Victory at Ostagar

Chapter 94: Blood on the Track

Bronwyn was surprised at how well Loghain was taking the confirmation of the upcoming Orlesian invasion, but really, it was no more than he had expected.

He had much to be pleased about. Brosca had discovered the staging site of the upcoming invasion, and even given him some idea as to the timeline. In her eager, ingenuous way, she told him a great deal of interesting information about Jader itself and its defenses, since nothing much escaped the tough little dwarf's notice. His map of the city was further annotated. He now had a way to sneak people into Jader. Quite a few people, over time. Why had the Orlesians not put grilles over the sewer mouths?

Perhaps they had tried it, but it had caused trouble. Perhaps the sewer mouths became clogged if something as large as elven or human bodies were thrown into the sewers. There was an ancient sewer below Denerim—a primitive system designed when Denerim was far smaller—but it discharged its contents underwater into Denerim Bay. He honestly did not know if there was a grille over the mouth. Perhaps not. He would have to look into it, but it was his understanding that it would be impossible to dive down to the mouth and survive the swim to the upper reaches of the tunnel. He would include that tidbit in his next letter to Anora. It would be difficult to examine in this weather, of course, which reassured him. Swimming for several minutes in freezing wastewater was not a viable prospect for any bard he knew of.

Bronwyn had been useful, as well. She had taken her Wardens to explore the area west of Orzammar and north of Caridin's Cross, doubling back to the ruined western road to Orzammar. There was only limited resistance there: darkspawn stragglers and some disturbing phantoms of dead dwarven warriors. A modest but worthwhile amount of treasure was discovered in the ruins, and Shale had hauled it back, while recounting tales of its checkered past with Wilhelm,as they scavenged the Deep Roads. Loghain did not particularly appreciate being described by implication as a 'scavenger," but a hundred sovereigns was a hundred sovereigns, and would pay for the construction of three trebuchets and a great many explosive bombs to load into them.

Orlais had a huge standing army, especially if one counted the chevaliers, whose only real purpose was fighting Orlais' wars. They had not done particularly well against the Nevarrans recently. Loghain sneered. They had, in fact, done no better than they had done against Loghain himself. Heavy cavalry could strike like a thunderbolt, but there were all sorts of creative ways to counter them: massed archers, ditches, fire bombs. A footsoldier with a billhook could drag a chevalier from his mount and beat him to death with the weighted butt before the chevalier could get to his feet. No doubt a great many chevaliers would be shipped to the targeted ports, but cavalry was also extremely vulnerable when disembarking. At that moment horse and man were not a formidable fighting partnership: they were cargo, being unloaded. Defensive walls at the harbor equipped with arrow slits were a must. The docks could be arranged to allow only a few horses to disembark at a time. Furthermore, there was no beach at the harbor at Amaranthine to allow the horses to swim to shore. It would be highly desirable to capture as many horses as possible. They were valuable; the chevaliers themselves were not, unless they were held for ransom. That was actually not a bad idea. Fort Drakon was large, and there was plenty of room there for guests.

Of course, there was also the possibility of catching the Orlesians whilst they were still in harbor. A few swift, agile craft, armed with ballista and explosive shells, or perhaps those fire-spouting devices... yes... they could wreak havoc within minutes.

His plans here were complete, and it was time to move on. Faraday and Haglin knew his mind and would do their part. It remained to tell Bronwyn that he was leaving.

She was quite surprised when he informed her, late that night. She had finished her preparations for her departure tomorrow. Early in the morning, she would lead her Wardens out—he hoped to a successful outcome. If her scouting of the Deep Roads could lead to a way to take Chateau Solidor, Jader would be theirs for all time.

"Loghain, I need to talk to you—"

He interrupted her briskly. "Yes, yes. I need to talk to you, too." He stripped off his shirt and scrubbed energetically at his neck and chest. The accommodations at Gherlen's Halt were fairly spare, even for the King and Queen. They did not run to frequent baths. A basin of hot water, morning and night, had to do. "I'm leaving to inspect the coastal defenses the day after tomorrow."

"The day after tomorrow!"

Maker's Breath! She was looking at him exactly the way Celia had looked when he told her was going to Denerim and leaving her in Gwaren. Perhaps it was a woman thing.

"Your mission is not yet complete," he pointed out. "We need a way to cross the border of Orlais unseen. Faraday and Haglin are busy with the improvements, and now it's time for me to go east. I must deal with the coastal issues and call Frandarel to account for his double dealing."

"You want West Hill… and Frandarel's fortune."

"Of course I do. The man is a traitor and a greedy swine. I've sent a courier to Anora to have an agent search his house for incriminating documents. For that matter, we found quite a bit at West Hill itself. I intend to make an example of him. He will be tried, attainted, and executed. Those who sell us out to Orlais will not live to enjoy their gold. West Hill will become a royal domain and be fortified properly against the coming storm. His fortune will be deposited in the royal treasury."

It was ruthless. It was formidable. Bronwyn had no particular sympathy for Frandarel, who had shirked his duty and played a double game, but she could imagine Loghain doing just this to the Couslands, had Howe seemed more useful than she. To the Couslands or to anyone who stood in his way.

"I see." She set down her hairbrush and slipped into bed, sitting up, propped on the bolsters. "You won't be here when I return."

"Certainly not. I've got to get on to Highever and Amaranthine and see that harbor defenses are upgraded. For that matter, I need to get back to Denerim. See what you can do to get us into Orlais. We now have the route through the Jader sewers. Don't use that without good reason: I don't want to tip my hand too early. If the Orlesians strike, we'll infiltrate and seize the city. As to the Rock, I have plans to surround it with counterworks. We'd need an army of sappers to do it, of course."

"Of course. Perhaps we could hire casteless dwarves."

He splashed himself again. "A good idea. Keep the lines of communication open with Bhelen. I hope that Warden Paragon of yours hasn't soured him on the alliance."

She had something else on her mind, and tried again to tell him. "Loghain…"

Something else occurred to him. "I don't suppose you've had any more… dreams? Nightmares? Any idea what the Archdemon is up to?"

Thinking about something else entirely, she was confused for a moment.

"Plenty of nightmares, but no hint what the Archdemon is up to. I've been thinking about it, though. I think the horde is wintering in the Deep Roads."

He toweled himself off, frowning. "Wintering?"

"Yes. We're not the only ones hiding from the weather. Darkspawn are tough, but they can freeze in the cold just like anything else. The snow is just as great an obstacle to them as to us. The Archdemon isn't an idiot. I've done a bit of reading, too. There's some evidence that the darkspawn are never very active in cold weather. Of course, most Blights were further north, where it wouldn't be an issue. Still, I think I'm right about this. I think the Archdemon is waiting for the spring, or if not for the spring, for the first major thaw. The weather should break in late Guardian, and when it does, we'll see the darkspawn again."

