Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 87: What Dreams May Come
"So... my little sister is at home in the Queen's Apartments. Mother and Father would be so proud. You looked splendid today, pup."
"I still feel rather like an intruder, but I'm settling in. Have another sandwich."
"Thanks. These are good."
Fergus munched, eyeing his sister thoughtfully. They had not had a private conversation in some time. He had been in the Queen's sitting room before, of course, when Anora lived here. Bronwyn's changes were already apparent, especially in the color scheme. Bronwyn had always liked green. Tapestry-work cushions with images of deer and mabari were scattered over the wooden chairs and the window seat. She had found some drapes the color of dark fir trees that hung from ceiling to floor, and on the floor was a beautiful carpet that resembled a grassy meadow starred with colorful flowers. The armor and weapon stands were new as well. The bookcase held only a few volumes, but a large collection of curious treasures, most notably the amazing shallow bowl of hammered gold that had been used to administer the Ashes to Anora. The red dragon armor, crowned with the winged helmet, was as striking as any piece of statuary. It was not at all like her old room at home, and yet it already bore his sister's mark.
"What's on your mind?" he asked.
Bronwyn laughed. "Plenty! Your Nevarran scheme has me in a whirl. What a splendid idea... and what an adventure. I'm rather devastated that I can't go myself. How I'd love to the see the lands across the Waking Sea!"
Fergus grimaced, feeling his own disappointment. "I had every intention of going myself, but Nate is right: the the Nevarran king would write a marriage into any treaty. As it is, I'll have to tell Nate outright about my own plans before he goes. By the time he's at the Nevarran Court, everyone here will know about my betrothal to Anora. By the time he's back in Ferelden, we'll likely be married."
That was startling. "You won't wait until next Kingsway?"
"Ha!" The laugh rang out, waking Scout from his doze by the fire. The mabari padded over to Fergus, looking for a share in the sandwiches and an ear rub.
"Give him the mutton, Fergus," Bronwyn said, "Not the cheese."
Fergus chuckled, petting the dog. He looked up at her under his brows, just as he had as a teenager, and said. "No. We're not waiting for Kingsway. We're thinking Guardian. We'll make a public announcement next month." He saw her trying to discreetly count on her fingers. "Guardian is good enough. Even if we strike lucky and I get Anora with child right away, it wouldn't be born until next Firstfall. No chance of Cailan getting credit for my seed. Even if it's born scandalously early—"
"Will it be?" Bronwyn asked, eyes wide.
"No," he assured her, grinning. "We are being very, very proper indeed. As I say, an early birth might happen in Harvestmere. Still beyond the limit. Guardian is fine. Neither of us has a year to waste. I need an heir. Anora needs an heir. We're not children, and we won't be bullied by the old women and the finger-waggers. Guardian. Obviously, we'll have a quiet wedding, and then have it recognized at the spring Landsmeet."
"Another Landsmeet!" groaned Bronwyn. "Maker knows we needed this one, but one a year seems more than enough to me!"
"We don't want to make winter Landsmeets a regular thing," Fergus shrugged. "The ice storm was pretty in sunshine, but a cursed awkward thing to try to get out in. I think you know that quite a few poor souls were found frozen to death. Some huddled in the streets or against walls. A sad thing, that."
Bronwyn soberly agreed, a little ashamed of her warm fire and her warm bed. Most of the very poor were allowed to take shelter in the Cathedral on the coldest nights, but some were not able to get about, and some were elves, who did not always feel welcome. A few might be mages, afraid to go near such a place. Loghain might be so greedy as to want all the mages in the army, but Bronwyn had her own plan, which was to take that tucked-away warehouse in the Market District and turn it into a free clinic. It would give employment to a staff of... what? ...five mages, perhaps. If the Templars had an assigned role in supervision, perhaps the Grand Cleric could be made to agree. Healing should not be something to which only the wealthy and noble had access. She was working on a plan, and wanted to show it to Anders for his advice. It needed a bit of polishing, first. Now that she had seen the suffering of the people in winter, she had a new idea. On very cold nights, people would be allowed to go there to be warm. That meant that the building would need a new, modern-built fireplace with a proper chimney. And a fireproof slate roof. Oh, dear, it would not be cheap...
She turned her attention back to her brother. "Well, if you and Anora are determined to defy convention, you'll have my support, obviously. Let me know what you'd like for a wedding present."
He smirked at her. "A cousin for my child."
She threw a cushion at him. Scout barked cheerfully, wanting to play, too.
"All right," she grumbled, summoning Scout to her side, "let's talk of something serious. After I have another sandwich. Maker, I'm starving. All that sitting and ... not talking... is such a tiresome bore. Let's get back to the Nevarran mission. We'll have to think of something to call it... a code word. 'Coastal Improvements,' or something equally innocuous. One never know who might be hiding behind the curtains! There are heaps of books about Nevarra in the Royal LIbrary, but I don't want to tip our hand by having them lying about. I shall go there to read them and I'll shelve them myself."
"That's certainly an improvement from your feckless youth. Perhaps you won't dog-ear the pages anymore, either."
"Certainly not," she replied, very haughty. "We are above such untidiness, now that we have risen to glory."
He threw the cushion back at her.
"The first big hurdle," he said, "is to find a way to get our people to their ship without the whole of Ferelden knowing about it."
"There might be a way," Bronwyn said, "Or at least, part of a way. The Deep Roads in the north seem to be comparatively empty. That's what my Wardens are reporting, anyway. If Nate and his men could go part of the way underground, there would be no fear of prying eyes. And they'd be sheltered from the weather. It's never cold in the Deep Roads.. pleasantly cool, actually."
"Empty?" Fergus frowned. "Where in the Maker are the creatures?"
"Tara said they went west. There were some bad skirmishes, but no darkspawn behind the initial forces they met. I'm planning on heading west myself, as soon as the Landsmeet is over. We should be ready to move out then. Everyone will be traveling, and there will be nothing odd about Nathaniel leaving with the rest."
"Fair enough. I had another idea. What ships are not in dry dock are heading north. I've had dealings with a Rivainni captain before—the one I sent to Antiva. Clever, and stays loyal as long as she's properly paid. She's back in Denerim now, and I'm inclined to hire her, rather than to hope for an adequate fishing boat. The Siren's Call is shallow-drafted enough to get into the little coves up at the Virgin Rocks. We can make arrangements for her to get out of Denerim with a cargo of rare timber, and make for Kirkwall. That harbor never ices in. We'll set a date for her to come to Kilda—allowing for the weather—and Nate and Adam can go in style in Captain Isabela's ship. She'll wait for them there until they return, and that way they can get home without a fuss."
"I like that idea!" Bronwyn nibbled her sandwich, feeling more and more pleased. "But let's keep it a secret from the rest of the Council. They don't have to know all the details. We'll want to meet with Nate and the Hawkes. Maker! I'll have to talk to Carver about it... What will their mother say?"
