, like the slavers in the Alienage.
Anyway, she had been completely crazy. Tara could see all sorts of other directions they could have taken the experiments. If they couldn't afford iron, they could have used rock. And to use a Fade spirit to animate the thing! That was criminally stupid. No wonder Nereda was reduced to working for the dwarves on an impossible project. She was probably too incompetent to make it in Tevinter.
Those chambers were locked back up after she saw them. Really, someone should figure out a way to dismantle them, but that would take some serious work and study, and Tara could not spare it at the moment. Someday, perhaps.
But they had a good night's sleep and a hearty meal, thanks to the provisions in the wagon that Shale drew along without visible effort. Everyone lent a hand when the poor condition of the road demanded it, but it was still far better than trying to carry the food on their own backs.
Best of all, they had seen no darkspawn. None. Tara was not even sensing any. There was still Taint to watch for, of course, and Tara shot blasts of flame on big clumps from time to time, cleaning the worst bits. No darkspawn, though. It was important not to become over-confident, but there really seemed to be no darkspawn at all.
They were on the march again, and Brosca marched cheerfully beside her, humming a little tune to herself.
"What do you think about finding that Soldier's Peak place?" she said, apropos of nothing. "The Boss sounded pretty excited about it."
"It would take us a bit out of our way," Tara replied, with a bit of regret. She, too, was quite excited at the idea of a whole castle to themselves; and she would have liked to have seen Jowan. On the other hand, Zevran was in Denerim. "Maybe we should go another time, when it's just Wardens and our special friends. I don't know if Jowan and Leliana can feed a unit of the Legion."
"Maybe not," Brosca shrugged. "I suppose I'd like to see this Denerim place first. I've never seen a human city. Is it much like Orzammar?"
Tara thought that over. "Not much. There are a lot of people: humans, elves, and dwarves, but a lot of it is made of wood and there's the big sky above. It's spread out more, and doesn't have different levels, unless you're inside individual buildings. Some things are the same, of course: there are rich people and poor people and shops and all. I liked it. I liked the Wardens' Compound, too, so I'm looking forward to that. And I'm going to visit my relatives in the Alienage, too."
At least what's left of them, she thought to herself. By now, if they lived at all, her sister and her parents had been herded into the vast slave market of Minrathous, the largest market of any kind in the world. It was too much to hope that they could stay together, as a family. More likely, they would be sold to different masters, and would never see one another again in life. It was a shame that Arl Howe was already dead.
Bronwyn dropped by the Wardens' Compound early the next morning, before the Council meeting. It was there that a testy Anders told her about the delay in receiving the message. Loghain had ordered only royal messengers to be permitted into the feast, thus cutting Bronwyn off from contact with her own people. Bronwyn said little, but her lips thinned.
"Thank you, Anders," she said. "I'll deal with the matter. How is Aeron?"
"He'll live to fight again, but he'll never look quite the same. He'll sleep most of the day. I thought Velanna was a better Healer than that. Burns are tricky, though. At least Aeron's frostbite won't deprive him of any essential bits. Maybe he'll be one of the sort who looks better bald. It'll give him that air of danger. I'm told women like that."
Bronwyn laughed a little, a bit embarrassed. She wasn't sure about the attractions of baldness herself; but the air of danger... well, perhaps so.
Speaking of dangerous men... she taxed Loghain with the miscommunication issue as soon as she saw him issuing from the King's apartments in his plain black doublet.
"If my Wardens need to talk to me, or if someone's injured—like Aeron— I can't have palace functionaries causing any delays."
"I'll pass the word on," Loghain said, his mind on the upcoming Council.
Bronwyn stiffened. "I think," she said her voice sharp, "that it should be sufficient that I have made such an order. From what I can gather, this officer sent the servant away, believing that your orders took precedence over mine."
Loghain caught the edge in her voice. Young women were so bloody touchy.
"You had actually given no orders at all," he pointed out. "I, however, had. The officer was doing his best. We will make clear that Warden business is a priority, and we will do it together. Come into the study here, and I'll summon the Captain of the Guard."