Loghain nodded slowly…thoughtfully. It made a good deal of sense. A winter offensive in southern climates was madness. The winter had protected them from Orlais. That it had also protected them from the darkspawn did not strain credulity.

"But there was something else I need to tell you, Loghain—"

There was a knock at the door, and it was a messenger from Faraday, to give Loghain a progress report on the work on the south wall. Loghain was distracted and asked the man a number of questions. Meanwhile, Bronwyn fumed, hidden behind the frowzy bed curtains.

Why bother to tell him at all? He obviously had more important matters in hand. She was not entirely sure herself. Her courses were late— very late. She felt a little queasy on occasion and her breasts were sore and swollen. Could it be? Avernus had promised that his improved potion would restore Warden fertility, and she had taken the potion—oh, when was it?

—The twelfth of Firstfall, when Danith returned from Soldier's Peak. Then the wedding had been two days later. It was now the sixth of Wintermarch. It was possible, she supposed, and sighed. It was very possible. How inconvenient, just as she was leaving on what promised to be a long and uncomfortable slog through previously unexplored Deep Roads.

The messenger was gone, and now Loghain was scribbling up some notes. Her resentment rising, she thought of Loghain, lording it over the port captains of Highever and Amaranthine—how much more easily with Fergus in Denerim and Nathaniel Maker-knew-where in the Free Marches. Lording it over them in comfort, too, with an actual bed to sleep in at night. And then he would go back to the palace in Denerim and have everything his own way, without even having to make the pretense of consulting with such a person as the Queen Regnant of Ferelden.

Meanwhile, the Queen Regnant of Ferelden would be sleeping on filthy, Tainted stone, and eating rubbish rations. It was not Loghain's fault—not exactly—but he certainly seemed absolutely fine with sending his young wife into horrible danger. Not a word of concern… not a hint that she would be missed.

She was being childish, and Loghain was right not to insult her by doubting her ability… but… it would be so very gratifying to know he cared…

His notes complete, Loghain got into bed and snuffed the candle. Then he sighed deeply when Bronwyn's questing hand reached out for him.

"You should get some sleep," he said. "You're leaving early tomorrow."

Her hand paused. She was so angry with him that she nearly changed her mind, but her body wanted his most insistently, and turning over in a snit without love-making would probably punish her more than it did him. She fought down the impulse to ask him in a most acidic tone if he was actually refusing her, the night before she went into danger… the night before what was likely to be a long separation. In the same situation, if a woman did that to a man, she would be called a heartless bitch.

Instead, she said, rather shortly, "Yes. I need my sleep, and I always sleep better afterwards."

She took the next answering sigh as a long-suffering assent to her outrageous demand, which ratcheted her temper up another notch. What followed was fierce and satisfying, because she resigned herself to doing all the work from the first. He seemed to like it well enough, and his last sigh was definitely one of pleasure, and not duty. Nonetheless, Bronwyn was still irritated, and did indeed turn over and go to sleep without bothering to kiss him afterwards. At the moment, sex was a vital necessity, but expressing affection was out of the question.

Her temper was no better on awakening. It was dark, bitterly cold, and wretchedly early; and while Loghain did get up to see her off, he irritated her by second-guessing her preparations.

She finally muttered, "I have done this before, you know." Never again would he silence or dismiss her as he had last night. Then again, now she had not the least desire to share her news with him.

Loghain gave her a look, but she refused to be bullied. Instead, she sat with her Wardens and had a good breakfast. Loghain joined her, and the conversation was at first sparse and general, since a number of the party—notably Anders—hated rising early. Brosca and Tara, however, were very cheerful, and began bantering back and forth, venturing ideas about sneaking into Jader and pranking the Orlesians, or the Chantry, or anyone else who annoyed them.

Loghain found it so amusing that he only gave them a mild warning. "The secret route into Jader is too valuable to waste on mere pranks."

"What about sneaking in and burning up all their ships in dry dock?" Tara suggested. "Wood and tar… a stray fireball… and 'Whoosht!'"

It was terribly tempting. "Maybe when more of the ships arrive," he said, thinking it over. "What are the barracks made of?"

"Stone," answered Brosca. "Too bad, isn't it?"

"Of course," Zevran considered. "Everything inside is very likely flammable. If they were gutted by fire, it would be difficult to find lodgings for the troops, especially the ones coming into the city. They would have to be billeted on the civilian population instead, which is always so very popular."

Loghain chuckled. "Not yet. It would be better to do it just before they enter the city, for maximum chaos." Even Bronwyn smiled.

"No, thank you," she said quietly, when the servant tried to serve her more eggs. "Just some bread, I think."

It was quite awful. Sitting here with Loghain, she realized that she was no longer in love with him. Not a bit. She did not even particularly like him at the moment. Something burning inside her soured and grew cold, like a candle blown out in the wind. She felt oddly empty.

Well, so much the worse for her. She was still Queen of Ferelden, and he was still its King, and they had plenty to unite them as they strove to defend this kingdom. He has his work, and she had hers, and perhaps it was just as well that she was leaving today.

They marched out into the stark brightness of a cold winter morning. The snow was soft and deep under a crisp crust. Scout waded through it, huffing. Loghain and a few of the officers were lined up to wish them a good journey. Ser Blayne kissed her hand respectfully. Ser Norrel had better than to attempt it, and bowed deeply instead.

She and Loghain gave each other the grave, formal kisses on either cheek that such an occasion demanded. He frowned a little, looking puzzled at the expression on her face, but after all said nothing. Amber whimpered, unhappy that Bronwyn and Scout were going away. Bronwyn gave the puppy a farewell pat.

"I should be back within a fortnight or so," she said, elaborately casual. "Perhaps I'll return with good news." She gave Loghain a long look, and then turned and headed east.

They were thoroughly chilled by the time they reached the access point. Anders and Morrigan had flown on ahead, and were smugly dry. It was enough to make Bronwyn wish she had been born a mage.

Aeducan Thaig was uneventful, except for a pack of deepstalkers that attacked them. They were newly-hatched, from their size, and absolutely ravenous. Being young, they were quite good eating. Bronwyn thought it best to save their rations as long as possible. They took a different route than the one used a few days before. Bronwyn wanted to cover as much new ground as possible.

They had not walked as far as she had originally planned in the first march. The fact was that she did not feel very well: her stomach roiled distressingly; her nose was unnaturally sensitive to the stink of the Tainted Deep Roads. And there was the embarrassing necessity of frequently stopping to relieve herself. It was alarming, the way that she could feel her body letting her down.

All things considered, it was not surprising that she knew no tales of pregnant heroes. No... wait... Andraste had given Maferath several sons. The exact number was still debated. Were they born before the great war against the Imperium? Or did Andraste go into battle after finishing her childbearing? Would a magister fear a heavily pregnant Prophet? More to the point in these days, would any darkspawn fear a heavily pregnant Bronwyn, however sharp her sword?