"We'll distract her with her niece's betrothal. Rothgar told me he's ready to make his move. We'll have to tell Loghain and Anora about it, too."
"Eventually," Bronwyn said. "But I don't want them taking everything over."
Fergus gave her a quick, shrewd look.
"Anora's been Loghain's daughter all her life, after all," he remarked.
"And I'm supposedly his wife! How does it look, when he confers with her, on and on, back and forth, and I'm sitting there like a dressed-up doll?"
"Oh... the Mac Korval dowry debacle. Did you have an interest in the case?"
"Not in the least."
"Did you have an opinion about it? Did you study the background of the complaints?"
Reluctantly, she admitted. "I knew nothing about it, other than the gossip."
"Well then..." He gave her another look, which heightened his resemblance to their father so much that Bronwyn's breath caught. "If you want you voice to be heard, you have to have something to say. No one expects you to know everything about everything. Become an expert in the things that interest you. That's a good place to start... like this whole Nevarran...I mean "Coastal Improvements" plan. Maker knows we know little enough about the country. If you're the expert, Loghain will turn to you for advice. Don't sulk, pup," he said, firmly and kindly. "Make yourself indispensable. That's what Anora's done, but Anora's no warrior and has never been out of Ferelden. You've only been to Ostwick yourself, of course, but..."
"Not true," Bronwyn declared. "I have journeyed to Orlais... if only to the Roc du Chevalier. But I have been in Orlais, long enough to have a conversation in the language and drink an entire goblet of wine; and I have explored extensively under Orlais by way of the Deep Roads, so I feel myself quite the experienced traveler. Now, fortified by my sandwiches, I shall venture even into the Royal Library, and take you up on your excellent suggestion."
"Bann Bonnam has a very pretty sister, darling," Leandra reminded her son. "You danced with her last night. Very pretty and quite nice. A very nice man himself. It's a way of cementing friendships."
"Mother," Adam said, trying to be patient. "You didn't marry my father to cement any friendships. In fact, as I recall, your marriage to my father resulted—"
"I loved him!" Leandra cried, exasperated. "But you're not in love with anybody, Adam! You never are! If you were in love with someone I could understand it! We could try to make it work, no matter who she was!"
Hawke glanced nervously at the door to the parlor. Someone was going to hear her. He hoped it wouldn't be the Arl.
"Mother. Calm down. Give me time. I've just been confirmed, for Maker's sake! There's plenty of time for me to look about, now that I have something decent to offer a woman. The Landsmeet won't be over for a few days. I promise to look about tonight, for that matter. I'll dance every dance, and have a careful look at all the virgin sacrifices—"
Leandra dropped her head into a weary hand. "I just want grandchildren. Yes, I want grandchildren. Is that so much to ask? Carver is a Grey Warden... and who will marry Bethany?" She turned blue, pleading eyes up to her son. "You're my only hope."
She was quieter now, at least. Hawke went down on one knee and took his mother's other hand.
"I won't let you down, Mother. I promise. Just give me a bit of time. You'll have a daughter-in-law. You'll have grandchildren. Look at how far we've come in just a few months. Look at how we're living. Just calm down. You have to look your best for the feast tonight."
"Oh, yes," she fluttered, dabbing at her eyes with a dainty handkerchief. "Blessed Andraste! I have to see to the boys. The children are having their own party tonight, you know, in the Yellow Parlor at the Palace. Such a charming idea of the Dowager Queen's. Dancing and games. I must look in on them later during the feast."
Hawke nodded, and backed away cautiously, hearing soft sounds outside the door. Someone eavesdropping. He reached the door and flung it open.
Bethany was disappearing into her own room, just the train of her dress trailing away. The door shut. Hawke hoped she had not heard much of the conversation, but since she had run away, he supposed she had, including the bit about nobody wanting to marry her. He fought down useless anger at his mother. She was an Arlessa now! Couldn't she be satisfied with that until the end of the month?
"I'll let you get ready, then," he said, his voice mild. "I might as well have a word with the girls before I go."
Charade did not want to let him into the room she shared with Bethany. Instead she stood outside in the hall and spoke to him in whispers.
"She's crying. She doesn't want to talk to you right now."
"I've always been able to make her feel better. Give me a chance."
"I don't know what she heard, but it upset her. A lot."
"Mother didn't mean for her to hear it." He took his cousin gently by the shoulders and moved her aside. "She'll feel better after we talk it over. Why don't you send for some tea?"
Charade made a face at him. "I can make tea myself. Come on."
It was true. She had a a grate and a tea kettle and even a toasting fork. The girls' room was really charming.
Bryland House was a good sized mansion, but even a mansion does not have an unlimited number of fine bedchambers. The Arl had his rooms, the Arlessa hers; the boys had their schoolroom and the room they insisted was no longer the nursery. Habren's room was exactly as she had left it—aside from the things she had taken with her—because the the Arl had muttered something about 'You never know with Habren,' and Mother had not argued with him. Bethany and Charade shared the room that had once been Lady Werberga's. Apparently there was a lot more room at the castle in South Reach, but very likely they would want to share there, too. Adam was pleased at so much family affection, but found it a little hard to understand. He had shared a room — or a loft— with Carver from childhood until the beginning of this year, and proximity had not exactly improved their relationship.
But this was really a pleasant room, or would be when the inhabitants were not so unhappy. Bethany was curled up on the big bed, crying, while Charade raised her brows and set about making tea. Hawke sat down on the bed by his sister and smoothed the dark hair away from her flushed, wet face.
"You know how she gets. Everything has to be done today, or we're doomed."
"It's true. Everyone knows I'm a mage. No one will have me, especially after the foul things that Orlesian Templar said about me."
"He's full of rubbish!" Charade burst out hotly. She had been stirring the fire up, and waved the poker like a weapon. Then she affected a ridiculous Orlesian accent, and a comical sneer. "I haf never beeeen to yoooor countree, and I know nozeeeng about eet, but I will make zee seelly taunts all zee zame. Pah! I speet on you, Dog Lords!"
Adam laughed, and applauded heartily. "You should have been a bard!"
"Stop!" Bethany pleaded, wiping her eyes, laughing in spite of herself.
"Knight-Divine or no," Charade said fiercely. "he's full of rubbish. He's a nasty man and his opinion isn't worth a copper. Everybody in the Landsmeet knows that, and those that don't are too stupid to live. And next time I see him, I'll say I don't care that—" she snapped her fingers "—for his ugly lies!"
"You're braver than I am," Bethany sighed. "All the same, nobody sensible would want to marry a mage."
"You don't know that, " said Adam. " I've seen plenty of men dancing with you. If you wash your face and do your hair, I predict that yet more will beg for the honor. It's a new world here in Ferelden, Bethany. The Queen favors the mages. Everybody knows that. The King, too. He brought all those mages up from Ostagar, and gave them places in the army. Look at all the mages in the Wardens. Nobody shuns them."
