Victory at Ostagar

Chapter 100: A Waiting Game

"The Marquis is not in Jader at all," Zevran told Bronwyn, on his return from his latest spying expedition. "He has not been in Jader since before Satinalia. He is, however, expected on the first of Drakonis, along with a mighty host."

"How mighty is 'mighty?'" Bronwyn asked, wanting to know the worst.

"I cannot give you exact numbers, my Queen, but the levy barracks can accommodate five thousand. The chevaliers' quarters and stables have room for one thousand, both men and horses."

"Maker!"

With thirty Wardens under her command alone, Bronwyn would ordinarily have considered herself to command a powerful force. They were not all she had, however. There were seven hundred men at the Halt, and an auxiliary force of two hundred dwarves, mostly Legion of the Dead. Stationed at the Halt were a score of clever scouts and rangers, mostly Avvars, who were not at all hindered by the weather, but were out and about, probing the borderlands. Cavalry she had none: there were no more than two dozen horses at the Halt.

From time to time, more came to join her: volunteers from the hill country, attracted by her fame, some farmer boys and girls from the Neck, small bands of mercenaries with no better prospects in view, a handful of surface dwarves hired on by her engineers, and some rag and tag that might include a few apostate mages. Altogether, her complement might actually number a thousand, though it fluctuated slightly with the weather and the irregulars' resultant mood.

However, if her thousand tried to confront the Orlesian's six thousand in open battle, things might not go well, unless she was very, very clever, and very, very lucky. And very well prepared.

The ground here, fortunately for her, was not well-suited to the deployment of a large force of cavalry. The pass had too many bottlenecks to admit more than a few dozen at once. Theoretically they would crush all before them, but not if massed archers were positioned to fire volley after volley down on them from cover. And now Bronwyn had ballistae and some of the new trebuchets, which could launch explosive missiles. Horses would not like explosives. If she could create enough of a panic, any Orlesian assault might end in a disaster for the enemy: knights and untrained levies trampled underfoot by frenzied, armored warhorses.

Working under cover of night, mines had been laid in the pass, set to go off by the touch of levers concealed in the bluffs. More explosives had been set above ledges and outcrops: man-made rockslides that could be set off with a touch, burying an invading force under tons of rubble.

Of course, the Orlesians might not choose to go through the Pass. Bronwyn hoped they would, but the possibility remained that the Orlesians might try to be tricky, and would take the hill trail out of Jader: the same rough road that Brosca had taken when she infiltrated the city. It connected with the Imperial Highway. If the Orlesians took the hill trail, they would be slow, but they might hope to surprise the Fereldens, and thunder down, besieging Gherlen's Halt, and sweeping east across the Neck to the Fereldan heartlands.

And of course, Zevran was only giving her information about the kind of garrison Jader itself could support. If the rest of the Imperial army attacked, it could mean another ten... another fifteen thousand troops. They could not strip the Nevarran border, but they had immense reserves.

Loghain was mustering the Fereldans. If the Bannorn provided decent levies and the numbers were made up from those lost in the spring and summer campaign against the darkspawn, Ferelden could field here in the northeast, maybe... another four thousand. For Ferelden, also, could not strip its cities of protection and its coastline of guards. For now, it was a waiting game.

If the Orlesians looked like they would make their move before Loghain arrived, Bronwyn would have to make a preemptive strike that would knock them off balance. The dockyard would be fired, and the barracks demolished. Bronwyn had a large store of explosives, which had grown larger since Alistair had arrived with Adaia and Siofranni. Those explosives were being quietly planted in the cellars of the barracks, cleverly concealed. In a few daring mission to Jader, some of their loyal surface dwarves had moved through the sewers, following the maps drawn from the information given by Brosca, by the Avvar scouts, and now by Zevran.

Zevran was an immensely useful spy, because he was not an actual Warden, and none of the Jader Wardens could sense him. Morrigan too, had slipped into Jader, part of the time as an inquisitive hawk, and part of the time as a modestly-dressed and masked woman. Anders sometimes went, but only in his animal forms, since he was undetectable as a Grey Warden that way: flying in as a raven, and now that he had mastered the shape, prowling about as a cat. A neat-whiskered ginger tomcat found good pickings and plenty of friendly folk in Jader— talkative people, too, in the Marquis' Palace, in the Chantry, in the barracks, in the market. On one occasion, all three of them explored Jader together: a lady with her elven servant and her pet cat.

"Tis utterly ridiculous," Morrigan said, after her that mission. "Do these Orlesians not understand that people in masks cannot be trusted?"

Yet it was the custom of the country: a perfectly absurd custom that permitted hostile foreigners to walk among them, undiscovered and unafraid.

"I like Jader," Anders declared. "Good food. The seafood stew is something special. And the sausages. Jaderites have sound ideas about spicy sausages."

They kept a succession of lookouts up at the hunting lodge, walking down to watch the Imperial Highway. They kept lookouts at the secret rock openings near Solidor. They patrolled the Deep Roads, senses straining to catch any darkspawn movement. And they patrolled the Neck, that vulnerable territory between the Orlesian border and the River Dane. The weather was not their friend on some of these ventures, but it was not the Orlesians' friend, either.

Once Alistair had arrived at the end of Wintermarch, Bronwyn had reorganized her Wardens into four teams, trying to rebalance the groups according to abilities and temperament. All the teams needed a mage and archers. They needed at least two heavily armored swordsmen or axemen. They needed someone good with locks and traps. Some wished to stay with the people they had grown fond of: Danith's team was remarkably cohesive.

Ultimately, Bronwyn wanted to have a dog in every team. Her delight when Alistair arrived, accompanied by darling little Scrapper, was great indeed. She knew, of course about Carver and Jowan's dogs, and planned to integrate them into her arrangements if they survived the Nevarran embassy. If she ever saw them again.

There was a small kennel at Gherlen's Halt, and she liked to include men with dogs in her missions. Bronwyn had ideas about new uses for dogs. A dog could not reasonably be used to break up a chevalier's charge. A dog was simply not a match for a horse and man in heavy armor. For that matter, using the dogs against massed darkspawn at the Bloomingtide Battle had not worked very well. A dog was a splendid asset in a skirmish, but not in a pitched battle.