Silenced, but rather offended, Bronwyn stalked along beside him, her scarlet skirts swishing with every step. It was so difficult to anticipate every eventuality, and no one seemed to be helping her. Only this morning, she had faced some resistance about the housekeeping schedules from women who told her that "Queen Anora had done thus and so,"and "Queen Anora preferred the meals served at this or that time." There was even a bit of difficulty about the size of the portions... a difficulty that Fionn had previously kept from her by simply sending to the Compound for food. The privilege of serving the King and Queen when they were residing in the Palace, however, was a prerogative accorded to the Royal Cook and his staff, and the seneschal had advised Bronwyn not to offend those individuals by indicating what might be construed as distrust. He promised to see that the food was sufficient for the Queen's appetite in future.
It had been very annoying... that implication that everyone thought her greedy and gluttonous. Well, too bad. A half-sandwich and a cookie for tea were simply not adequate. Anora was not a Grey Warden, and even warriors who were not Grey Wardens needed more food than a soft-handed lady whose only exercise was fine embroidery. Bronwyn could not even use the excuse of feeding Loghain, who never took afternoon tea himself, thinking it silly and effeminate. He, however, had a bowl of fruit and nuts in his quarters that his servants saw was kept well-stocked. Perhaps she should do the same. Yes, she must definitely do that.
The Captain of the Guard arrived, and Loghain gave the man the amended orders, to be passed down the chain of command.
"Wardens and messages from Wardens are to be delivered to the Queen immediately. They are to be treated as royal couriers for the foreseeable future. It that understood?"
"It is, Your Majesty."
There. Done. They could move on to the Council, and Loghain took the lead, pausing to let Bronwyn catch up with him. She looked vexed at having the words taken out of her mouth, but better to get it done without any recriminations or confusion. For his part, Loghain was sorry that Bronwyn was in a temper, but it was not his fault. It was no one's fault, really. These things happened, and they happened most often when there was a change of administration. Very soon everything would be in a regular train. He had troubles of his own. At least yesterday's headache had subsided. It would return soon enough, inevitably, when he once again had to wear the crown at the afternoon Landsmeet session. It was a good thing that he had long practice at suffering pain without revealing it. He must never rub his temples or show the least discomfort at the weight of the crown, which would give the secretly hostile among the nobles something to gloat over.
Above all, he hated—absolutely hated—moving into the King's Apartments. He would have preferred to have kept his own familiar rooms, but appearances were everything right now. He already knew the King's Apartments perfectly well, naturally, and every stick and stone spoke of Cailan and Maric. Being there—even to shave and dress—depressed him. The idea of sleeping in them repulsed him. Luckily, he had a desirable young wife, and could sleep in her bed. That was odd, too, since his daughter had been the last occupant, but while it was odd, it was not revolting as sleeping in the bed of two men he had failed so wretchedly. For that matter, sleeping in the bed that Cailan had shared with his mistresses would have put him off even had the boy's end not been so miserable.
Some of those women were making noises, too. The seneschal had passed on the word that private petitions were likely to be lodged, based on promises made by the King to his various women. Thank the Maker, not one of them had a bastard to show for her efforts—or at least not one that could attributed to Cailan. One of the women, indeed had given birth two months ago, but the child was obviously an elf.
Cailan had made lots of promises to lots of people, and Loghain would have to decide which promises would be honored. Obviously, the promise to the Dalish was a political issue, and would require careful handling. The Dalish had served honorably and deserved rewards. On the other hand, most of the Landsmeet loathed the Dalish, and would hate seeing the elves receive so much as a clod of dirt, even if it was dirt none of the nobles wanted for themselves. Bronwyn was likely to take most of the opprobrium for her generosity to the elves, but Loghain reckoned that she could afford it. She was generally popular otherwise.
They entered the Council Chamber together, and took the throne-like seats of the King and Queen. Anora took the Chancellor's seat, that had been for so long Loghain's own. This 'new normal' was something of a wrench. The table was long, and Bronwyn sat on the end opposite Loghain. There was a great deal of business to be got through before the Landsmeet session in the afternoon.