"I don't see anyone asking to marry them, either!" Bethany shot back.
"I think Warden Anders would marry that Morrigan in a heartbeat—if she'd have him," he pointed out. "And I certainly don't expect you to associate just with mages. Just last night, at least three men told me how pretty you are. A lot of people think well of you—"
"Mother said you were her 'only hope!'"
"She said that to make me feel guilty. It had nothing to do with you. She didn't mean that at all. She was just using all the weapons in her arsenal to get me married. She even cried real tears."
"Well, I cried real tears, too. I have dreams, after all... I have hopes for something like a normal life. Maybe they're silly, but I have them all the same."
"So do we all, sister mine. Whatever a 'normal' life may be."
Bethany sat up, and Charade brought her a handkerchief.
"Tea's almost ready. I'll put honey in it."
They drank it down gratefully, only exchanging the odd word or two. Charade took her cup to the window and sat on the seat, peering out at the twilight on the roofs of Denerim. "There are horses in the courtyard. Someone must be calling on the Arl."
"Someone's always calling on the Arl," Bethany said.
There was a knock at the door.
"My lady?" a manservant asked. "Is Bann Adam there? The Arl wishes to speak to him."
"Right here." Adam said, opening the door. He quaffed down the last of the pleasantly sweet tea, and set down his cup. He gave a nod to the girls. "Later, then."
He followed the footman down to the study. What did the Arl want? Adam hoped this was not about his mother's earlier scene. It could be embarrassing and difficult to navigate if the Arl decided to 'help' find his stepson a wife.
The door to the study was opened for him, and the servant said quietly, "Bann Adam, my lord."
No. It was not all about him. Laughing at himself for his vanity, Adam noted that Arl's guests were Arl Wulffe and his son, Rothgar.
"Come in, my boy," said Leonas. "We have family business to discuss."
Later that evening, Hawke tried to present his best and most cheerful face to his dance partners. It was not easy, as his precious new fortune had dissolved into dowry money. Most of it, anyway. Arl Wulffe was eager for Rothgar to make a happy, early, fruitful marriage, and Rothgar was eager to get his hands… etcetera… on Charade.
However, considering that Rothgar was heir to an arling, it was unreasonable to expect them to accept less than five hundred sovereigns in dowry, in addition to the bride's clothes, jewels, and other possessions. Adam had hoped that Arl Leonas would offer to contribute to the dowry money, but he did not. He only said that his Arlessa would no doubt enjoy putting together her niece's trousseau. That would be a real help, but at the spring Landsmeet, Adam would have to come down with the coin himself. By then he would have some steady income streams from taxes and trade tariffs, but it was still a blow. It was almost exasperating enough to make him find a bride and a dowry for himself.
He dutifully danced with only marriageable young women. Some were better than others, though none of them particularly interested him. Perhaps it was his mood.
The dance ended. He smiled with practiced charm at his partner, and gave her a graceful bow of thanks. Beyond her, he saw Fergus and Nathaniel talking quietly and earnestly, looking in his direction. Fergus raised his brows at him; a clear, discreet summons. Adam made his way across the hall toward them, smiling at all the ladies, making himself agreeable as he went. Bann Berthilde winked at him, the naughty minx—and she married and the mother of three. He smiled back at her. A very fine woman, that.
"Adam," Fergus acknowledged him. "Nate and I want to sound you about a little plot we're concocting. Let's go to the Yellow Parlor and watch the sprogs at play."
Proud mothers and fathers were in and out, pleased to see their offspring mingling with suitable companions. Said offspring and their companions were waxing fairly hilarious over a game of Musical Statues. A few older, more dignified sorts were strolling about, chatting, looking very superior, or simply stuffing their faces. A knot of the big girls were gossiping exactly like their mothers. It was a very cheerful scene for all that.
Fergus knew from the moment he entered that he had made a mistake. Seeing these children, imagining Oren among them, almost hearing his clear young voice and his happy laughter made his heart twist inside him. Stolidly, he put those memories by, and stationed himself in a corner.
"Adam!" shouted Corbus. "Look at us! We can leapfrog all the way across the room without stopping!" He ran up behind Bevin, and vaulted over him, and then over Lothar. Bevin quickly leaped over Lothar and then Corbus, and then...
"Come on, Lothar! Don't be a baby!"
Thus urged, Lothar bounded after Corbus and failed to make the jump, sprawling with an uproarious shriek on his brother's back. The room erupted into squeals of delight. The boys laughed, too, though Corbus looked a bit put out.
"My lords!" Their tutor bustled after them, trying to swallow a distracting sweetmeat. "This is most inappropriate!"
Adam gave Corbus a grin and a wave, and the men talked quietly among themselves, pretending to watch the children.
"This is absolutely secret," Fergus said, sipping his wine. "You may choose not to participate, but you must tell no one about this conversation."
"Of course."
Nathaniel admired a group of little girls, colorful as a wreath of pansies, dancing in a ring. They reminded him of his sister, long ago. Delilah had been such a pretty, serious child... "The Council is planning an embassy to Nevarra. It was Fergus' idea, but I'll head it. I'd like you to come along. It's important. And it could be extremely dangerous."
Adam thought briefly of his mother, Charade's betrothal, his projects in Amaranthine, and the Fereldan marriage market, where he was so much meat to the grinder.
He smiled. "I'm at your service, my lord Arl."
Bronwyn's head was full of recent Nevarran history and genealogy throughout the evening. It was unwise to take notes at this point, and so she used the memory tricks taught to her by Aldous years before. She would also, during her next visit to the Wardens' Compound, look for any notes left by Jowan during his Nevarran studies. They might prove a treasure. On leaving, she did take one book with her: The Noldor Anthology of Dwarven Poetry. That should baffle any spy.
An aggressive people, the Nevarrans. Their nation was only five years older than Ferelden: also founded in the Exalted Age in the backwash of the Fourth Blight. The Van Markham family still ruled there, their line crossed again and again with the powerful Pentaghast clan. King Baltus was forty-six years old and had reigned for the past fifteen years. Melantha, his Queen, was a Pentaghast by birth, and his second cousin. Their succession seemed secure: their son Tylus was the heir and Prince of Cumberland, as was the custom. There was another son, Paris, and two daughters: Sophia and Porphyria—neither of whom was going to marry Fergus! King Baltus had not been on good terms with one of his sisters, but there seemed to be no threat to his rule. The royal family was large and branching, but of course, theirs had not been slaughtered during an Orlesian invasion, unlike the Theirins.
They were highly cultured, too. All the sources—including Brother Genetivi's book—described Nevarra as a land of artists as well as warriors. That book, of course, Bronwyn possessed.