However, Fereldan mabari were smart. Very smart. She had them running messages now. They knew people by name, once they were properly introduced, and they never forgot those people's individual scents. A dog could find anyone, given time. And they could sniff about in the woods, playing the stray, slipping through the underbrush: or they could trot along a dirty alley, pissing against the walls. As dogs, they were both above and below suspicion.

Restless, in need of exercise and air, Bronwyn rode out with some of her people to have a look at the Imperial Highway. Winter often damaged the roads, even the Imperial Highway, designed and constructed by brilliant Tevinter magisters long ago. The extent of damage caused by frost heaving was no worse than usual, and certainly would not be a barrier to troop movements. The sun shone down, melting snow on the stones and on the naked branches of the dragonthorn trees. The ground itself was still very cold, and remained shrouded with white.

Once out, she took advantage of the cloudless day to ride to the outpost at the hunting lodge, to see how Danith and her people were faring.

Well, as it happened. The site was very agreeable to them. There was shelter and warmth, but also open air and the opportunity to hunt, when it was not snowing heavily. The Dalish among them found it pleasant compromise between proper elvhen accommodations and shemlen luxury. Their Avvar ranger, Bustrum and Ostap, spent a great deal of time there, and could take others with them when they scouted over the border. Quinn, of course, bundled in furs, looked like an Avvar himself—though a very young, beardless Avvar.

Bronwyn liked the change herself, and sent a messenger back to the Halt to tell them she would be out overnight. She was not too grand to sleep on a blanket on a rough wooden floor.

Nuala and Steren went out to stand guard. The rest settled down around the fire, while Aeron plucked lazily at his lute. It was a quiet night, and Bronwyn cherished it. This all reminded her pleasantly of her early days of adventure, when she did not live in the grubby grandeur of Gherlen's Halt.

"Who's got a bed-time story for us?" Anders asked. "This is all so cozy and friendly that a little entertainment would be just the thing. Whose turn is it?"

Bronwyn honestly could not recall. Danith said, "My group was first, but Nuala and Steren are outside."

"What about it Quinn?" asked Maeve.

The boy was red in a frenzy of blushing. "I can't… I can't… I don't know any stories. You tell one for me, Maeve… you or Aeron."

Aeron shrugged. "I know heaps of stories. Most of them end very badly."

"I have a story," Maeve said, after a little hesitation. "Maybe I should tell it now."

Maeve's Tale of the Shoemaker's Sweetheart

There was a poor girl, and there was a poor boy, and they were in love. So many stories start like that, but it's a truth of life, that there are more poor young couples than rich ones. They wanted to marry, for the girl loved her boy more than anything in the world. He was all she had, for her parents had died, and she was alone.

But they had nothing to live on, and must keep their love secret. The boy was only a shoemaker's apprentice, bound to his master, and the girl lived with her second cousins, who grudged her house room. They hated the boy, and had forbidden the girl to have anything to do with him. So it was. The boy's only wealth was his cleverness, and the girl's only wealth was her strong body and her shining hair.

They met only at the dark of the moon behind a corner of the chantry, and there they kissed and shared their troubles. "Even once my apprenticeship is over," the boy said, one night , "We'll still need capital for me to set up shop. And the town doesn't need another shoemaker. We'll need to move to Gwaren or even Denerim. Moving is very expensive. So is furnishing a home." He shook his head sadly. "I don't know where the money's to come from."

"I can help!" said the girl. "I'm strong! I can milk the neighbor's cows and help with the butchering. I work for my keep already at my cousin's, so every copper I earn will go to our future."

The boy told her she was wonderful, and kissed her. He showed her one of his old socks, where everything she earned would be saved. The boy promised to keep the sock under his pillow at his master's, since he pointed out that she had to share a room, and he could better keep their nest egg secure.

So the time passed, and the girl worked, very, very hard to earn money. Other boys noticed that she was pretty and hard-working, and they came to court her, but she always refused them, for her heart already belonged to another. Her cousins grew nastier and nastier, and her life harder and harder. She worked on, but she earned only coppers, and they had less than a hundred of those.

One day, a rich merchant came to call. He had the best house in the village, and he was looking for a new housekeeper. He was old and fat, but amusing and full of stories. He told the girl's cousins that that the girl would suit him very well, and he promised her a fine wage for taking care of his house.

Indeed it was such a fine wage that it was perfectly clear that he was engaging her as more than a housekeeper. The merchant already had a wife, but she was sickly and kept to her room. What the merchant wanted was a pretty young girl to cook his meals and sleep in his bed. The cousins thought it a good way to get rid of the girl, and gave her no peace, telling her why she should be grateful for such a good opportunity.

In the dark of the moon, the girl met with her sweetheart, and told him that her family wanted her to be the mistress of the rich merchant. Instead of being horrified for her, or indignant, the boy rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"You know," he said, "this might be the chance we've been waiting for. No, don't look at me like that. I know it's a sacrifice, but look at it this way: I'm sacrificing too, by honoring my bond to my master. I'm learning the trade that will bring us a living. It's only fair that you should earn enough to get us started. The merchant isn't a bad fellow. He'll be kind and generous, and we'll save money more quickly than ever. My bond will be over in a year. With luck, we'll have enough to leave and make our start in life by then…. If you take advantage of this great opportunity!"

The girl did not like it, but the boy was very clever, and made more sensible arguments in favor of his plan. Thus it came to pass that the girl went to the house of the merchant, and gave him the thing she had been saving for her wedding day. And she gave it again, and again. The merchant was pleased with her, and gave her fine clothes and plenty of coin. And the girl gave every piece of silver to her sweetheart, and he put it in the sock.

Time passed. At Summersday his bond would be fulfilled. Surely they had enough money to start they new life by now. One day, in the last month, the girl was walking near the chantry when she heard the boy's voice, coming from their secret meeting place behind the corner of the Chantry. Before she could call out to him, she realized that he was not alone.

"In a month my master will release me! We'll be married and start our new life!"

"Oh, how wonderful!" replied the voice of a young woman. "My family will be so happy, too. They've always liked you. They think you're so clever, the way you've saved so much coin."