If this had not come upon her so suddenly, she might have given some thought to delegating this venture to someone else's command... Tara... or... who?

Anders discreetly approached her and whispered, "Are you all right?"

"It's nothing. Perhaps a rejuvenation spell might help."

It did, for awhile. Those who had passed this way before-Anders, Tara, Brosca— enjoyed pointing out the sights. Since Oghren was not present, there was no reason to withhold their opinion of the late Paragon Branka.

"The Boss really gave it to her!" Brosca chuckled. "Branka thought she was all high and mighty, but the Boss took her down—in more ways than one. Can you imagine? That cow had killed all her people to please her pride—all except the women she left to be turned into Broodmothers!"

Aveline had heard the story before, and shuddered. Yes, leaders had to lead, and one did have to look at the big picture sometimes, but Branka's choices were cruel and perverse... and ultimately ineffective as Bronwyn had pointed out. And a woman who could cause another woman deliberately to be made a Broodmother was evil incarnate. Aveline would never forget the horror of the Broodmother chamber near Ostagar. In fact, she was beginning to believe that Wardens should be making a special effort to hunt down and destroy all darkspawn breeding grounds.

There were marches. There were sleep periods. At length, they were back in Caridin's Cross, which was eerily silent.

"This is where we turn off," Bronwyn said, glancing again at her map. "We move west from here, not north." The two Dalish, Cathari and Darach, edged further along the corridor to scout. Bronwyn sat on a rock and frowned at the map, feeling slightly dizzy, trying to make sense of the scale. Scout sat down beside her, and put his head on his paws.

"So where are the darkspawn?" Toliver asked Aveline. "I mean, these are the Deep Roads, aren't they? They're supposed to be crawling with darkspawn."

"Toliver," Aveline said wearily, "I think complaining about it is completely inappropriate."

"And stupid," Brosca agreed. "The Deep Roads aren't bad at all without darkspawn." She tossed today's prize—a glowing, rough-cut sapphire—into the air and caught it deftly. They she squinted to hold it in place over one eye and leered.

"Looks good," Sigrun remarked. "If you lose an eye you could wear that instead. It'd be a lot nicer than a patch."

"If you lose something vital, you might as well get fancy with your replacements," Brosca agreed. "Did you see Astrid's golden hand? That was pretty spiffy."

Tara lowered her voice. "If you want gorgeous green eyes like Bronwyn's, you could always ask a Broodmother to spit in your face."

"Ew." Sigrun made a face at Jukka, who grimaced and shrugged.

"Cara, I do not wish to think of that very dreadful day." Zevran put an arm around Tara's waist, and led her aside.

"Yeah, Broodmothers are nasty," Brosca said, a little glum, not even cheered by her sapphire. "We're bound to come across more. I mean, it only makes sense. I've been thinking. How long do they live? How many darkspawn can they pop out? Does anybody know? If the fancy Wardens in Weisshaupt know, why aren't they telling?"

Morrigan fussed over her bag of herbs again. Something had put her in a temper. Anders moved away and watched Bronwyn from a distance, wondering if he dared a diagnostic spell without permission. Why not? He needed line-of-sight, for it to work, but perhaps if he stepped behind that boulder over there, he would be out of sight of everyone else, and thus avoid awkward questions. He dodged away, as if relieving himself, and cast quickly, hands blooming blue.

Ha! Now that was... well... it was what he had expected, but he wondered what Bronwyn was thinking. This was the last place she should be, and it was his duty, as the party's Healer, to tell her so.

"She is with child, is she not?" Morrigan's voice was right in his ear, making him jump.

"Maker, Morrigan! Don't do that!"

"Do not be such a girl. Bronwyn is with child, is she not?"

"Ssshhh! Yes. Yes, she is. Only recently. Only about six weeks along, I'd guess. Still, this is a bad idea. We should go back."

"And you think it likely, when she has been given this mission by the all-powerful great Loghain himself? She is to put her tail between her legs and trail back to that wretched grubby fort, her mission a failure?"

"Someone else can handle it. Tara can lead us."

"You have been with her all this time, and yet you know her so little?" Morrigan's eyes slid over to watch Bronwyn, and her face was not without compassion. "She is proud. If you do not know that, you do not know her." She shrugged. "And she is at odds with Loghain, and does not wish to lose face before him."

"At odds?" Anders looked around, to see if anyone could see them and conceivably overhear them. "What makes you say that?"

"'Tis perfectly clear to me. Bronwyn's romantic infatuation has crashed head-on into unattractive reality. The man she doted on has proved himself to be not all she hoped. Did you not observe her at breakfast? She is angry with him. He is leaving the west and going off to manage things in his own way. He evinced no particular concern for her. Either he knows that she is with child, in which case he is a callous brute; or he does not know, which means that Bronwyn has not told him. If Bronwyn has not told him such an extremely important piece of news, it is because she is too angry to confide in him, and too proud to appear weak and pitiful. I could tell her I told her so—for I warned her— but 'tis most unlikely she would thank me for it."

Anders, as a man, saw things rather differently. "Loghain is reserved, but he does care about her. I've seen him look at her sometimes... well, I think he thinks a lot of her. It's just not his way to get all... sentimental." He sighed. "Of course, since Bronwyn is with child and all stirred up, she's likely to be unreasonable."

"I do not think," Morrigan said, frost in every syllable, "that it is unreasonable for a young woman who has given power, riches, and her body to a man to expect him to show her a certain degree of public regard. And that her feelings should be discounted simply because she is carrying a child—a child that may someday rule a kingdom—is the sort of odious, thick-skinned bumptiousness of which only your sex is capable."

With that, she turned on her heel, and strode away towards Bronwyn, her slim back radiating fury.

Anders winced. "That could have gone better," he muttered to himself.

"Do you intend to continue this mission?" Morrigan asked Bronwyn bluntly.

Bronwyn looked up at her in astonishment. "Of course. Why ever not?"

"Your digestion is not troubling you? Your stomach is not queasy?"

She knows. Bronwyn's face set into mulish lines. "I'm wonderfully well. This should not take more than a few days. I have work to do, and cannot take to my bed for such a small matter."

Morrigan laughed sharply. "A small matter now, indeed, but one likely to grow big enough for all to see! Perhaps some of my tea would not have gone amiss!"

"Morrigan..." Bronwyn bit her lip and looked away. "The two of us were brought up to regard this matter in very different ways. For a noblewoman, bearing heirs is the major and absolutely essential task. It is only since receiving Avernus' improved potion that I had much hope of producing an heir of my own. I cannot trifle with that. Using any contraception would be wrong and selfish. I admit that it is not very pleasant to find myself carrying a child in the Deep Roads, but it is all part of my duty. My mother was in hiding throughout most of the Rebellion, and was pregnant for part of that time. She could not refuse to produce an heir for Highever, simply because she was not living in comfort."