"The whole country is filled with artistry, from the statues of heroes that litter the streets in even the meanest villages to the glittering golden College of Magi in Cumberland. Perhaps nowhere is more astonishing than the vast necropolis outside Nevarra City. Unlike most other followers of Andraste, the Nevarrans do not burn their dead. Instead, they carefully preserve the bodies and seal them in elaborate tombs. Some of the wealthiest Nevarrans begin construction of their own tombs while quite young, and these become incredible palaces, complete with gardens, bathhouses, and ballrooms, utterly silent, kept only for the dead."
That was a new word for her: necropolis. A City of the Dead. Preserving and housing bodies in elaborate tombs seemed very peculiar and rather nasty to Bronwyn, but perhaps they had adopted that custom from the dwarves?
At any rate, it was their custom, and must be respected. They had done extremely well against the Orlesians, and taken quite a bit of territory from them. Good.
She also found herself doing a bit of research on Kirkwall, the first stop on the itinerary abroad. She had heard rumors before, of course, but Arl Wulffe was right: Kirkwall was definitely a dodgy place. It was a very ancient city—or perhaps one might say that modern Kirkwall was built on the bones of a very ancient city: Emerius, a center of the Tevinter slave trade in the days of the Imperium. Very likely that was the first "civilized" city that Andraste had seen after she was enslaved. In those days, southerners from what was now Ferelden were taken in the slave ships to Emerius, to begin the weary overland march to Cumberland, there to travel up the Imperial Highway through all weathers to their masters' capital.
Not always, of course. In those days when Tevinter ruled all Thedas, and slaves would be sold off at every city, only a small percentage—the best of the best— kept back for Minrathous and the Court of the Archons, on account of remarkable beauty, strength or talent. The story was that Andraste was one such. Bronwyn wished that more was known about her escape. That must have been an incredible adventure.
At any rate, Kirkwall was still an odd place, even with the Tevinters long departed, even after throwing off the Orlesian yoke themselves. A very high percentage of the population were mages, many of whom evaded the Templars and lived as apostates. Many of said apostates became abominations, rampaging through the streets—or at least that was the story the Templars told. The Templars were immensely powerful in Kirkwall... so powerful that the Knight-Commander brazenly murdered the Viscount, Perrin Threnhold, when he tried to oust the order from his city. She had put a weaker man, Marlowe Dumar, in his place, but everyone knew who held the real power in the city. Personally, Bronwyn thought the Kirkwall Templars sounded particularly incompetent, since they could not get the mages under control, despite their numbers and political authority. Odd that they should not recognize that their failure made them look incompetent: good only for cutting down unarmed noblemen who spoke against them. She was surprised that the city had not risen.
But of course they would be afraid of an Exalted March, the threat the Chantry pulled like a dagger whenever anyone dared displease them. Ferelden itself had been threatened, and Bronwyn sensed that many were frightened at the prospect. Truth be told, she was worried herself.
Not enough to bend the knee, however. Would the Orlesians dare an Exalted March for such cynically political reasons? Another good reason to ally with the Nevarrans, who were unlikely to be impressed by that sort of bullying.
Preoccupied as she was, she smiled properly when the children were trotted out from the Yellow Parlor to perform a little dance, and she showed appropriate approval when the betrothal was announced between Rothgar of West Hills to Lady Charade Amell. The marriage was planned for the spring Landsmeet, here in Denerim.
"I had not imagined Wulffe to be so patient," she murmured to Fergus.
"Hawke needs some time to get the dowry together," he whispered back. "Coming down with five hundred sovereigns when he's a new bann can't be easy. We'll have to give the embassy some coin out of the royal treasury."
"Of course. I've been taking your advice. Perhaps we can have a private meeting about those Coastal Improvements—not tomorrow, but the day after. By then, maybe we'll have more pieces put together."
If her elves had not gone to the Alienage the following day, Bronwyn would not have known Marethari and a band of her Dalish were in Denerim. Danith sought her out in the afternoon after the Landsmeet session to give her the news. It could not have been easy, making their way to the city and dealing with the guards and the hostile humans. Once there, they had been laughed at when they asked for directions to the WArden-Commander, and had been shunted off to the Alienage.
"They camped in the big empty building," Danith told her. "The orphanage, they call it. The one you plan to replace with something less flimsy. The Keeper tells me they were comfortable enough. There is plenty of room for the ten of them."
Bronwyn could have sworn like a trooper. Was every human in Ferelden part of a plot to undermine the Warden alliances?
"I am very sorry they were treated so discourteously. I will give orders... no... let's have the Wardens escort them to the Palace. I would like to talk quietly with Marethari and hear what she thinks of the lands near the ancient temple. The guards will be made to behave properly."
"Why not in the Warden Hall?" Danith shrugged. "Her alliance is with the Wardens, not the Queen of Ferelden. If your husband wishes to come, let him come as the mate of a Warden."
"That will do for now," Bronwyn allowed, rather amused by Danith's description of Loghain as 'the mate of a Warden.' "But when we announce the grant, it should be in front of the nobles, in the Landsmeet Chamber. The Wardens have no power to offer the land grant; that really must be done in the name of the Crown of Ferelden. We have to make them all understand that this is a binding agreement. The Dalish are our allies, and should be treated with respect. Yes, put together a honor guard of Wardens—of all races. There is no reason that Marethari and her party could not be accommodated at the Compound, if they wish. It is good of her to venture to Denerim in this weather."
"The Dalish do not tremble at a little snow."
Danith left to gather her detail, and after Bronwyn gave some stern orders to an officer of the Palace guard, she decided to change into her Warden gown, still thinking about the afternoon session. It had featured a very unpleasant public petition that should have been presented in a private audience. The nobles had watched, some sympathetic, some titillated by the scandal.
It could not have been easy for Anora to sit impassively, while those women—Cailan's mistresses— made their demands. Three of them had joined together, finding strength in unity, waving their grubby scrawls on grubby parchment. One wanted a house that she said Cailan had promised her. Another wanted a pension. The youngest—and she was too young to be debauched by a king, in Bronwyn's opinion—told them that Cailan had promised her a dowry of ten sovereigns, with which she planned to marry and open a bakery.
None of them had any proof in writing, of course, though that did not mean that Cailan had not made such promises. The other two known mistresses were both elves, and had not dared to show their faces in the Landsmeet Chamber. One had slipped back into the obscurity of the Alienage, clearly expecting nothing now that Cailan was dead. The other had sent a pitifully misspelled plea for help. She claimed that Cailan had promised to support her and her child, whether it was his or not. Yes, her child was an elf, but the King had promised to stand by her.
Anora was not speaking, so Bronwyn saw an opportunity. She leaned over to Loghain, and whispered. "Give them each ten sovereigns, and send them away. I like the girl. She has a plan. Give the elf who wrote ten sovereigns, too."
Loghain snorted, "That's a lot of coin."
"Cailan would have spent far more than that on them, had he lived. Don't haggle. Consider it payment for services to the Crown. Anora wants them gone."