First, there were appointments to the royal offices. Loghain and Anora had notes about these, and intended to confirm most of the current appointees. Some of Cailan's old friends, however, would be replaced. Bronwyn felt her lack of knowledge and experience here keenly. She had heard of most of the offices, but knew few of the people involved. Fergus knew far more than she did. Teagan, too, knew them, and fought for some of the individuals; considering them loyal vassals of the last king: men who deserved better than to lose their places. The discussion was brief but spirited. Loghain and Anora were canny enough to let Teagan have his way with some of the lesser offices.
The Master of the Mint—also kept in office— had sent a note, asking when it would be convenient for the new king and queen to have their images made for a new coinage. Loghain, so disdainful of courtly nonsense, knew that this mattered, and sent back a reply to have the artist sent to them tomorrow morning.
"You need to have a coronation portrait painted as well," Anora reminded her father. "The sooner, the better."
"Have that man you used before see me. We'll get it done."
Fergus then proposed something for which Loghain was quite unprepared.
"I think that in light of the threat that both the darkspawn and the Orlesians pose, we should be looking for allies outside our borders."
"Ferelden can stand on its own," Loghain growled, his eyes glinting.
"Perhaps so, but why not reach out to other nations whose interests are in line with ours?" the young teyrn reasoned. "The Nevarrans hate Orlais as much as we do, and they are at war with them even now. They have a great deal to lose were Orlais to gain possession of the Bannorn. I think we should send an envoy to the Nevarran king with offers of friendship and alliance."
"Not the Free Marches?" asked Teagan, frowning. "That was Maric's idea."
"With all due respect to King Maric," said Fergus, "Our situation is very different than it was five years ago. I think Nevarra can do a great deal more to harm Orlais than any of the Marcher cities. Nevarra shares a border with Orlais, after all: a border that is shifting with the tides of war. Nevarra is rich, and might be willing to spend good coin in ways that would further weaken its enemy. And there is but one king in Nevarra, whereas dealing with the Free Marches involves negotiations with a dozen princelings. Nevarra, also, is a trading partner rather than a trade rival, unlike Kirkwall and Ostwick. It loses nothing no matter how strong and prosperous Ferelden grows. In fact, the stronger we grow, the more likely we are to produce grain surpluses that can be sold abroad—and Nevarra is always an eager customer."
Loghain listened with surprised approval. Young Cousland was making good sense. Loghain dreaded foreign entanglements as a general rule: Ferelden had no business fighting someone else's wars in someone's else's lands for someone else's reasons. However, it was true that the enemy of one's enemy could be a useful friend… at times.
"It's out of the question that either the Queen or I would go abroad and sue for alliance," he said. "We've surely learned that lesson."
"I agree," Fergus said, without hesitation. "A monarch ought not to travel to a foreign land on such an errand, especially when our kingdom is so unsettled. Someone else—someone of sufficient prestige— should go. I would be willing, but if you can discover another more suited to the purpose, then send him."
"Fergus!" Bronwyn murmured, distressed at the idea. Nor did she miss the look on Anora's face. The Dowager Queen was positively horrified. "Not in this weather, surely!"
"If the Orlesians can travel," Fergus snorted, "so can I. The sooner, the better. I've given it some thought."
"I could go," Nathaniel said, rousing from a somber silence. "I, too, have traveled in the northern lands. I know quite a few Nevarran nobles. I don't think the Teyrn of Highever should risk himself, but I could go. I should go."
Teagan sighed to himself. Should he, Teagan, volunteer? Could they trust Howe? It would be a wrench, leaving Kaitlyn, for he would certainly not risk her by taking her along. He decided to wait a bit, and see if his services would be required.
Bryland, also recently married, nearly grinned with relief at Nathaniel's offer. Going abroad... leaving Leandra and the boys... enduring the dangers of travel by sea in winter... dealing with a foreign court... What an escape! If young Howe had said nothing, Bryland felt it would have been incumbent on him to volunteer, but Howe had volunteered, and it seemed perfectly suitable to him. Kane might have the status now, but obviously knew nothing about diplomacy. Besides, Habren would hate it, and for that matter... well...Habren, he had to admit, could not possibly be sent on a diplomatic mission. Unless they wanted to provoke a war. He might be her father, but he was hardly blind. Or deaf.