The boy's voice was smug. "And there's more where that came from yet."

The girl stood still as if turned to stone, her heart racked with anguish. After a time, she crept away, not wanting to hear their words of love. too ashamed to speak to anyone.

At the dark of the moon, she hardly knew what to do. Part of her never wanted to see her boy again, and part of her wanted to plead with him not to betray her, to try to make him see how much she loved him and that all she had done had been for him. At last she decided to go. It was difficult to wait. Quiet and still, she endured the merchant's attentions, until he was satisfied and snoring. Then she slipped from the bed and dressed quickly, taking with her the coin that the merchant had given her that month.

She slipped along the walls, hidden by the shadows, until she darted behind the corner of the Chantry. There the boy waited for her. He kissed her, and admired the size of the purse in her hands. The girl fumbled with it nervously, making the silver jingle.

"We're going to have plenty to start our new life," he promised her. "Let me see what you brought!"

"If only I could see it," she whispered. "If only I could see the coin we've saved all together. I know it's only a month, but sometimes it's so hard..."

"Wait here!" Greed gave wings to the boy's feet. In no time he was back, carrying the bulging sock. The girl put out her hands, and reluctantly the boy let her hold it.

Suddenly she slammed the sock into the boy's face with all her strength, breaking his nose. She hit him again, and he went down in a heap, groaning. Then she spat on him.

"I know about you and your real betrothed, " she snarled, overflowing with bitterness. "And this coin is mine, earned with my shame and my foolish love for a cheat and a pimp!"

Her skirts swirled around her as she turned and left him. Quickly she went back to the merchant's house. There she gathered up a cloak and some food. She put the sock of silver in a bag, and at dawn she left the town. She walked, and kept on walking. When she reached Gwaren, she bought armor and weapons, and cut her lovely hair. She enlisted in the army, and never looked back.

There was a silence, since a number of people guessed that this was not simply a story.

Quinn, less knowledgeable in the ways of the world, scowled, and said, "I'd punch him in the face, too! That was rotten, cheating on his girl like that! And making her live with somebody else... I'm glad she got away!"

Bronwyn gave Maeve a wry smile. "So am I."

They were mounting up for the return the following morning, when a warbling birdcall alerted them to danger. One of the Avvars on guard duty had spotted strangers approaching. Bronwyn dashed down to the cover of the surrounding pines, and followed Bustrum's pointing finger. A quick glance reassured her that these were friends— or at least, not enemies. Two riders, heavily cloaked, but who wore blue and grey under their furs. She stepped out from cover to greet them.

"Senior Warden Riordan," she said, feeling rather wary. "And—"

"Warden Fiona!" Danith said, giving a slight, courteous bow.

"Well met," Bronwyn said, wondering what they wanted. There was no harm in being polite, unless they made that the untenable option.

Riordan inclined his head. "Your Majesty." Fiona looked very displeased, but gave Bronwyn a brisk nod.

"Just a Warden in this company," Bronwyn replied. "I am glad to see you well."

Immediately, she invited them into the lodge to rest and join them in a meal. Any meal. The Wardens' more-or-less-neverending-meal. Naturally, they accepted. There was a warming stew of venison, barley and forest mushrooms. With pan- bread to sop in it, it was hearty enough even for Wardens. They spoke of inconsequential things: the weather, the scarcity of game, of their horses. Bronwyn introduced her Wardens to them. It was useless to try to hide their existence, when they were clearly Wardens, and Riordan, from his expression, had already sensed them as such.

Once they had eaten, Bronwyn knew it was time to hear what they had come to say.

"You are bold to ride out to meet us."

"Everyone knows you're here in the west, it's true," Fiona said. "Everyone. Jader is uneasy."

"Uneasy?" Bronwyn scoffed. "Ferelden is uneasy. I don't recall that Ferelden occupied and oppressed any part of Orlais for over eighty years! The Knight-Divine all but declared war on us for the sake of our mage allies. Blight or no, we have little choice but to ready the border for what everyone knows is coming. Why is Jader uneasy?"

"Sister," Riordan said, slightly emphasizing the word. "We know that one of your Wardens was in Jader not long ago. A dwarf. She was not one of ours, and thus she was one of yours."

Maeve and Quinn snickered, nudging each other. Anders and Morrigan smirked.

Bronwyn glanced at them in quick reproof, and then looked down her nose at the Orlesians. "She might have been Nevarran. They are no friends of Orlais, either. Or a Marcher. Just someone who had heard of the beauties of Jader and wished to see them for herself."

Riordan grimaced. Fiona, caring nothing for social niceties, was more forthright.

"It is useless to dissemble. Based on the description, we guessed it was Warden Brosca. We met her! We performed the Joining for her! A Warden should not be scouting for anything but darkspawn!"

"The presence of a foreign Warden could not be kept secret," Riordan said heavily. "Others know she was there. Word spread through the city, that the Red Queen sent one of her Wardens to infiltrate Jader."

"Brosca's not afraid of anything!" whispered Aeron, with a light laugh.

Bronwyn did not feel she owed the Orlesians any apology. "Hmmm. And why do you suppose I might think it a sound scheme to have a trusted friend enter Jader? What might be happening in Jader that might hinder my own efforts to fight the darkspawn? Everyone in Jader knows what's going on. I presume you do, too. I think an Orlesian invasion is going to be quite the problem, personally. And we've had fair warning. The Empress has tried to kill me, long before I became Queen. She tried to kill me while I was merely a Warden. Look to your own ruler, if you want to blame someone who cares little for fighting the Blight."

"You do not think claiming the throne of Ferelden was a provocation?"

The Fereldan Wardens rolled their eyes. At least the humans. The dwarves were bored. The elves looked on impassively. Fereldan shemlen were bad enough. Orlesians were far worse. And Bronwyn had given them a homeland after all, something which they knew the Orlesian Empress would never have done.

Bronwyn actually laughed. "I suppose it was at that!" She fixed her poison-green gaze on the her guests. "And I really don't care. I believe she would have attacked, whether I took the throne or not. And the Empress disgusts me. She knows what she did to my family. It took some time, but now I know, too. If she had not them murdered them to further her other schemes, my father would have been alive to take the throne that should have been his five years ago."