That was a sure push at Loghain's feelings. Bronwyn smiled with satisfaction at the memory. The girl had been pleased and happy; her companions less so, but relieved to get anything at all. They had been hustled away, after Loghain told them that the issue was closed, and no further claims of the sort would be entertained.
As it was getting dark and very cold, Bronwyn hurried to the Compound, leaving a message to Loghain telling him where she was. She looked forward to reconnecting with her Wardens. She warned Mistress Rannelly to expect visitors, and went to check on Aeron. He was rapidly improving, since his dose of improved Joining potion. His hair was still not growing out, but he was free from pain and his frostbitten appendages were all functional, allowing him to practice a new song quietly in a corner.
"That's nice," she murmured, pulling a stool closer so she could listen.
He smiled, and strummed more chords, searching for just the right one. "Just a little something of my own. A lot of the others went with Danith to fetch the Dalish. Anders and Morrigan are up in their room. Niall's reading in the study, and Maeve's doing a bit of sewing. I'm not in the mood to face the cold until I absolutely can't avoid it."
"Then play for me."
The light strumming grew more certain, and the pleasant tenor rose in song.
"Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude, as man's ingratitude.
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy teeth are not so sharp,
Although thy breath be rude, although thy breath be rude.
My faithful friends draw nigh
And look us in the eye.
It is a wealthy man who has good friends like you.
Through darkness, cold, and snow,
Wherever you may go,
You bear my friendship true, you bear my friendship true.
Now warm these gentle folk
With maple, birch, and oak,
And turn you front and back to feel the cheerful blaze.
And be of cheerful mind,
And bless the wintertime;
Its calm and starry nights and bright and silent days."
Bronwyn fell warm and relaxed listening to the song, and accepted with whispered thanks the cup of hot cider Rannelly pressed into her hand. She always felt at home here. Seeing her pleasure, Aeron sang a few more for her. Very soon, Niall and Maeve joined her, and a bit later, Anders and Morrigan.
"Hah!" Morrigan remarked. "The Queen deigns to join her humble minions. We are honored!"
"So you should be," Bronwyn said, pleased to see her. "Of course the food and the entertainment—" she gave a nod to Aeron "—are mighty draws."
Morrigan huffed, but sat down by her all the same.
"Another song, please, Aeron," Bronwyn urged.
"How about this?"
"Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more;
Men were deceivers ever;
One foot in sea and one on shore,
To one thing constant never;
Then sigh not so,
But let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny;
Converting all your sounds of woe
Into 'Hey, nonny, nonny.'
Sing no more ditties, sing no more,
Or dumps so dull and heavy;
The fraud of men was ever so,
Since summer first was leavy.
Then sigh not so,
But let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny,
Converting all your sounds of woe
Into 'Hey, nonny, nonny.'"
"'Hey, nonny, nonny,' indeed," Morrigan scoffed. "What curious fellows you minstrels are! If any man dared deceive me, he would hear me say something quite other than 'Hey, nonny nonny!' Though I should not waste my sighs, either."
Anders laughed, and bowed gallantly. "I couldn't deceive you even if I tried!"
"Yes, you are perfectly transparent. I like that in a man."
The outer door opened, letting in a draught of icy air. Marethari, her nine Dalish companion, and a large party of Warden made for a noisy entrance. Bronwyn got up immediately to welcome her guests.
"Welcome, Keeper Marethari, to the Grey Warden Hall," Bronwyn greeted her. "I am glad that we will have this opportunity to talk. First, however, we would be honored if you and your companions joined us for a meal. Later tonight, we will be feasting at the Palace, and I hope you will all come."
"My thanks, Grey Warden," replied the elven mage, "for myself and my clan."
It was a very pleasant meal. The elves had seen no darkspawn on their journey north, which was obviously good news. Urged by Steren, the Dalish brought their aravels and halla to the Compound, where they could be comfortably stabled with the other Wardens' animals.
"Our city cousins," said Marethari, "were quite courteous, especially the hahren, who seems a very good man. It is sad, however, to hear the tale of the lost. Were it not for the weather, I suspect that a number of the elves might wish to travel with us."
"You are, of course, very welcome to stay here with us," Bronwyn said. "There is plenty of room in the Compound…"
"You are gracious," said Marethari, "but I think… not. It is very interesting to see an Alienage for myself. I wish to know more of how our cousins live. There is some good we can do there during our visit. Divided or not, we are all elves. I want them to know that should they decide in the future to join us, they would be accepted."
"The Keeper," Cathair said proudly, "healed many in the Alienage today."
Bronwyn smiled dutifully, hoping against hope that word of this would not spread outside the Alienage. Very likely it would not—or not very soon. The weather was cold; people were not getting out and about to gossip. Humans were not interested in elves, anyway, and elves were close-mouthed about their own doings. However, Templars did patrol there from time to time, and there was an enticing bounty for reporting magic use. In her heart, Bronwyn hoped that Marethari's stay would not be protracted.
Loghain made his appearance a little later, bringing a map of the Brecilian Forest with him, naturally.
"We can't talk long today," he told Bronwyn in a low voice. Perhaps a few preliminaries."
West of the White River; south of Dragon's Peak; north of the Brecilian Passage. That much was clear. What was not settled was the exact extent of the lands to be granted. Based on the location of the ancient temple and a tributary of the White River, they marked out a rough ellipse of land in the bulge of land jutting out into the Amaranthine Ocean that could do. It was a day's journey along the long axis, and half a day's journey from south to north. Another big question was whether the elves wished for any part of the coast. They did not.
"We know nothing of the sea," Marethari said calmly. "It has never been part of our lore. Elves belong to the earth. We fish in fresh water, not in the salt of the ocean."
Loghain was deeply relieved by that, since he did not want any disputes about land ownership along the coastal trail. It was a road in places, and one really could travel along it all the way to Denerim. Not easily, but he hoped to expand settlement in that direction and the fishing industry as well. There was a little village south of Bear Island that would be the closest human settlement. The people there were isolated, and traveled mostly by boat to Denerim. There was a country lane that wound around the south side of Dragon's Peak to the River Way that they used for foot travel. They would still be a day's journey from the elven lands, which would lay to the southwest, and through dense forest. South Reach would not be a problem, being on the other side of the river, and two days journey distant. Even the foresters would have little reason to penetrate so deeply into the woods.
Ferelden was underpopulated; there was plenty of room for all. There was room for immigrants, for that matter, as long as the land could be made safe and secure. Loghain had his eye on new territory for those wanting their own holdings: the islands of the Amaranthine Archipelago; the lands west of the River Dane above Orzammar. No one would be deprived of anything by the elven grant, but he knew that there would be some who would grudge it all the same.
The first leg of the march from Ostagar was the riskiest. There was not much in the way of shelter between the ancient fortress and the town of Lothering. If a blizzard came down upon them, they would be in serious trouble. Cauthrien watched the weather with a gimlet eye, and consulted with the Dalish, who were weather-wise of necessity.