Wulffe would not have volunteered to go in anyone's place. He had never in his life been out of Ferelden and was not about to start now. Better no Nevarrans than to go himself.
Kane was completely obvious to the call of duty. He had no idea where Nevarra was, actually. Apparently, it was on the other side of Orlais. How would anybody get there? Would the Orlesians just let someone walk through their lands? Would Howe have to go in disguise?
"It's not necessary," Fergus said to Nathaniel, with careful civility. "I'm not a novice at diplomacy."
"I know you're not," agreed Nathaniel. "But you are also currently the heir-presumptive to the throne. If you go to the Court of Nevarra, the king will presume you wish to cement the alliance by a marriage of state. He will expect it, and I see no way you will avoid it if you wish his favor. He has two young daughters and a number of nieces. Do we want to entertain the possibility of a foreign Queen of Ferelden: one with strong ties to a powerful kingdom that may involve us in further obligations?"
His words caused something of a stir. Loghain blinked, impressed by the young man's acumen. He had been wrong-footed by Cousland's proposal, and at first had been ready to reject it out of hand on general principles. This, however, was an objection that had not occurred to him. Ferelden had not had a foreign queen in nearly two hundred years, and she had been ... what? Right, from Ostwick. A Nevarran queen could create unimaginable complications.
Fergus' jaw dropped a bit, and he shut it with a snap. A hot flush rose up, happily hidden by his beard for the most part. How could he have overlooked that? It was, in fact, pretty much what had happened ten years ago when he and Father went to Antiva looking for trade agreements. At least then he was able to sidestep the first girl they tried to foist on him, and succeeded in carrying off a prize like Oriana instead.
"They might expect it, anyway," Wulffe pointed out. "They're bound to ask questions about the heir—about everyone. It might not be a bad idea, at that. A Nevarran princess might bring a thumping huge dowry with her, and if she comes here young enough, we can train her up our way. And very likely Fergus won't inherit anyway." He grinned at Bronwyn, who turned as red as her gown, but could not bring herself to be angry at the bluff old Arl. He was a good man.
"I'm not making any such marriage," Fergus said, his voice somewhat higher than usual. "I am not at liberty to contract marriage with a foreign princess. My faith is pledged elsewhere."
Another blush at the table, this time Anora's. The arls were not looking at her, however, but at Fergus. Each one of them was thrilling with either curiosity or amusement, according to what he knew of the matter.
"Well?" Bryland urged him, grinning ever more broadly. "Don't keep us in suspense! Who is the lady? When can we wish you joy?"
Fergus' face tightened into mabari stubborness. "I'm not at liberty to say."
"My dear lad!" Wulffe burst out. "Don't tell us she's impossible! You haven't got yourself tied down to some fortune-hunter, have you?"
Loghain gave Bronwyn a dark, sardonic smile that made her positively hate him for a brief instant. She glared back at him, and then her eyes flicked to Anora, willing her stepdaughter to say something.
She did not. At length, Bronwyn broke the suspense. "My lord brother's choice is unexceptionable, but it is too early to make it public."
"Oh." Bryland gave Anora a discreet and courteous nod. "I see. Very well."
Wulffe, who only appeared to be simple, had rather enjoyed teasing Fergus... and secretly, Anora herself. "You should make it public soon, though. Better not to raise false hopes elsewhere."
Kane presumed that Fergus really was keeping it quiet for his own reasons. Maybe the girl wasn't of age. For a wild, ecstatic moment, he hoped the Teyrn was speaking of Faline. Surely, he would have come to him first. Or maybe he was biding his time. It would be something for Faline to be a teyrna! But no. He'd had no hints. Fergus said he'd made promises. Disappointed, Kane shrugged off the rest of the conversation.
Howe wondered briefly if Fergus was speaking... surely not!... of the Dowager Queen. She looked a little flushed. He had noticed them dancing and talking together. The Queen had been widowed less than two months... and... oh. That would certainly explain why they had made no public announcement. Otherwise, he might be speaking of those Hawke girls who had spent so much time at Highever House. No. He had never seen Fergus single them out for special attention. Bethany Hawke was lovely, but Fergus' eyes always turned in another direction. Anora, then. It made sense. Perhaps Loghain and Bronwyn had made a secret agreement before their marriage.