Riordan, all at sea, shook his head. "I do not understand what you mean."

"The Empress sent a bard to coordinate an elaborate plot against my family, tricking a friend into thinking them traitors, forging documents that launched a massacre. You might say that the Empress... made me Queen of Ferelden. But I shall never thank her for it." Bronwyn's good humor dissipated, reminded of that night. "No, my brother Warden, I feel I've done as I had to do. We know the darkspawn will rise soon. They are not dead or defeated, but merely taking shelter from the winter's cold. With the first thaw they will be upon us again. And Ferelden can expect to be attacked not just by them, but by our neighbors. Words cannot convey what I think of those who would in effect ally themselves with the darkspawn."

"I could think of a few words," growled Niall under his breath.

Bronwyn sighed, and then cocked her head. "What it is you want of me? What are you asking?"

"The Wardens of Jader..." Riordan paused, and then steeled himself. "The Wardens of Orlais sent us to talk to you... to remind you of your oath and your duty... and to urge you to remain neutral in any war between nations." He gave an elegant Orlesian shrug. "I told them it was useless."

"Of course it is," Aveline said, backing Bronwyn up. "Orlesian Wardens can stand back because their country isn't under attack. They don't have to worry about their friends dying. They can be neutral because the Imperial army is so huge that nobody's going to ask them to join in the attack."

Fiona scowled at Bronwyn. "And you gave Alistair a noble title!"

"He didn't like it," Anders was blunt to the point of rudeness. "He was ambushed! He'll get used to it, though."

"Alistair is the son of a king," Bronwyn said coolly. "His paternity deserves to be recognized and honored. In my opinion, Maric was wrong to keep it secret. And Alistair has done Ferelden worthy service. If I can be Queen, I could hardly be so hypocritical as to say that Alistair could not be a bann."

"Neither of you should be either!" Fiona snapped. "The title of Warden is good enough for anyone!"

"Ordinarily, I would agree," said Bronwyn, for the sake of civility; though she actually hated being a Warden, and bitterly resented Duncan's high-handed behavior in forcing her to Join the order. "However," she continued, "this is a Blight, and everything is different. The King of Ferelden was killed by darkspawn, leaving no child. The succession had to be resolved, and leadership was needed. As both a Warden and a Queen of Ferelden, I can make the Blight my first priority. Which it is, whether you choose to believe me or not. If the Empress had not attempted my assassination, Loghain's assassination, Anora's assassination, and the assassination of every lord and lady conveniently available, we would not need to be here, watching the Orlesian border. If the Knight-Divine had not threatened us, and attempted to arrest the Grand Cleric of Ferelden, we would not need to be watching the Orlesian border. If Duke Prosper de Monfort had not told us that our only safety was in accepting the status of a conquered people, we would not need to be watching the Orlesian border. But all these things have been done. And so, in order to fight the darkspawn, we must also watch the Orlesian border, lest we be overwhelmed and can no longer fight the darkspawn at all."

Scout gave a bark of approval. Riordan smiled ruefully.

"And what will your watching accomplish? What can you do against the fury of the Imperial Army?"

"I can..." she hesitated, not about to give them useful military intelligence. Instead she said. "...I cannot lie down and die. I will defend my people, and that includes the mages," Bronwyn said, glaring at Fiona. "Yes, the mages, who have rallied to fight the darkspawn according to the ancient treaties. The Divine seems to have a problem with that, though it has been done in Blights past without opposition. All we can assume is that the Divine's devotion to Orlais and its interests outweighs all else: her responsibility to a Thedas beset by a Blight; the traditional precedents; even the decency of letting the mages come forward and fulfill their obligations."

Riordan was sympathetic. It was obvious from his posture and his tense expression. Bronwyn pressed him.

"It seems to me, that you should be siding with me, in fact. I've been actually fighting the darkspawn. I think the lot of you Orlesian Wardens should ride over the border and stand with us. You must have had the dreams; you must have seen the signs. The darkspawn will rise soon."

"If only we could!" said Riordan. "We might indeed ride over the border and join you, but riding back might be a matter more difficult to accomplish."

"And who knows where the darkspawn will attack?" Fiona pointed out. She pulled herself together, and managed a reasonable tone. "It could be in Ferelden, but it could be in the Anderfels... or in faraway Rivain. Who can say?"

"Yes," Bronwyn nodded. "I understand the argument. I have read it in the letters I have received from the Warden-Commanders of Nevarra and Antiva, who were good enough to respond to my queries." She laughed suddenly. "I wrote to the First Warden, too, since I thought he would like to know about how I killed the Architect."

Fiona's jaw dropped. "You slew the Architect? But..."

"I really must return to the Halt now, " Bronwyn interrupted. "My Wardens can tell you about it, if you wish to remain, but I am expected elsewhere.. But yes, the Architect is dead. He was hiding in a deep mine in Amaranthine. Now he is no more."

"We'll tell them them!" Aveline promised. "Every detail… including the part about you riding the dragon."

The Orlesians paused, staring at the red-haired Warden in shock. Bronwyn smiled to herself, and got up to do.

"I would be grateful," said Riordan, following Bronwyn to the door. "We must leave ourselves, very soon, if we are to be back in Jader before dark. We swore to our Wardens that we be as discreet as possible. The civil authorities know nothing of this meeting."

They stepped outside, and Quinn and Aeron hurried to saddle the horses. Bronwyn tugged her cloak around her, thinking.

"Then tell your Wardens…" she said. "Tell them that instead of urging me not to defend my country, perhaps they should be urging their 'civil authorities' to have the decency not to take advantage of a neighbor under attack by darkspawn. It's despicable and cowardly. If they thought about it clearly, they would see that I cannot do other than I am. I do not know from which direction the darkspawn will attack, but I definitely know from which direction Orlais is going to attack, and thus I am here, rather than patrolling the Deep Roads."