"I did not think your brother was that old," Morrigan said. "He cannot be thirty!"

"He isn't." Bronwyn felt ill, remembering the stories. "I am my mother's fifth child. Fergus is her fourth. They had no Healer with them during the Rebellion."

Morrigan did not reply in words, but simply raised her brows, giving Bronwyn a hard stare.

"Yes," Bronwyn said bitterly. "I take your point. However, I do have a very good Healer with me, and this is a mission of limited duration. We are to find a way to the surface beyond the Orlesian border, and then return with the news. Once that is accomplished, I promise to be prudent."

"You owe me no promises. Perhaps you should consider what you owe yourself—and this child. Furthermore, contrary to your belief, it is not only noblewomen who are called on produce children under inadequate circumstances; nor are those children in their eyes less precious than a Queen's."

Bronwyn blushed, quite thoroughly chastened. She knew it was no more than she deserved for her arrogant words. "What I meant, I think," she said, "was to say that producing a child is so important that I never even thought about contraceptive teas and the like. I never needed them before my betrothal to Loghain, and so never had such a thing on hand. And ordinarily, once I married, I would never have used them, unless I rapidly produced so many children I needed no more. I suppose that happens, since most noblewomen stop at two or three."

"Very well. then. Let us accomplish this mission as expeditiously as possible, and return you to the dubious comforts of Gherlen's Halt!"

At the end of the day—or a long period of marching—since there was no "day" or "night" in the Deep Roads as surfacers understood it, the companions sat down to a meal and a conference afterward that did not go entirely as Bronwyn had planned.

Anders and Morrigan were staring at her, and then Anders said, "Bronwyn has an important announcement."

The last thing Bronwyn wanted was her companions fussing over her, but perhaps it was best to get it out in the open, especially if she were to keep stopping the march because of all the ridiculous things her body was demanding.

"Er… yes… I suppose so. Anders performed a diagnostic spell on me today, and determined that I am expecting a child."

A fearful, unholy screeching rose up in the Deep Roads, as Tara, Sigrun, Catriona, and Brosca screamed in unison, and rushed to give her hugs. Aveline smiled kindly and enveloped her in a strong embrace as well, her good wishes a bit wistful and not nearly so noisy.

"I knew it!" Catriona told Aveline. "She was eating dry bread and stopping to pee all the time. I knew it!"

Shale seemed nonplussed and rather put off by the idea. "It is… breeding? Now? Here?"

"Maker! I hope not!" Bronwyn laughed. "Perhaps —if all goes well—the child will come in early Harvestmere. Perhaps in August. My mother always said that babies make their own time."

The reactions of the male members of the party were rather more subdued. Some ,like Cathair and Darach, expressed kind hopes for a healthy child. Dalish women, after all, endured all sorts of hardships in their constant travels. Jukka and Toliver were more intimidated, and to Bronwyn's annoyance, began looking at her as if she had suddenly become a piece of rare porcelain. Zevran, to her surprise, was rather of this party, for he was open about his concerns.

"This place cannot be healthy for you in your condition, since it is not healthy for anyone," he said frankly. "It would be best for you to return to the surface."

"And so I shall," Bronwyn replied, "just as soon as we complete our mission." He still looked doubtful, so she pulled out their map.

"Look here. It is perhaps two days to the outskirts of Rousten Thaig. The elevation indicates that it is quite close to the surface in places. We'll look for any sign that we can access the surface without significant effort. Remember than even in Ortan Thaig there were cracks in the stone that let in distant sunlight. We might well see something of the sort. If it can be widened into a place large enough to slip through, we will be finished, and we can return to Gherlen's Halt immediately. We've been lucky so far. The darkspawn have gone elsewhere, and this is our chance. We might not have another."

Everyone then began looking at Anders. "Bronwyn," he said, "we want to help you, but you've got to be careful. We've got to take it as easy as possible. You really don't want to strain yourself and risk a miscarriage."

Bronwyn saw their anxious faces. Their concern for her was well meant, so she did not dismiss them. Instead, they moved at a easy pace through the Deep Roads, while the scouts doubled their vigilance. They came across some newly hatched spiders and more deep stalkers, but the only darkspawn they found were dead.

The Deep Roads forked where Bronwyn had previously led her people up to double back to the closed west gate of Orzammar. They passed through high and silent halls for some time, until they came to a branch that led off from their path. As they passed it, a horrible stink drifted out: immensely vile, foul, and repulsive. Scout lowered his head and growled.

Bronwyn shuddered. "I know that stench."

"So do I," whispered Aveline.

"And so do I," said Anders. "Broodmother. But this is a bit different."

Darach looked at Tara first, as he always did, and she jerked her head toward Bronwyn.

Seeing his question, Bronwyn said, "Yes, we have to investigate. We can't leave such a creature behind us."

So they turned left, and moved down the tunnel, cautiously and repulsed. The stone was softened underfoot by dry and crumbling matter that felt almost like soil.

"Bring a light closer," Bronwyn ordered. "What is this?"

It was a very dark brown, and a nasty odor clung to it. Hesitantly, she reached down with her gauntleted hand and gathered a handful.

"Look at how it spread out up the walls," Morrigan remarked. "I think—wait. I know what this is."

Bronwyn did, too. She dropped the handful of filth instantly, and was on her guard.

It was Broodmother matter, but no longer wet and spongy and rank. This was dry and old. The smell was the same, though much fainter. A few empty sacs were present, and had slid down from the walls. These had long since opened to birth the young darkspawn. Rounding the tunnel, the area opened out to a wide chamber, and there they saw the creature.

Definitely a Broodmother.

Definitely long dead.

It was difficult to determine the species. Deepstalkers had scavenged the immense, slumped corpse, and the head was little more than a skull. There were no new darkspawn—hurlock, genlock, or sharlock— to identify the mother. This was a vast lump of decayed, Tainted flesh that had once been the habitation of a lost soul.

Shale approached it without fear. "Ah, interesting. Substantial ribs there. Personally, I find a hard shell more satisfactory than a skeleton. Golems can be slain, but we do not rot."

"That's… very nice for you," Zevran replied, rolling his eyes at Tara. He was careful to touch nothing here; not even the tempting chests of shiny things that the darkspawn had collected out of instinct. Not, at least, until Tara had purified them thoroughly with fire.

"As far as I can tell," said Anders, poking gingerly through the remains. "She wasn't killed. She died, which indicates that darkspawn have a defined lifespan. I just wish I knew what it was."