She supposed they had made a brave show, as they departed from Ostagar, leaving behind the small garrison lodged in the Tower of Ishal. Road details had been constantly at work, moving the snow from the road, keeping the way clear for couriers. The soldiers trampled the remainder of the snow flat, and the wagons rolled along the roads easily enough, though the going was slippery in places. Alistair rode in the vanguard with her, scouting for darkspawn, and Stronar's nephew Emrys in the rearguard. Most of the other Wardens rode in the wagons carrying the contents of the Glavonaks' workshop.
Not so the huge Qunari warrior. He was mounted on his massive steed beside Alistair, looking about with interest and curiosity, and bearing the cold with admirable stoicism.
"Snow and ice will occupy a great deal of my report to the Arishok," he remarked. "They are a formidable obstacle. However, the warmth of the horse is of great assistance."
Alistair thought so too, glad of the strong, heat-generating horse between his thighs. He had a fine wolfskin cloak now, too: lined and hooded, fashioned from the hides of wolves he had slain himself. There was something infinitely satisfying about that. The artisans and craftsmen who had followed the army had made a great deal of coin off the fact that many in Ostagar had not come expecting to face the cold. Once the darkspawn had been exterminated, trappers and hunters had moved in…cautiously at first, fearful of handling Blighted animals…but later on with more and more confidence. Their comparatively high pay had allowed the Wardens to commission warm gear. Everyone had furs now; and nothing like them for keeping out the cold!
He turned in his saddled, grinning at the soldiers behind them.
"We look like a troop of bears on horseback," he said to Cauthrien. "Big, fluffy bears."
Cauthrien snorted. Just like Loghain, Alistair noted. He shrugged. "Well, not all of us look like bears, of course. Some of us look like wolves or foxes. More elegant, I guess. But on horseback it still counts as unusual."
Part of that was a tribute to her silver fox cloak. It was very becoming, though Alistair supposed he shouldn't say that to a hard-as-nails Commander of hard-as-nails troops. It was, though. She looked really good in it, with her cheeks pink from the cold.
Then, too, Adaia and Siofranni looked like adorable little bunnies in their own furs. No— more expensive-looking than mere rabbits. More likes sables. Minks. They had designed some quite gorgeous sleeved coats that they said were comfortably toasty. Everyone had fur boots and mittens, too and big fur hats: bearskin and wolfskin and deerhide; fox and beaver and rabbit and squirrel and marten. Sten's hat seemed almost large enough for the elves to use as a tent. The dwarves favored fur hats that fit entirely over their helmets. It made their heads really... big.
Cauthrien said, "I sent a courier to Lothering to arrange for billeting in the town, as far as possible. The Chantry can sleep hundreds. The bann's manor, too."
"I've stayed there," Alistair told her, happy to share the memory. "They have a boiler there and a bathroom and all. I had a private room. The bann's manor is really fancy."
"Well, you won't have a private room this time. Likely we'll all be four to a bed and the rest packed into the rooms on straw pallets. And those will be the ones with the good billets. We'll have soldiers sleeping in pigsties tonight."
"Even in a pigsty, I'll still have a fur blanket," Alistair said, laughing, "and so will you."
They moved along steadily, but rather slowly; stopping to rest the horses and eat and drink. Unsurprisingly no bandits challenged their passage; no darkspawn manifested. The Blight along the road had either been burned out by earlier patrols, or it had frozen, crackling into innocuous dust. As far as Alistair knew, there had never been a Blight in lands so far south before. Maybe that was the reason the Archdemon had pulled the horde back from Ostagar. Darkspawn were tough, but apparently not tough enough to survive a hard freeze. Especially not without magnificent fur cloaks.
On they pushed; on and on. It was a hard, long march, and it lasted well into dark, but it was safer to billet in Lothering than to risk camping in tents. The sky was heavy and grey, but it seemed to Alistair that the Maker's hand held the snow in check. Even the air grew still toward evening, sparing them the wretchedness of bitter winds.
Cauthrien's courier had got through, and her careful planning paid off. The units were directed toward their billets with a minimum of confusion. The town militia had considerately lit tall torches that would light the way into and about the town. Sergeants bawled orders at their troops and hustled them into the houses and barns of wide-eyed townsfolk. Disciplined companies of Maric's Shield poured into the Chantry. The dwarves had good, sturdy quarters in the big gristmill and the tavern, among other places; and their leaders, like most of the officers and the Wardens were given quarters in the bann's manor. The Dalish stayed in the stables and barns with the halla, as did those guarding the oxen and horses. The Glavonak brothers refused to leave their wagons, and dossed down in the stables as well. There was kennel space enough for most of the dogs, and the rest found a degree of comfort in chickenhouses and pigsties.
Inside the manor, the traumatized seneschal was wandering the hall, hands over his mouth, as filthy, lice-ridden soldiers fingered the tapestries and scraped the woodwork with slush-covered boots and spurs. Cauthrien was shown to an elegant bedchamber, and immediately declared that there was plenty of space in there for her staff as well.
The Wardens were given a room to themselves. As it happened, it was the room that Alistair had slept in last spring. It looked much smaller with nine Wardens and a Qunari warrior filling it. Alistair wondered, smirking, how long the bann's fancy plumbing would last under the onslaught of them all. They'd probably do better bathing together in the laundry. He suggested it to a passing maid he vaguely recognized.
"We have a boiler for that, too, my lord Warden. I'll see to it," she said, bustling off.
'My lord Warden!' Alistair smirked to himself. He liked the sound of that. He took another look at his mob. Half of them looked afraid to touch anything. They slowly pulled off their heavy furs. Adaia was staring at the blue brocade-draped bed. It was quite the sight, heavily carved with oak leaves and acorns, gilded in places, and long enough for a qunari.
Emrys muttered, "It's easy to see where old Ceorlic spent his coin. Is this his own bedchamber?"
"Don't think so," Alistair told him. "I think it's just one of many guest rooms. They're all incredibly posh."
"It's beautiful," Adaia whispered, thin fingers tracing the carvings. "So this is a noble house. Do they all live like this, Alistair?"
"Pretty much."
"And all the rest of us... live the way we do..." her voice drifted off, and she studied an elegant x-shaped chair with scrolled arms. The back was painted with golden flowers, and it was cushioned with purple velvet. It stood in front of a inlaid writing desk. On the desk was a bronze inkstand with the image of a knight fighting a pair of wolves. Light was provided by a bronze candelabra, holding four scented candles.
"Not all of us live like this," Emrys snorted. "My family manor wasn't much more than a big farmhouse. We didn't have upholstered furniture or gilded beds. Or fancy gew-gaws everywhere."
"Still..." Adaia whispered, now admiring the wall hangings.
"Did that girl say we could have a bath?" asked Petra, sniffing gingerly at herself. "because that would be a gift of the Maker."
"A hot bath?" echoed Asa. "There's a long-forgotten treat."
Oghren rubbed his red beard. "Now who's going share that big bed with me? Heh-heh. Looks like there's room for all you fine ladies."