There seemed little more to be said. Bronwyn wondered if the Orlesian Wardens knew anything about Riordan and Fiona's prior venture into Ferelden—one that now seemed to have come back to haunt them. However, even if they had not come to perform the Joining, Bronwyn believed it would not have been the end of the world for her. She would still have gathered her recruits, and when they reached Soldier's Peak, they could have been Joined at that point. Very likely, more of the recruits would have survived, since they would have used Avernus' improved potion. Bronwyn considered mentioning the potion, and decided not to muddy the waters. Once the Blight was over and the Archdemon dead, she might be inclined to be generous.

"I thank you for telling me of your concerns, and for the pains you took to come here," she said, after a silence. "It is growing late, and I was pleased to see you again. You have done your duty to us."

"Then I wish you well, Queen Bronwyn," said Riordan. "For while we are Orlesian and Fereldan, we are also brother and sister."

"And I wish you well also, Riordan of Jader." Bronwyn shrugged. "And you, Fiona. We are all in the Maker's hands." She and her party mounted up, and prepared to move out.

"Wait!" called Riordan. Bronwyn turned in her saddle.

The Orlesian asked, "Did you really find the Ashes of Andraste?"

Bronwyn smiled. "I did."

She kicked her horse into motion, and cantered away. Behind her the Orlesians watched her out of sight, until Danith cleared her throat, and led them back into the lodge.

A long cold walk it was, exposed to the harsh southwest wind. Tara pulled her hood down further over her face and trudged on. If she did not investigate the Aeonar now, there would be no time later.

Only one of her party was human, and Catriona very vocally did not give a dead rat for the Chantry. It made things convenient. Why Catriona disliked the Chantry Tara was not sure, and the archer did not volunteer information. It involved her family in some way, and when she did speak of the Chantry or the Templars, she sounded bitter.

But it was certainly convenient. If Leliana were here, there would be some awkwardness. There might even be a crisis, just as there had been when Danith's loyalty had been torn between the Wardens and a Dalish Keeper, and the Wardens had come off a distant second.

Her own party had no such divided loyalties. Darach treated her with more respect than Tara often felt she deserved. As for the dwarves who made up the rest of the party, they found the power of the Chantry inexplicable and rather absurd. Brosca and Sigrun joked about it. Ulfa and Soren considered it proof positive of the mental inferiority of humans.

Bronwyn had given her considerable latitude when she sent her out on this long patrol. Tara traveled both on the surface and by the Deep Roads. She had spent a pleasant, nostalgic two days at the Spoiled Princess Inn, looking across Lake Calenhad at Kinloch Hold, home of the Circle, and her own home for most of her life. Now and then Tara felt a curious desire to see the place again, but that was not going to happen: not unless she managed to master shape-shifting, and flew there as a bird, unannounced and undetected.

Those days at the Spoiled Princess had given her and her party the energy to undertake this last leg of her journey, back up to the coast and to the Aeonar. Tara was determined to see it for herself. All the excuse she needed was that she was tracking darkspawn. The Templars would have little to say to counter that.

Still, there might be a fight. Too bad. She would not lead her people into any fight she was not sure she could win, but at this point, Tara was fairly confident of her party's ability to win even against great odds. They would penetrate into the prison—or whatever it was—and get some answers. What were the Templars up to? Tara suspected that at least some of them would support the Orlesians when they came. The Aeonar might well be a supply depot waiting for an invasion force.

Smoke rose from the nearby cottage. Tara led her people around to the other side, sheltered by the slope. The little docks at the shore were completely iced in. It was likely that no vessels had come since Tara was last here.

And no guards were at the entrance, either. Why would there be? There were few travelers this time of year, and the structure was imperceptible from the road. The ancient doors had long since caved in, and clutter filled the entry. The weather, however, had betrayed the occupants. Dirty tracks in the snow were evidence, even to Tara's limited skills, that numerous people had been in and out of here since the most recent snowfall. The tracks wended around artfully strewn rubble and tree branches to the hidden entrance—the real entrance. The inner doors appeared at first, and even second glance, to be a stone wall, but closer examination revealed the long cracks and the hinges.

"Watch out!" whispered Catriona. "They're rigged."

"Sneaky bastards," grunted Brosca. Between them, the dwarf and the human laid bare trip wires and triggers. Once you knew they were there, they were not that hard to spot, since the Templar guards must be able to access the doors in safety.

It took some time. The massive entry afforded them shelter from the wind, at least. Tara hoped the doors were not barred from the inside, but she thought that unlikely.

Nor, when opened, did they creak. Warmer air flowed out, smelling strongly of damp and stone..

"Ahh!" sighed Sigrun. "Just like home."

"It does smell like Dust Town, at that," whispered Brosca, grinning. "Or like Dust Town would smell, if humans lived there."

They opened the door just enough to slip through, one at a time. Inside was a broad hall, with a pair of corridors leading off from it. In the center, an elaborate spiral staircase twisted down.

Faced with three choices, Tara went right, down the straight corridor, lit by crystals.

"Those are old," Tara whispered, pointing at the curious lights. "Really old. I've read about the Tevinters using them."

The crystals lent the corridor an eerie green light. The party opened doors cautiously, and found nothing but large storerooms packed with supplies. Tara made note of them, and considered coming back here to restock before they left.

They retraced their steps, moving silently, hearing indistinct echoes rumbling from the central staircase. Tara led them down the left corridor, and opened the first door.

And found herself in a well-appointed office, staffed by three priests, and a gangly and very young Templar recruit. All four shrieked girlishly at the sight of strangers.

"Maker's Breath!" Tara shouted. "We're Grey Wardens!"

The oldest of the priests clutched her heart, gasping. "What are you doing here? How did you get in?"

"We've been tracking darkspawn," Tara told her, a bit glibly. "They hide in old tunnels and buildings, and lay traps just like the ones we found. We thought this was a nest."

Brosca forced back a grin, and poked Tara in the back. "You are such a liar!" she whispered, hand over her mouth.

Tara smiled sunnily. It was so much fun to lie to priests. Now they'd worry about darkspawn sneaking in. Good.

"So what is this place, anyway?" Sigrun piped up. "It's not a Chantry, is it? I thought those were above ground."

"No," Catriona said loudly. "It's not a Chantry. What are you ladies doing here, with only one Templar for protection?"