"She was dragged down here," Bronwyn murmured. "She was dragged down into this darkness, and she spent the rest of her life staring at that side of the cavern, unable even to look behind her. Then she died. How long does a Broodmother live? How many children can she produce?"

To that, no one had an answer.

They all had need of rest after that. They walked far enough to escape the dreadful smell, and made a camp and a fire.

"How about a story?" Tara suggested. "Something to take our minds off all that?"

"Let's see..." Bronwyn thought about it. "Whose turn is it? I suppose we'd have to go by precedence. I don't have my recruiting roster here."

Catriona said instantly. "I was the very last. I know that."

"Right," Bronwyn considered. "Sigrun, were you and Jukka Joined before Aveline or after?"

"After!" Sigrun chirped hastily, her eyes very wide. "Way after! Aveline was one of the first."

Aveline knew better, of course, but was not about to get into an argument, when Sigrun and Jukka were so clearly horrified at the idea of coming up with a story.

"All right, I'll do it. Sigrun will be next, though, and Jukka after her."

"That's fine," Jukka agreed, gratitude in his homely face. "I just... need some time to come up with something."

"All right, Aveline." Bronwyn said. Now that she thought about it, she was almost sure that Sigrun and Jukka had been in the group before Aveline's, but she would let it pass for now.

"Are you going to tell us about Ser Aveline, Knight of Orlais?" asked Toliver. "The one you're named after?"

"No," Aveline gritted out. "I'm not. I hate that story. Ser Aveline is famous for being defeated and slain in a tournament while disguised as a man. I've always failed to see what was so special about that. If she were really the hero she's cracked up to be, she would have killed that bastard Kaleva instead of letting him kill her, or at least whipped his miserable arse."

Leliana had told Bronwyn the story, and her own reaction had been somewhat the same. While she sympathized with the wish of the heroine of the story to prove herself a worthy knight, in the end Aveline had failed to win the contest of arms. Yes, Ser Kaleva had been a brute to kill her, but he was within his rights in that kind of melee combat. Those were the risks of battle, and a woman should not complain if she was treated like a man. Kaleva would likely have killed anyone in those circumstances.

Besides, Ferelden had produced earlier and greater female heroes. Haelia Cousland was vanquishing werewolves and claiming a teyrnir three hundred years before Ser Aveline. Her accomplishments—especially as she had successfully protected her people— seemed far more worth emulating than the Orlesian girl's.

Aveline said, "I had an old servant who told me this story, and it's stuck with me. Don't blame me if it takes you by surprise."

Aveline's story of the Other Cinderella

You've all heard the story of Cinderella. Or maybe you haven't, since it's Orlesian. The stepdaughter is sent to the kitchens, she's helped by her mother's mage friend, she goes to the ball and wins the heart of a prince, and then her identity is verified by fitting into a glass slipper too small for any other woman in the Empire. My nurse knew that story, but she said that there was more to the story.

The fact is that Cinderella was not the only unhappy and mistreated young woman in Val Royeaux. Minette, the daughter of the Lord of Ghystaine, was sitting by the warm ashes of her uncle's kitchen hearth that very day the heralds proclaimed the slipper test.

"The human maid who can don the glass slipper shall be Prince Florizel's bride, and the future Empress of Orlais!"

"That is a prize worth winning," said Minette to herself.

She was bitter about her circumstances, for her uncle had stolen her inheritance, and she had been relegated to the servants' quarters of his chateau. The chateau had been her father's, but the property was entailed on the heirs male. Thus, when her father died, her uncle, her fathers' younger brother, inherited everything. Even the gold and jewels that were Minette's dowry had been taken by him, and there was none to gainsay him, for he was the executor of his brother's estate. Now he was talking about sending Minette to the Chantry.

Naturally, the herald and Prince were going to the great estates first. Outside there was a great music of lutes and flutes. Minette ran up to the garret, to the topmost window the house, and watched the procession go by: the Prince on a white horse, his face concealed by a mask of silver and gold; a great train of nobles, also masked, walking with dignity; the High Seneschal carrying a dainty glass slipper resting on a cushion of rich purple velvet. Minette despaired when she saw how tiny it was.

"Does the Prince wish to marry an infant or an elf? Are women to be judged worthy of a Prince based on the size of their feet? Absurd!"

Of course, the world itself was absurd, or she would not be a servant in her own home.

"But how can I change the size of my feet?"

She pondered the matter desperately, for the procession had emerged from the house of the Lord and Lady de la Rivière, with no joy and no bride in sight.

"I still have a chance!" cried Minette. "Now, how—how shall I make my foot—my left foot— small enough to fit that glass slipper?"

Everyone had crowded into the street to see the Prince go by. The servants had run outside, too, and Minette was alone in the kitchen. Steeling herself, she reached for the butcher's cleaver, and with a shrewd blow, she cut off her toes. Swiftly, before she could faint, she bound up the terrible wound and covered it all with her stocking.

"It does not matter," she whispered, clenching her jaw against the pain. "When I am Empress, I shall not have to walk."

At length, the Prince came to the house of the Lord of Ghystaine, and Minette was commanded to come forth and be tested, as were all the young human women within. Minette hobbled out, keeping a brave face before them all. The slipper was put on her foot by the High Seneschal himself. The pain was worse that the tortures meted out to traitors. Minette felt like she was being stabbed by knives and flayed by rasps, but the slipper was on, and fit, after a fashion.

The Prince was not pleased. "I am quite sure that this is not the lady with whom I danced last night, for she removed her mask for me when we were alone."

The nobles trembled, for the Prince's anger was to be avoided. However, the Lord of Ghystaine, Minette's uncle, was elated. It would be a great thing to be uncle to a Princess of the Empire. And then, too, the Prince had not worded the proclamation to say that "the lady with whom he danced last night would be be his bride." He had quite explicitly said that he would marry "the human maid who could fit the slipper," and Minette had done so.

There was nothing to be done: the Prince's word was pledged. Everyone bowed to Minette, and a great cloak of cloth of gold was laid over her shoulders, and a coronet of pearls set upon her hair. She was given a mask, too. It was shaped like a butterfly, and glittered with diamonds. Outside she was set upon a white palfrey and led through the streets, while all acclaimed her as the Prince's Bride.

Only one person, a little elf child, saw that something was wrong. In his small voice he cried out,

"Prithee, look back; prithee, look back,
There's blood on the track.
The shoe is too small;
At home the true bride is waiting thy call."

But the flutes shrilled and the lutes strummed, and no one could hear the child above the shouts of the people.

Minette was led before the Emperor, who indulged this whim of his son, as the girl was of good birth and not disfigured. The betrothal was made known to all, and magnificent apartments given to Minette. The wedding was to be within seven days, which was the absolute minimum necessary to stage the necessary spectacle.