"Don't be a pig, Oghren," Ulfa rebuked him wearily. "Or we'll have to skin you and roast you."
"Er..." Alistair mumbled. "I thought we'd let the females... er, ladies have the bed, and we men would take the floor. We've got lots of furs and things..."
"Do not patronize them as weaklings," said Sten. "However, if one observes that most of the females are indeed smaller, it is logical for them to take the bed, as more of them will fit."
"You have a brilliant mind, Sten," admired Asa. "You see everything so clearly. I think we can find a way to fit five on that bed. I'll fine-comb my hair first, though, just in case I've got some visitors."
"Considerate of you," Ulfa approved. "Me, too."
There were some fairly unmilitary shouts down the hall. Alistair guessed that someone had found the bathroom. Right. There was Cauthrien's voice, raised in command, reining in the chaos, organizing a rota.
"That's the upstairs bathroom,"Alistair said. "Let's not get involved in that. The tub's only big enough for one or two, so they'll have to use the water over and over again. The laundry tub is probably really big. Maybe a bunch of us can go at once."
"I'm not bathing with Oghren," Asa declared. "I'll bet he'd pee in the water."
The dwarf put his hand on his heart in mock protest. "Me? Never!"
As it turned out, the manor's laundry tub was huge. It was on the ground level, next to the kitchen, and was likely the warmest place in the entire manor. The minute the women saw it, its steam roiling up whitely, they collectively screamed and began throwing off their clothes.
"Wait!" Alistair protested. "What are you doing? Stop—"
"I guess they're going first," Emrys said, craning to get a look at the retreating back views. He grinned at Alistair. "I can put my hands over your eyes if you're feeling faint."
"Mighty fine," leered Oghren. An indignant scullery maid shut the door in his face. He shouted through the door. "Don't take so long that the water gets cold!"
The horde was marching: thousands upon thousands of genlocks and hurlocks. Thousands of shrieks were among them, loping along like beasts. Ogres lumbered slowly, twice as tall the rest. Above them, the Archdemon bellowed in triumph.
Alistair awoke, that terrible cry still ringing in his ears. Around him his Wardens were moaning. Adaia was awake and whispering to Siofranni, too softly for him to hear. The figures on the big bed shifted. Petra, sleeping crosswise at the foot of the bed, sat up, gasping for breath.
"It's all right," Alistair murmured. "It's real, but it's all right. It can't be anywhere close."
"Are you sure?" Emrys said softly, stirring on his pile of furs. "I saw a great wave of darkspawn, marching in endless columns through the Deep Roads. They hear the song, and are filled with purpose."
"Sodding blighters," swore Oghren. "This dreaming thing is the worst bit about being a Warden."
"What if they're going to Denerim?" Nevin's eyes caught a shaft of moonlight and reflected it back. It made him briefly look like a frightened animal.
That was a terrifying thought. Alistair fought to control the brief flare of panic.
"I don't see how," he said quietly. "We haven't seen them any place where they could be gathering. From Bronwyn's letters, nobody's seen the main body of the horde in months. They're going somewhere else, and Maker help the people there."
The nightmare forced Leliana out of her bed at Soldier's Peak, heart pounding. She fumbled into a warm wrapper, and slid her feet into her sheepskin-lined slippers. Holding her flickering candlestick, she went upstairs to the kitchen. At this hour, all the servants would peacefully asleep. The fire, however, was burning brightly. Someone had already made it up.
"You too?"
Hakan and Soren were there, eyes shadowed, playing one of their endless chess games. Wind whistled through the high kitchen shutters. but the room was warm enough.
"I've had some wild dreams," Soren said, "but that one was pretty creepy. Who could fight an army that size?"
"Any army could," Hakan pointed out. "But they'd be massacred."
"Thanks for that cheerful insight," Soren snarled.
"I'll make some mulled wine," Leliana offered.
"You're a sweetheart," Hakan grunted.
Red wine, of course. She opened a bottle and decanted it carefully into the pan, adding spices and a bit of raw sugar. While it warmed, she took down cups from a shelf, humming softly to herself.
"I wonder if I should go see if Jowan is all right."
"Don't bother," Hakan advised. "It's too cold for you to go hold his hand. The wind would blow you right off the bridge to the Mages' Tower. You'd better stay here and fix up that wine."
"The old man probably still has him working late. Likes to crack the whip. Crazy mages can take care of themselves," agreed Soren.
"They've been very helpful," Leliana scolded them mildly.
Hakan was not altogether wrong, of course. To check on Jowan she would have to put on boots, breeches, jerkin, cloak, and gloves, and then hope that Avernus had not locked the tower entrance. She really did not want to stand on the high walkway, pounding unheard at the heavy door. She could pick the lock, of course, but Avernus often laid traps for the uninvited. Horrible old man. Paranoid and horrible. He only liked Bronwyn and Jowan. Maybe Morrigan, from something he had said, but that was not so surprising. Morrigan was quite horrible herself.
Truth was, she was inclined to look for Jowan because she was rather lonely, especially at this dark hour, when only Wardens were stirring. The women of the Wolf and Dryden families were very nice and very hard-working, but Leliana had little in common with them. She enjoying putting the Wardens' castle in order, but there were times—like now— when it was simply not enough. Jowan at least could talk to her of travel and history. He had read many of the same books, and they had had fun putting the library here in order, working together pleasantly. They had something in common. He had made terrible mistakes, but so had she. He liked her songs, too.
She must talk to him tomorrow about moving out of the tower. Surely it would be much nicer for him to be here, with his friends.
The wine smelled so good. She poured it out, and brought the dwarves their cups, smiling as they grunted their thanks. While she sipped her wine, she thought back on the dream. The horde looked like a river of Taint, but here and there streams of other darkspawn flowed away from it, heading toward other destinations. Where were they going?
"Did you see that?" Velanna whispered, unsure if she was awake or asleep.
Askil swore softly. "By the Stone, I hate the Fade."
Astrid agreed, but said nothing. Instead, she sat up, resting her back against a smooth stone wall, and lit a small lantern, considerately keeping the sides facing her Wardens shaded. They were in the Deep Roads, not far from Orzammar. She pulled out her map and brooded over it. Falkor had to have reached the city by now, bearing her letters. A letter to House Helmi. A letter to House Dace. More letters... twelve in all. By tomorrow, Falkor would stand before the Assembly with Rodyk, proclaiming her victory. Amgarrak Thaig regained. Kal'Hirol regained. Golems won to aid in the fight against the darkspawn. The entire Amgarrak Road cleared from Kal'Hirol to Orzammar. When was the last time that Orzmmar had had such news? Not in her lifetime, certainly. What was Branka's smokeless stove to the reconquest of dwarven territory? Lady Dace, at least, should be swayed by the argument that a Paragon would be a useful counterweight to the power of the King.