"It's not just us!" the youngest priest burst out. "Knight-Commander Parrish has a full complement of—"

The other priests shushed her. Tara came forward, shamelessly peering at the documents on the writing tables and files boxes. She paused at a roll that was headed "Tranquilizations of 9:30." Her amusement soured.

"Interesting place you've got here? What is this?"

"This is a legitimate Chantry holding," the elder priest told her haughtily.

"I'll bet it's not," Tara shot back. "I'll bet the King and Queen don't know about it. I'll bet there's no record of the Chantry owning property here. " Her teeth curled back in a mirthless smile. "This is the Aeonar, isn't it?"

"Look here, Warden," the boy blustered. "You'll have to leave now. There will be a formal complaint to the First Warden!"

The Wardens burst out laughing.

"Good luck with that," snorted Brosca. "The First Warden doesn't even seem to know where Ferelden is. I think we should look around. The darkspawn could have tunneled into the lower levels."

This was greeted by the chantry folk with horror, for all sorts of reasons. Tara led her people out and then barricaded the door with a heavy storage case, trapping the office's occupants inside. The party then continued their examination of the rooms along the corridor. One, protected by intricate locks, contained an astonishing collection of magical items. Tara tried not to squeal aloud at the case containing a pair of genuine elven Sending Stones.

"What are they for?" Ulfa wondered.

Tara tossed one from one hand to the other, admiring its satin-smoothness. "Supposedly, you can send messages by them, if you have one and someone else has the other. The Chantry probably couldn't get them to work. These might not be usable anymore. I read that they were supposed to glow."

Darach was in awe. "I have heard of these. They were used in ancient Arlathan to connect the great lands of the elvhen."

"Let's take them along," Tara said, popping them into her pack. "Maybe Marethari or Merrill might know how to fix them. They're not doing any good here."

There were rare grimoires; there were crystals and statues, and a menacing little totem with long hair and creepily red eyes. There was no time to even go through the meticulous inventory that sat on a reading stand. Tara snatched up some items at random, and shared them out among her people.

"Let's have a look below."

It was not as huge as Tara had imagined it, or perhaps there were many levels below this one. There appeared to be quarters for no more than fifty Templars at a time, and about ten priests. There was a big kitchen and a refectory. A chapel, too, of course. They peered in, and slipped past. Most of the Templars were having a meal. The two that stepped out in front of the Wardens were struck with a sleep spell, and deposited in the empty chapel, behind the pew closest to the back wall.

And where the hall forked, there were cells. Down a short flight of stairs, there were more cells, and the voice of one in the last stages of anguish.

"Maker... Maker... oh please... no...not that...not that... no... please... I'll do anything... I'm not a mage... oh, Maker, help me...Aaaagh! Aaaaaaaagh!"

Tara jerked her head, and the Wardens followed at a stealthy run. The door was half open, and was marked "Interrogation Room." A fancy title for a torture chamber.

A man was strapped to a chair, his head held unmoving in a metal frame. His jaw hung slack, and he was obviously either dead or unconscious. From the blood oozing from his ears and nose, Tara's guess was dead. A pair of Templars were wiping and putting away their implements. At a small table, a priest was writing rapidly, her quill scratching along the parchment at great speed.

Catriona gave Tara a hard nudge, her face contracted in rage. Tara put up a hand, and then gave a start, when she realized she recognized the priest.

"Hello, Lily! I haven't seen you since you were about to run away with Jowan."

Yes, it was definitely that Lily: the same plump cheeks, the same elaborately coiffed dark hair. Only she was in the robes of an ordained priest, not a mere initiate, as she had been in her Circle days. Lily looked back at her, and blinked, clearly not recognizing her.

The Templars lunged forward, Tara, her indignation swelling her mana, froze them on the spot.

"Tie them up," she ordered. "And gag them. Brosca, watch the priest: she's sneaky. I need to have a look at him." She pointed at the bleeding man in the torture chair.

It was too late. Something had burned his brain from the inside out. Tara wished Anders or Jowan were here to analyze the condition of the man's body, but certain things were obvious to her— like the misshapen brand on the man's forehead. And the dropped iron, its head inlaid with lyrium, lying nearby.

"The Rite of Tranquility, somehow gone wrong. Interesting." She snatched the parchment off the writing table, away from Lily's twitching fingers, and skimmed through it."

"My, aren't you a thorough little secretary... even recording the moans and pleas of the dying." She read aloud from the transcript."Please... spare me...not my eyes... I haven't done anything... Aghhh! Maker! Aghhh!"

She broke off, her eyes boring into the defiant priest. "You are a desperately sick fuck, you know that?"

"I remember you!" Lily burst out, the light dawning at last. "You're the knife-ears that clung to Jowan like fleas!"

"Ooo!" Brosca nodded appreciatively. "This one's feisty!"

Darach, on the other hand, was furious. "Watch your tongue, shemlen!" he warned. Tara gestured him back.

"I remember you," she said, her voice cold. "You're the liar who pretended to be in love with Jowan. It was all a set-up, wasn't it? A trap to lure mages into trying to escape, so the Templars would have an excuse to kill them. You told Jowan that they were planning to make him Tranquil, pushing him until he was desperate enough to try to break out. Only he really did get away, didn't he? You didn't expect him to have the power to knock everyone down!"

"A Blood Mage!" Lily spat. "It was rumored, but he seemed too weak. We were hoping to crack a suspected coven of maleficar. But I didn't lie about making him Tranquil. He was on the list. Suspect mages must be culled."

Sigrun shook her head in wonder, and remarked, "You're just making friends all over the place today, aren't you?" She began sorting through the various implements in the room, while Tara read through the rest of the notes.

"What are you looking for?" Catriona asked.

"This man wasn't a mage, but they tried to make him Tranquil all the same. They've done it before, it seems. It looks like sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn't. I think I'll take these notes, Lily, thank you very much. Maybe, among us— Anders and I... and Petra, Niall... and Jowan— we can figure out what you're doing here. Yes, Jowan. He's a Grey Warden now, just like me. He healed Queen Anora, and he's a friend of Queen Bronwyn. He's far beyond your power to hurt now, you conniving bitch. When Bronwyn hears about what you're doing here, she'll shut you down."