But in the night, Minette was taken ill. Red streaks snaked up from her wounded foot. She fell into a fever, and the next day she died. The Prince took up the glass slipper once more, and the procession again went from house to house, searching for Cinderella.

"A clever tale!" Morrigan approved. "And a good touch, the ambiguity of the Prince. One suspects that there was nothing very prepossessing under the mask."

Anders groaned. "Morrigan, that was a bloody depressing story!"

"If all story had happy endings, the world would be dull indeed!"

Shale found it all inexplicable. "How utterly grotesque! Do squishy creatures often lop off inconvenient bits?"

"No, not often." Tara grimaced. "She probably would have been better off in the Chantry. Imagine me saying that!"

"She should have run off to the army," Catriona said. "If you don't like it at home, the army is the place. They turn you all creepy and perverted in the Chantry. And the Grey Wardens are best of all, if you survive the initiation."

Bronwyn gave a surprised, shocked laugh, glad that Leliana was not present to hear that. What kind of life had Catriona come from? Why would she say such a thing about the Chantry?

"Chopping off her toes took stones, though," said Brosca. " Pretty tough of her."

"Yeah," agreed Sigrun. "But she should have cauterized the wound with fire, and then it wouldn't have bled and probably wouldn't have gone bad."

"That's right!" Jukka said, impressed by Sigrun's quick wit. "That would have done it! I've seen that in the Legion."

Cathair exchanged a glance with Darach. "The very idea of a maiden crippling herself to achieve a bizarre shemlen standard of beauty is truly staggering."

"It happens, though," Bronwyn admitted. "I heard of a noble girl who was so fixed on having a thin, fashionable figure that she corseted herself until her ribs were deformed. She was thin, true, but could hardly draw a deep breath."

Anders was disgusted. "Wynne told me about a rich family she was called on to serve. The mother wanted a classic, sunken-cheeked look, and bullied Wynne into removing her back teeth."

"Ow!" Brosca yelled, hand over her mouth.

Tara reassured her. "It wouldn't have hurt! Not a bit. I'll bet it felt weird, though."

"Antivan ladies," remarked Zevran, "have been known to dose themselves with small quantities of arsenic, in order to enhance their radiant complexions."

"Maker!" cried Tara. And then she asked, "Does it work?"

They all laughed. Zevran said, "Yes, until it kills them. That, too, can happen."

In the northern reaches of Rousten Thaig, they found just what they were looking for, and they found it because of a bird.

"Whoa!" yelled Toliver, as a tiny winged body sped past him. "Was that a bat?"

"Creatore!" cried Zevran. "It is a sparrow. How did a bird come to the Deep Roads?"

Wondering greatly, they had their answer as they entered the vast main cavern of the thaig. Thin, brilliant spears of light pierced the massive stone of the chamber ceiling. Looking closer, they made out three openings to the north that illuminated the dusty gloom of the thaig. They were high up—only a little lower than the top of the ceiling.

"Big enough for a bird!" cried Bronwyn. "We can climb up there!"

"I can't believe it!" Brosca grinned. "The top of the cavern is above surface level. Whoever built this must have been half a cloudhead himself!"

They had ropes, of course, because Bronwyn had learned that lesson beforehand. She knew she would be messing about climbing rocks and had come prepared. A ladder would have been even better, but they had no such tall ladders. Instead, they first sent up their own birds to scout out the openings.

Morrigan was off like an arrow, winging up to the light. Anders threw Bronwyn an anxious glance and then was in pursuit. It appeared that they were able to squeeze through the openings to the outside, and then they were gone for some minutes.

Jukka slapped his hand flat on the map, crumpling it in his satisfaction. "Right! We're at the surface here. Look at the old map… see the elevation? Since this was drawn, the valley has eroded… the soil's washed down that stream marked on it, and the the valley floor is lower than it used to be. Luckily, we've got some good bedrock holding the roof up, or this would have collapsed ages ago."

It was promising... it was all very promising. In a few minutes, Anders was back, and then Morrigan, who had been enjoying her brief escape from the Deep Roads.

"I could see a big castle near the Imperial Highway," Anders told them. "Or at least it looks like the Imperial Highway. It's in better repair than in Ferelden. Don't hit me for saying that, but it's true."

"'Tis surprising that more creatures have not found their way inside," Morrigan added, alighting. "Or... perhaps not so surprising. No doubt the smell fends them off. The left opening is large enough for any of us, man or woman, to squeeze through. However, coming from outside, one would fall all the way to the stones. And from inside, 'tis a forbidding climb."

"We'll want to block up the entrance somewhat before we leave," Bronwyn said. "We don't want animals seeking shelter here or hunters pursuing them. But we'll worry about that later. Let's have a look!"

Anders winced. "Bronwyn, I really think you shouldn't do that. Let Morrigan and me do the scouting."

"Can you take measurements?" Bronwyn asked. "Can you sketch out the castle?"

"No, but..." He stood his ground. "Don't do it. I'm advising you as your Healer. Somebody else can climb this time."

"I can!" Jukka volunteered. "I've done a bit of rock climbing, when I scavenged mines. Give me the gear."

Bronwyn hesitated, torn between simple common sense and the certainty that she was a better climber than anyone else in the party. Anders looked so earnest that she decided not to refuse his advice.

"Give it a go, Jukka," she agreed. "I'll spot you from down here. I'll need you to describe what you see very, very carefully."

"We can come back another time," Aveline said. "With bits of a stout ladder we can assemble on the spot."

"Good idea. We'll do that the next time we're here." She thought it over. "All right. Some of us will stay here. Jukka, Anders, me... Morrigan, if you like. Shale, we'll need you, too, to give Jukka a boost. Tara, I want you to take the others around the thaig and map it out in detail. Take Scout with you. Yes, Scout I want you to go with Tara. If anyone can sniff out darkspawn, it's you! Look for any hidden tunnels or secret darkspawn nests. Oh, Tara—see if you can find the treasury, and if there's anything left in it!"

"With pleasure!" laughed Tara.

"Ummmm..." Zevran considered. "If I may, perhaps it would be best if I were stay here..."

"Zevran!" Bronwyn laughed. "I'm not going anywhere. You're the ones who may run into darkspawn. Go on, go with Tara. You know you want to."

A flash of white teeth, and Zevran joined the little mage. In short order, the party prepared to move out.

"I'll be back soon!" Tara called over her shoulder.

"Find something shiny!" Anders called back.

Jukka would need the pitons and the grappling hook they carried, and Bronwyn helped him harness up securely. The wall had some cracks and outcroppings that would help, but the curve overhead made for an awkward ascent. Shale could lift him up to a rock shelf, but after that, Jukka was on his own.

The first part of the climb did not go badly. Jukka hammered in the pitons and made steady progress. Bronwyn felt he was rushing a bit.

"Go slow!" she called. "Take your time!"