Teagan began to have a horrible, sneaking sensation about it all. Either the girl was too young or she was a recent widow. Had he noticed Fergus paying court to anyone? He was so wrapped up in Kaitlyn he really had not noticed. The ghastly suspicion grew, but Teagan mastered his horror and astonishment. It was a struggle to keep his face a perfect blank. He should have known! Of all the dastardly, slimy gambits! Cailan's ashes were hardly cold, and that ice-hearted commoner was after another crown! If the Mac Tirs could not keep Ferelden one way, they would another.
Wanting to spare her brother any more speculation and embarrassment, Bronwyn said, "The Nevarran Wardens have been the most helpful and informative of all the Warden posts. If an embassy is sent, I would like to send one of my own Wardens along. He might be able to obtain intelligence there that the Warden-Commander would not care to trust to parchment. Would you object to that, Nathaniel?"
"Not at all."
There was more conversation: what they would ask of the Nevarrans—hard coin, not to put too fine a point on it—and what they could give in return — wheat shipments and some distractions on Orlais' eastern border. Nathaniel would go, and with a sufficiently impressive retinue to uphold Fereldan honor.
"You must have a noble companion. Think about taking Adam Hawke with you," Fergus suggested, "he's a resourceful fellow, and good for fighting or talking."
Nathaniel considered that. "If I take Adam Hawke, perhaps I could take the Warden brother as well."
"Carver?" Bronwyn considered. "That's an excellent idea. But the weather really is forbidding."
Loghain, on the other hand, was becoming more and more pleased with the idea. The Nevarrans had never given Ferelden any trouble. They had, on the contrary, given the Orlesians a very great deal of trouble, and had taken a number of their cities. Maybe there was something in this diplomacy business... just as long as the envoy understood that Fergus Cousland was not on the marriage market.
"Here's my idea," Fergus said, rolling out a map of Nevarra and the western Marches. "Go incognito, and take a fishing boat from the village of Kilda, up at the Virgin Rocks in Waking Sea Bannorn. They have some good-sized vessels there. If you wait for fair weather, it's only six hours to Kirkwall."
The members of the Royal Council leaned closer, watching Fergus trace the route. The candles guttered a little, as a cold wind whistled through the shutters.
"Buy horses on the other side of the Waking Sea. From Kirkwall, take the road through the Vimmark Pass and strike out west. North of the mountains the weather should be much milder. Head for the Imperial Highway. Here," he said, pointing to a fork in the red line, "you take the road at the city of Barbastra on to the capital. At this time of year, the king will be in residence. I think trying to sail all the way to Cumberland is far too risky in this season. You're also far more likely to come across an Orlesian warship. There must be a few out, even in the month of Haring! I think with reasonable luck, you could be in the city of Nevarra within eight days of your arrival in Kirkwall."
"And with unreasonable luck," Wulffe said grimly, "you might not get there at all. I know, I know. If you go that way, you're not as likely to freeze or drown. Still, Kirkwall's a dodgy place. You'd want to keep your tongue behind your teeth, because I'll warrant that the City of Chains is crawling with Orlesian agents."
"A good point... and that's not the only place, either. Let us agree," Loghain said, looking at each Council member in turn, "that nothing is to be said about this mission. If word got out, our envoy would be the target of Orlesian assassins, bent on preventing his arrival in Nevarra. We want him to get out of Ferelden without exciting comment until he's already on the other side of the Waking Sea. I have some ideas on the matter."
The look he sent her gave Bronwyn the essential hint that her maps of the Deep Roads would figure largely in Loghain's 'ideas.'
The afternoon Landsmeet session was slow and boring: nearly entirely devoted to a wrangle over a dowry for marriage that had been solemnized years ago. It had not been presented earlier because the plaintiff thought Loghain would be more sympathetic to his case than Anora. As it happened, Loghain was no more in favor of cheating a young woman than his daughter would have been.