Brosca leaned close, and spoke in Lily's ear. "And Jowan's got a new girl, too. Pretty little thing, with black hair. Crazy about him. So all you did was give him a happy ending. Sucks, doesn't it?"

Ulfa blinked, "You mean the...?" Sigrun gave her a dig in the ribs, and Ulfa snorted. "Yeah, her. Crazy about him."

Lily's plump cheeks were red with fear and anger. "The Grey Wardens are fools to try to take on the Chantry! When the Divine hears of this outrage..."

To everyone's surprise, Catriona slapped her face.

"Oh, shut up about the Chantry! You people are disgusting!"

Tara blinked, but went with the flow of events. "When Bronwyn hears about this, she'll want to know if the Grand Cleric knows about it, and then..."

"The Grand Cleric knows nothing!" Lily shouted, clutching at her cheek. "Do you think that doddering fool would be trusted with sensitive information? We operate under the direct control of Her Perfection, and if you think..."

Brosca clapped a hand over Lily's mouth. "You're just going to get yourself slapped again, your Holiness, if you go on like that. Look, Tara, we should get out of here. Not that I don't think we can take fifty Templars, but they might take some of us, too, you see."

Tara bit her lip, looking at her loyal friends. She would like to destroy this vile place and set every prisoner free, but there were simply not enough of them to do it.

"Right. We'll have to put this in Bronwyn's hands. At least we've got some evidence to take with us—"

She had quite forgotten that Lily knew how to fight, and was quite ruthless. The dagger lashed out, the tip coming within a hair's-breadth of Tara's throat. Brosca jerked Lily back, and slammed her hand down on the table to make her drop her weapon. Lily gasped, gathering breath to shout for help, and Catriona hit her again. The priest dropped to the floor, unconscious.

Tara blew out a blew, her eyes very, very wide at the near miss. "Well, that was fairly scary." Calming herself, she cast a sleep spell on Lily and the bound Templars. The Wardens moved around the room, gathering up what records they could carry.

While they worked, Brosca asked Catriona. "What's with you and the Chantry, anyway? Most humans like them all right."

Catriona sneered. "Or they pretend to because they're scared. I don't care any more. The Chantry good as killed my brother's wife."

"She was a mage?"

"She was having a baby," Catriona said, her voice caustic. "She was having a hard time, and my brother found an apostate to come and help her. Nobles can have court mages, but there's no real healing for common folk. Anyway, the apostate had her in hand and it looked like it was going to be all right. Then all of a sudden, this trio of Templars broke down the door and dragged the mage out. Dragged her out right as she was trying to deliver that baby. Killed her, for all I know. My brother begged them to let her finish, and they knocked him down. Knocked me down, too. I kept yelling, "What the matter with you?" and my brother's kids were crying and terrified. The Templars didn't give a shit as long as they could round up an apostate. Anyway, we couldn't do anything. Polla died and the baby died, too. And when my brother applied to the Chantry for help, they turned him down because he was on their list of "mage sympathizers." Bastards. They can all go to Orlais... or the Void. I don't care which."

Tara agreed, but there was no time for more talk. She set fire to all the scrolls and codices that they could not take with them. When they were ashes, it was time to move on.

"Let's get out of here."

With stealth, luck, and a great deal of patience, they managed to get back upstairs without a general alarm being raised. Two more templars were put to sleep, and the Wardens stepped out into the cold at last, with much to think about.

"The Boss'll shut them down," said Brosca. "She doesn't put up with crap like that."

Tara scowled. "Yes, Bronwyn will shut them down, but who's to say they won't set up shop somewhere else? It'll be days before we can get back to the Halt. I wish we could have cleaned the place out. " They walked on, snow crunching under their boots, and then Tara spoke again.

"One more thing. Don't tell Jowan about finding Lily. I may have to break it to him some day, but I'd rather he thought the Templars tortured her to death than have him know what she really was, and how she played him."

Bronwyn ruled her corner of the kingdom from a grubby stone chamber on a lower floor of Gherlen's Halt. She held court here on a regular basis, and more and more petitioners were finding their way to her: wanting justice in land disputes or family quarrels; wanting her to overrule their local landlords; wanting her opinion about the danger from darkspawn. Often they were simply there to gawk at Queen Bronwyn the Dragonslayer, or to make curious requests.

She had come west to fight, and so had not brought a great deal of luggage with her. The red dress given her by Teagan months before and some jewelry, including her ruby-studded diadem, were her only finery. Over the dress she wore a short capelet of black sable, fastened with her dragon brooch, which kept her warm in the chill of stone walls and floor. Such as she was, she seemed to satisfy her subjects. No one complained about her wearing the same gown, day after day. They wore the same clothes everyday themselves, and expected nothing more of their Queen than that her clothes should be finer than theirs.

When she held court, she had courtiers enough for a western outpost. A pair of knights, Ser Blayne Faraday and Ser Norrel Haglin; an elven bodyguard in Zevran and a dwarven one in Oghren; her court mages, Anders and Morrigan; and her court minstrel, Leliana. Others made their appearances from time to time: among them human swordsmen and archers; the mysterious Qunari giant, the dignified Dalish, the raffish dwarven rogues, and the handsome young nobleman, Bann Alistair Fitzmaric, over whom all the girls of the country 'round sighed… even the ones who had never seen him for themselves. Above all, there was Scout, ever faithful and alert.

The request made by the fifth petitioner of the day took her a bit by surprise.

"We've come, my lady Queen…" a nervous shepherd croaked. "Me n' Aelflaed have come all the way from Darrowmouthe for you to put a good word on the baby."

Darrowmouthe was a tiny village not five miles away, where the Gherlen River flowed into Lake Calenhad. That said, it probably seemed a very great distance to the poor peasant and his very pregnant wife.

The young couple was gazing at her in hopeful reverence. Bronwyn felt herself blushing, heartily glad that her current Court did not contain the Grand Cleric. Anders leaned over her shoulder, hiding his grin.

"I think they're asking for a blessing," he whispered.

Morrigan murmured, "Oh, for pity's sake. Go on and touch the fool's belly and mumble a few holy words. Test the power of the placebo effect."