The last third was trickier. Bronwyn fidgeted, wishing she were doing it herself. There were some precarious near-slips, but at last Jukka managed to reach the ledge just under to the side of the far-left opening. If he leaned over, clinging to the edge, he could look outside.

"Hook up a safety line!" Bronwyn shouted.

"I'm fine!" Jukka said. "See!" he pounded on the stones. "Solid!"

"Hook up a safety line anyway!"

"Yes, Boss." The dwarf gave a piton a tap or two and wrapped the slack of the rope around it. "Safe and sound!"

"All right! Be careful!"

With one hand he reached into the bag slung across his shoulders, and pulled out parchment and a graphite pencil. "I'm looking west-north-west," he announced. "I'll annotate that on the sketch."

"I need the estimated distance to the Imperial Highway, and the estimated distance to the castle. Is it on our side or the far side?"

"Far side," muttered Anders.

"Far side!" yelled Jukka. "They used a lot of the local stone to build it up pretty high. Four towers around a keep. Kind of fancy. Doesn't look built for serious fighting. Could have some blind spots. When was it built?"

"After the fall of the Dales," said Bronwyn. "Maybe seven hundred years old. Maybe less. As far as I know, it's never been tested by combat."

"I'm not an artist, but I can sketch it out for you." Pressing the parchment up against the wall, and his tongue protruding with concentration, Jukka roughly sketched out the general appearance of Chateau Solidor, while those on the ground discussed future plans.

"We'll come back," said Bronwyn. "We'll scout it out very thoroughly. Let's use that barrier spell Tara learned to keep the curious out of here and disguise the openings a bit."

"We could do that somewhat from the outside," Morrigan suggested. "And leave enough space to slip through ourselves in our bird shapes. The barrier can be added afterward."

Anders said, "Why don't we have another look before we go? It's not all that far to the castle as the raven flies, so to speak. We can see what kind of force is there—"

"—and keep our eyes open for bored archers!" Morrigan said tartly.

"Obviously. I think—"

"Bugger it!" swore Jukka, above them. "I dropped my pencil."

Bronwyn glanced up, and was alarmed. "Jukka! What are you doing?"

"It rolled outside. I can reach it..." The dwarf leaned out precariously, groping out of the opening for the lost pencil. There was a faint cracking sound, and grit trickled from the piton securing the rope.

"Stop it! Come down now!"

"Give me a minute... I can reach it..."

There was another scrabbling of pebbles, and a terrible grinding. Abruptly, the piton came loose and the rope tore free. So did part of the stone wall of the cavern. Time stopped.

"Oh, shit!" screamed Jukka. A huge stone smashed him down from the ledge. Shale trundled forward, massive arms out to catch him, but too late. The dwarf was swept along in a thundering rockfall. In a moment, Jukka and Shale were enveloped in rubble, dust rising in clouds.

Bronwyn turned to run, but stones came down on her helmet, bouncing and rattling. Flashes of light shot from the mage's staffs as they frantically cast shielding spells. Another rock bounced off Bronwyn's helmet, and she stumbled, her vision gone black. A blow struck her between her shoulders, stunning as a the stroke of a berserker's maul. Sense and consciousness fled. She went down, down to the trembling dust, and was buried.

The awful cramping in her belly roused her first. Scout was whining and whimpering. Then she saw Anders' distraught face, dirty and bruised, looking down at her. There was noise in the cave, loud and echoing. Voices. Her friends' voices. Everybody was trying to see past Anders.

Tara was shoving at him. "I've got my Ashes! Give them some!"

Bronwyn coughed. "I forbid it," she croaked. "I absolutely refuse."

Did anyone hear her? Possibly not. They were all shouting at once.

"She's going to be all right, elfkins," Anders was saying. "And the Ashes won't help poor Jukka now."

Bronwyn tried to sit up and gasped at the pain instead. "Where's Jukka?" she whispered

"Dead and given to the Stone," Brosca told her. "Don't worry about him, Boss."

"He was Legion," said Sigrun. "Technically, he was already dead. This just makes it official. We're more worried about you."

"Lie still," Morrigan ordered. She looked strained, and there was a smudge on her nose. "We must remove your armor."

There was an ominously sticky wetness between her legs. Bronwyn tried reach down, but Morrigan caught at her hand, eyes fierce.

"Lie still."

"Oh, no..."

Oh, but yes. Anders could patch Bronwyn back up, but he could not repair what had torn loose. The cramping rolled over her in wretched waves. From the corner of her eye she saw that Shale was there, clearing away rocks. She might have known that a rock slide was only a temporary inconvenience to a golem.

Scout settled down beside her and licked her face.

"You're going to sleep now," Anders told her, his voice tender. "Sleep..."

"Wait..."

She slept quite a long time, evidently, while her body healed. They had cleaned up her up quite thoroughly, and she was rather glad to have been unconscious at the time. They had food and a warm mug of tea for her, when she awakened. Scout clung to her side like a ghost, not letting her from his sight. Morrigan helped her while she went off to relieve herself—a painful process—and was comforting in her hard-headed, pragmatic way.

"At six weeks, it could hardly have been called a child, anyway. Anders sees no permanent damage from the miscarriage. It is unfortunate, but rest and proper food will see you right. Tara and Zevran have been attempting to slip you their Ashes of Andraste, but Anders does not like the idea. He thought you would not wish them forced upon you without your consent. Perhaps you should please Tara by taking a little. I suspect that every grain has a value."

Bronwyn knew that she meant well, and tried not to show how much the witch's words hurt her.

"Are you all right?"

"In the end, I flew to the ceiling and avoided everything but the dust. Anders was beaten about a bit, despite his spells. Everyone else heard the noise, and came running. We have been busy while you slept, knowing that it would worry you if you mission were incomplete. Shale was able to retrieve the drawing that the dwarf had begun. I went out for another look at that castle, but I am no engineer. Two of the openings here in the roof have enlarged into one. Rubble is piled up in front of them, and all is sealed with the barrier spell. Now, that is enough of work and worry. You must lie down, and we will manage the rest. Some of us are actually quite competent, you know."

"I know." Very carefully, she lay back down on her blanket, and was asleep again in seconds.

The next time she awakened, she did indeed take some of the Ashes Tara and Zevran were pressing on her: the tiniest bit from each, a few grains clinging to a fingertip. She washed them down with tea and was astonished and rather awed by the effect.

"Better?" Their beautiful elven faces were so anxious and hopeful that tears welled in her eyes.

"Much, much better. Thank you, my friends."

"We found some nice things," Tara told her. "Quite pretty. We're so sorry we didn't get back in time."

"There wasn't a thing you could have done. It all happened so suddenly. I think Jukka might have been dead before he hit the ground."