Her fellow wardens were not so elated, and were having trouble going back to sleep. Some nearby Legionnaires grumbled, cursing restless Wardens.
"I saw the Archdemon," said Ailill, his voice trembling. "I saw the horde."
"We all did," said Astrid. "But they are nowhere near. We have done well."
Kal'Hirol was dark and empty, and Tara thought it was a lot creepier than Amgarrak Thaig. That was just clean and vacant, like a newly built house awaiting its owners. Astrid and the Legion had cleared it out so thoroughly that there were no signs in evidence of the recent disaster. Kal'Hirol, on the other hand, was a disgustingly Blighted place where lots of people had died horrible deaths at the hands of the darkspawn.
No surprise, then, that she had horrible dreams. That bloody stupid Archdemon had the horde on the march again, and was being some sort of stupid drama queen about it. Everybody woke up, and it was a good thing that they had found a little corner to themselves, or Sigrun's yell would have roused the entire Legion.
"Stone preserve us!" Jakka grumbled. "That's not... right."
"You've been all over the Deep Roads, Tara," Catriona said, shivering under her cloak. "Did you recognize the place we were seeing?"
"No," Tara admitted. "Brosca, what about you—? Brosca? Where did she go? No, Sigrun don't call for her, or we'll wake everyone else up and they'll be mad at us."
"I will search for our sister Brosca, Keeper," Darach said virtuously. "It will be some time before the impression of that evil vision fades. Better that I occupy myself in useful labor." He got up and was just reaching for his quiver when there were footsteps and then a little wavering light, and Brosca bounded in among them.
"You're all awake! That's great!" she enthused, and then clapped a hand over her mouth. "I need to be quiet. I've got something to tell you guys! What are you all doing up, anyway?"
"The Archdemon paid us a visit," Tara said, making a face. "Bad dreams."
"Glad I missed it. Anyway, gather round, boys and girls." She knelt, face gleeful, and whispered, "Astrid's been holding out on us!"
Tara struggled up to a sitting position. "What do you mean?"
Brosca grinned. "I found the thaig's treasury. A nice, full treasury. What's more, I think Astrid did, too. There were footsteps in the dust and the seals were broken."
Sigrun looked at Jukka. "Maybe she thought it belonged to the dwarven people."
"That's what I say!" Brosca agreed. "To dwarven people and their friends!"
The reaction to this was generally favorable.
"She'll know if we loot it," Tara said doubtfully. "And probably she wants to help Orzammar. I guess that's fair..." She shook her head at Brosca. "I don't want her to be mad at me. I'm sure she had a very good reason for keeping it quiet."
"It's huge," Brosca said. "She'll never know if we're careful. Six huge tubs of gold and jewels. We can skim a bag off the top of each one." She added. "Yeah, she'd probably be pissed if she knew, but the best way to keep her from having her feelings hurt is not to tell her. So we don't. We don't tell anybody. Finders keepers. Let's go."
Sigrun was already on her feet. "Yeah. Let's go before the Legion wakes."
"We don't want to wake the Legion," agreed Jukka, stumbling over his cloak. "That would be rude. They need their rest."
Catriona thought of her brother and his skinny, barefoot children. "Right. Let's go. Come on, Darach. With gold you can help your clan."
"There is that," he agreed. "Let us go."
There was gold, all right. There were carved jewels and strings of fiery opals. There were silver goblets and diamond rings. They decided not to take any bulky armor, since their own armor and weapons were adequate. The bags were filled; carefully, prudently. Brosca weighed each one in her hands, shutting her eyes to be fair, and was able to roughly gauge equal shares for all.
"Look!" she said, pointing at the levels in the huge vessels. "You can't tell we were here. Told you. Astrid shouldn't have held out on us, but I forgive her, since I got a share anyway."
When they were done, they slipped away, concealed the entrance just as Astrid had, and returned to their night camp, to dream of gold instead of darkspawn.
There was one place where Anora's influence was entirely absent. Some might consider making use of her advantage unsporting, but Bronwyn decided that being overscrupulous in the marriage bed would be casting away a tactical advantage. Here, Loghain listened to her, and her alone. All one had to do was ravish him thoroughly, and thus gain his undivided attention.
"Should we even let the Orlesians leave?" Bronwyn wondered aloud, after collapsing onto her husband's chest. Quite a nice chest: broad, not overly hairy, and hard as oak.
"What?" Loghain asked, roused from his descent into peaceful sleep. "Keep them as hostages, you mean? It won't work with the Knight-Divine. The Duke? Perhaps."
"We know they must have planted agents here in Denerim. Those agents won't do anything public until the Knight-Divine and the Duke are safely away. Afterwards…" She slid off him and curled up at his side, head pillowed on his arm.
"On the other hand," Loghain pointed out, his head pleasantly muzzy, "they might be motivated to rescue their leaders. I was considering waiting for particularly bad weather, and then sending them on their way."
"That might do," Bronwyn mused.
Loghain smiled faintly, dreamily: liking the justice of it. Let the pair of them sink into the oblivion of the Waking Sea; let them be trapped under a coastal ice shelf, faces turned up pleadingly to the impotent Sun; let them cling to broken spars on the grey and shifting sea until the cold leached life from their bones. All pleasant, restful images...
"Besides," he said, "keeping them as hostages without open acts of war by the Orlesians puts us in the wrong. It won't help our case with the Nevarrans. The longer we keep them, the more likely they are to bribe or coerce someone to act as a messenger with their people. They might even find sources of intelligence within the Palace. Not worth it. Let them go, but after Howe and his men are safely away..."
So they drifted off to sleep very companionably. Even later, when Bronwyn's nightmares began, Loghain was not irritated, but spooned up behind her and nuzzled her awake.
"You were dreaming."
She shivered. "If you want to call it that. The horde is enormous. The Archdemon screamed in my face. It doesn't help to know that all the Grey Wardens see the same things. It feels personal." She tried to slow her breathing. Loghain pulled her closer.
"The same things?" he murmured. "That's strange."
"Strange but true. I've asked. We really do seem to see the same things. Gruesome, actually."
"Try to sleep. No Archdemons here..."
Thanks to my reviewers: reality deviant, Phygmalion, anon, Jyggilag, Papercut Peterson, Blinded in a bolthole, Zute, Juliafied, JackOfBladesX, Girl-chama, Mike3207, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, Nemrut, KrystylSky, KnightOfHolyLight, EpitomyofShyness, almostinsane, Sarah1281, MsBarrows, Robbie the Phoenix, Kyren, Verpine, Psyche Sinclair, Cjonwalrus, darksky01, Costin, Gene Dark, Jenna53, Notnahtanha, Sizuka2, Have Socks. Will Travel, guardian1165, Koden21, dragonmactir, LadyoftheDrow, Tsu Doh Nimh, and rhcpftw.
The first song is used in Act II, scene 7 of As You Like It. the second song is from Act II, scene 3 of Much Ado About Nothing.