Bronwyn was bored and restless and her stupid crown was once again giving her a headache. It was a curious form of torture that she must not let anyone watching her know it. Facing her were scores of beady, scrutinizing eyes, looking for weaknesses, looking for something to turn to their advantage, even simply looking for something to gossip about. Even though it was all she could do to stay awake, she must look bright-eyed and interested and perfectly pleased with everything going on about her.
Her throne was hard and uncomfortable, and she noticed that the gilding was tarnished along the arm rests. She amused herself by fixing her thoughts on Nathaniel's projected mission to Nevarra, but then, by degrees, she began thinking about her own plans for the Alienage. She had mentioned her construction project to Loghain, who had brusquely told her to please herself, if she wanted to spend her own coin that way. Not the most encouraging of responses, but she did have coin, and did intend to demolish the vacant and crumbling orphanage and put up a sturdy tenement that would provide decent housing for at least twenty elven families. It would provide the Alienage, in addition, with a meeting hall on the ground floor. She had the name of a reputable builder, and she was meeting with him in the next few days to commission a design from him. Nothing could be built until spring, of course. She had asked a clerk to review the laws pertaining to the Alienage. She suspected some of the harsh restrictions placed upon them were not actual laws, but customs or extra-legal whims of past arls. It was best that Kane understand from the first that Fereldan law would protect all Fereldans.
As soon as the Landsmeet was over, she would summon the child Amethyne to the palace, along with her teacher, to see and hear what progress she had made. The teacher was Nevarran, she remembered. She should talk to the woman... ask some idle questions. And there was the library. Jowan had mentioned there was quite a bit about Nevarra to be found there.
Thus, her thoughts made another revolution back to Nathaniel and the Nevarran scheme. What could she do to help him? Too long had she been in Denerim, dancing attendance on the Landsmeet. She longed to do something strong and adventurous; something to stir her spirit and lift her heart.
She longed for it more than ever, when she noticed Loghain whispering with Anora, talking over the case, back and forth. As Chancellor, Anora had a small seat of her own, down a step and to the right of the King's. Loghain always asked Anora her opinion of such things, and never Bronwyn herself. She would not be so bored if Loghain ever consulted her. She could hardly make a scene here in front of the Landsmeet, and so turned her thoughts back to her own affairs. How odd. She had not fought anyone yet this month. She had not killed an enemy in the past ten days. She thought of the words of the poet:
"How dull it is to pause, to make an end;
To rest unburnish'd, not to shine in use!"
She had had quite enough of this. She had not imagined that being Queen could be so beastly dull. If her wandering Wardens were not here by the time the Landsmeet ended, Bronwyn would go looking for them.
Thanks to my reviewers: Chandagnac, Phygmalion, Kyren, KrystylSky, anon, Sizuka2, JackOfBladesX, Girl-chama, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, Nemrut, KnightOfHolyLight, Mike3207, Trishata96, Reyvatiel Songstress, mille libri, darksky01, Jyggilag, Robbie the Phoenix, Tsu Doh Nimh, Bob, Calliope Sol, EpitomyofShyness, Tirion, Jenna53, Gene Dark, almostinsane, jnybot, MsBarrows, Have Socks. Will Travel, Guest, Blinded in a bolthole, Juliafied, guardian1165, Eviloply Joberns, Zute, Eva Galana, and Josie Lange.
I once commented that there were no signs of textile production in the game. That is untrue. I have since found two small hand looms in the game: one is behind the bar of the Crown and Lion in Amaranthine (?), and the other is in the general untidiness on the second floor of Soldier's Peak, up against the wall by the summoning circles. Go figure. Still no spindles or spinning wheels. No sewing boxes, either. It also bugs me that the protagonist can buy heaps of armor, but no pretty clothes. You have to kill the right people for those or pretend to be in a circus. And for that matter Hawke's noble garb in DA2 is hideous, especially female Hawke's.
Yes, I'm making up towns. The map of Thedas is absurdly sparse. I presume the map must be showing only the very largest settlements (which shows how underpopulated Ferelden is, if Lothering is considered a major town!)
Bronwyn quotes Tennyson's Ulysses, one of my favorite poems.