Zevran gave her a mild, stern look. "We have done here all that can be done without stout ladders and perhaps even some carpenters to make a proper scaffolding. As soon as you are able to move, we should return to Gherlen's Halt."

Bronwyn managed a smile for them. "As soon as possible."

Anders was so concerned about Bronwyn that he wanted Shale to carry her, and Bronwyn at first submitted to this briefly, though it was grotesque and humiliating. Shale said nothing at all, after Anders' took the golem aside and made horrific threats. Scout disliked Bronwyn being so high up and far away from him, and was suspicious of the Walking Rock Thing.

Half a day's jarring was so distressing that Bronwyn put a stop to it. Instead, she walked, and agreed to let her companions carry all of her gear but her personal weapons.

Anders hovered insufferably, but Bronwyn had not the spirits to order him away. Nor would it be wise, for she truly felt terrible, though more in spirit than in body.

She had made a mistake; a terrible mistake born of anger and pique. She should have delegated this mission. She should have told Loghain outright that she was with child, and that she would stay behind. Now she must bear the consequences for the rest of her life. Her innocent child was lost, and there was no guarantee that there would be others. She walked, head down, one foot in front of the other, not wanting her companions to see the tears in her eyes. Not looking at them, she could not see that they were also grieving—grieving for their dead companion and for Bronwyn herself.

She remembered little of the march back. The mission had been, from the military point of view, quite a success. They had found a secret way into Orlais, near the fortress of Solidor. They had even seen Solidor and speculated on its weaknesses. A future scouting party could watch the Imperial Highway and little would go into or out of Jader that they would not know about.

Loghain might well think that all this was quite worth the loss of one Grey Warden. Bronwyn could not allow herself to consider what else he might say. At the moment she did not much care.

Blinding white air and shocking cold greeted them when they unsealed the access point.

"What a wind!" said Catriona. "It'll knock us over if we go out."

"It's late, too," agreed Tara. "We couldn't make it back to the fort until after dark. Bronwyn, I think we'd better stay here until morning."

Distracted from her thoughts, Bronwyn need Tara to repeat herself before coming up with an answer.

"Yes. Yes… of course. We'll camp here and leave at dawn tomorrow."

"Good idea," Anders said at once. "You need to lie down, and I need to see how you're doing."

It was quite touching how kind her friends were about giving her privacy and support. Anders pronounced her to be healing well. Bronwyn suspected a great deal of it was due to the minute amount of Ashes she had consumed, but Anders, too, had done his part.

"But you still need a lot of rest, Bronwyn. We'll have a hard day tomorrow, and once we get back to the fort, you need to stay in bed a few days and then take it easy after that. And…" he hesitated.

"And?" she prodded.

"Er… it would be best if you didn't indulge in any… marital relations for at least a month. Grey Wardens heal fast, but you can't risk any further injury or infection."

At the moment nothing could sound less appealing that what Anders, in his gentlemanly way, was referring to as "marital relations." She shuddered. Revulsion blended with the anguish of loss and failure.

"I think I can safely promise that. Loghain told me he was going off an inspection tour of the northern port defenses. Very likely we won't see one another for some time anyway."

"Well, that's good." Anders said, happy to drop the subject. "Try to get some rest now, and we'll be out of here before you know it."

That was not entirely true. Time seemed to drag. Bronwyn tossed restlessly, sleeping and dozing and waking by turns. Her companions talked softly around the fire, and Bronwyn tried hard not to eavesdrop. Her dreams were unpleasantly near the surface; not buried in deep sleep as usual. Darkspawn cackled and gabbled, pleased at some trick or other.

In the morning, they found that the snowfall had been heavy, and Shale walked in front, making huge footprints for them to step in, shoving masses of snow before him. It helped a good deal, though it was still miserably cold. Plunging and snorting, Scout leaped from footprint to footprint, ears laid back.

"I think the inside of my nose is frozen," Sigrun complained. "It feels funny."

Aveline and Catriona tore strips of cloth and showed the dwarven girls how to bind them over their faces, leaving just their eyes showing. Everything was incredibly crisp and clear, and it was not long before they reached the narrow pass and saw the battlements of Gherlen's Halt.

"My feet are cold," Brosca grumbled. "And wet. I hate snow. I wish we had snowshoes. Maybe Bustrum and Ostap can make us some more."

Morrigan flew off to apprise the fort of their imminent arrival. Anders refused to leave his patient, and insisted on walking next to Bronwyn, watching her like an anxious mother hen. Bronwyn thought it kind of him, but incredibly irritating.

She was a Cousland, and she was Queen of Fereldan. She could not falter now. The loss of the child was a constant pain, but she had work to do, and perhaps that would be the best remedy. Loghain had departed this place, and she could manage things here as she saw fit while her body recovered.

At the gates of the fort, she was met by both Ser Blayne and Ser Norrel, who bowed in greeting.

"Good day to you, Your Majesty, and welcome back to Gherlen's Halt," said Ser Blayne. "I hope your mission was a success."

"It was, Ser Blayne. I thank you." Her eyes slid to Ser Norrel, and she was unable to restrain her frown. "My companions and I are in need of food and a warm fire. Tomorrow, we shall meet, and take counsel together."

Thanks to my reviewers: Nemrut, Chandagnac, EmbertoInferno, Gir-chama, Koden21, KnightOfHolyLight, Kyren, Phygmalion, MsBarrows, Mike3207, Anon, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, Blinded in a bolthole, , darksky01, Guest, Tirion, JackOfBladesX, dragonblade3200, amanda weber, Ie-maru, almostinsane, jnybot, Jenna53, sizuka2, guardian1165, dragonmactir, Have Socks. Will Travel, Nix's Warden, patchworker, and mille libri.

After consideration, I hold to my idea that the darkspawn go underground in cold weather. I think it's supported by canon, which permits you to visit Ostagar-Blight Central-when the snow is on the ground. You are opposed only by a small force, composed mostly of stragglers, with only one very strong boss, the Necromancer. The March to Denerim obviously happens after the spring thaw. We know from canon that darkspawn can be frozen. Thus, the Archdemon would protect her forces by keeping most of them underground, save for a small garrison, which is sheltered by the commodious ruins of Ostagar, with plenty of snug stone rooms and fires. It also explains why Blights can be so long and dragged-out.

I know that the wiki goes on about how free and casual the Thedosians are about sex. Yeah, yeah, total fan service, in my opinion. This is a feudal society. Thus, inheritances are the primary means of transferring wealth. In such circumstances, female chastity is always valued. The Thedosians may not expect their brides to be virgins, but they certainly expect their wives not to give them some other man's children as their heirs. Perhaps things are more relaxed among the commons or the lower merchant classes, but I am convinced that standards must be much stricter among noblewomen—at least until they've produced an heir and a spare.

Aveline's story uses a rhyme from the Brothers' Grimm version of Cinderella.