Leliana shifted restlessly, but did not openly object. Bronwyn sighed, and beckoned the young mother forward.

"Kneel," growled Ser Blayne.

Awkwardly, the girl knelt, all enormous eyes. Bronwyn leaned forward and lightly touched the distended abdomen.

"Maker turn his gaze on you, Aelflaed. May your child be a joy to you."

There was a ripple of awed whispers through the crowd at the audience. At Bronwyn's gesture, the husband came forward to help his wife to her feet.

"Our thanks, Lady Queen."

It was quite embarrassing.

And ironic, and more than a little painful as well. How could one who had lost her child have the power to bless another? The couple seemed comforted and reassured, however, and Bronwyn wished them well.

And now a deputation from another village was coming forward, not apparently to ask for anything, for to thank Bronwyn for her great condescension in allowing herself to be seen by her loyal subjects; and she was assured that there were none loyaler than the men before her. She suffered them to recite a perfectly awful poem about her deeds—some exaggerated, and some entirely fictional—and then was entreated to do them the honor of being present at their Wintersend celebration.

Bronwyn declined, citing her duties, but ordered that they be given ten kegs of the best ale to drink her health. From their manifest satisfaction, she wondered if that had been what they were angling fpr all along.

A few days later, word came that the young woman Aelflaed had given birth to a healthy little boy. As the couple's first two offspring had been stillborn, the credit for the living child was attributed entirely to the power of their Queen. The Wardens chuckled over it, but only Morrigan had the nerve—or the gross insensitivity — to tell Bronwyn outright what people were saying.

There were only the five of them: three men and two dogs. They had started with Adam and Nathaniel but had quickly outpaced the main body of soldiery, and kept moving. They had camps to stay in part of the way: the Legion's camp at the mine in Amaranthine; then Kal'Hirol and Amgarrak. After that, they stuck to the empty Deep Roads as far as they could.

"It'll still be two more days until we reach Gherlen's Halt," Carver said, resigned to rough camping and cold rations.

"I just have this feeling that we need to get to Bronwyn as soon as we can," Jowan said, fidgeting nervously. "She needs to know that the embassy went well. She needs to know that the army's on the march. She might need us, too."

Fenris said nothing, but watched and listened. It had been a most interesting experience, this journey through the Deep Roads. An impressive feat, to clear them of darkspawn. He had been introduced to Senior Warden Astrid, who was extremely busy organizing her... "thaigs" was the word. He had now seen golems with his own eyes, and they were rather more than impressive. He admitted a certain curiosity about Queen Bronwyn, too, and looked forward to seeing someone so admired. A hero, her people called her.

Well, he had seen King Loghain, who also had the name of a hero, and whose reputation had spread even as far north as Tevinter. He was more what Fenris pictured when hearing that word. A formidable man; an intimidating man; a man who had done great deeds in his time. But his were the deeds of man against man, not victories over inhuman monsters from time's abyss.

Carver's tawny mabari sniffed at him, as Fenris lay on his thin blanket, and then trotted way. Fenris would have thought the name "Magister" very unfortunate, except that Carver had told them that these dogs had been retrieved from a real magister's lair. The irony pleased Fenris. These were interesting creatures, too. Legend had it that the Tevinter magisters had bred them, and then the mabaris had rejected them, and defected in a body to the Fereldan barbarians. They were clever creatures, and the most unswerving of companions. Fenris was beginning to see why Fereldans generally held that dogs were better people than humans, elves, or dwarves.

On the twentieth of Guardian, Bronwyn awakened to a strange, persistent sound. She lay in bed, behind her heavy bed curtains, listening. A rustle? A clicking? It was impossible to guess the time in the darkness. She pushed the bed curtains aside, letting in the tentative grey light.

The noise she had heard was water dripping from the icicles hanging over the top of her window. Little rivulets coursed down the panes. A dense white haze hung in the air, as if the skies had fallen, bringing the clouds down to earth. Sickening dread nearly undid her; then she gritted her teeth and rushed to the window, looking out at the melting snow through the fog. A great deal of it was already gone. Patches of earth lay raw and exposed. The courtyard was black with puddles that looked ankle-deep. She pushed open the window, shattering the remainder of the icicles. The mild air smelled of moist earth.

"No," she whispered. trying to make the weather otherwise by force of will. "No. It's too soon."

Scout, still half-asleep, opened one eye and lazily thumped his tail.

For his benefit, she tried to sound confident. "It's probably temporary. They have hard frosts here in the mountains as late as Cloudreach. Even if all the snow melts away, we could have a blizzard in Drakonis. We might. It's been known to happen."

The dog regarded her with compassionate brown eyes, got up, and stood close against her, sensing her anxiety. Absently, she rubbed his ears, her mind whirling with the variables.

Where was Loghain? Where was the rest of the army? They might not even have left Denerim yet. That thought was frightening, but she concentrated on calming her pounding heart. This comparatively warm weather might be a fluke. Cold air could blow in from the south later in the day. There was nothing to be done but wait and see. If she had thought it would do any good, she would have prayed to the Lady of the Skies to freeze all the world in solid ice, from the surface down to the very deepest of the Deep Roads.

Thanks to my reviewers: Datenshi, Aoi, Rexiselic, NPC200, JTheClivaz, NIX'S WARDEN, Massgamer45, Suna Chunin, Sizuka2, eternaldead, MisterSO, EpitomyofShyness, Nemrut, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, Tirion I, KnightOfHolyLiht, Mike3207, MsBarrows, Chandagnac, Amidamaru88, Chiara Crawfor, almostinsane, Robbie the Phoenix, RakeeshJ4, JackOfBladesX, Ie-maru, Guest, mr I hate znt nobles kill em, YayForYuffie, jnybot, AD Lewis, mille libri, dragonmactir, amanda weber, Blinded in a bolthole, Costin, Have Socks. Will Travel, Kamikaze duck, Hypothetical Spiritual Entity, Phygmalion, and Herebedragons66.

To suna chunin: A very interesting suggestion about showing the Orlesian reaction. As you see, I did in this chapter, but obliquely. While Ferelden would be mad to start a war with Orlais, a preemptive attack might be a sound idea if the invasion is inevitable.

Thanks to Massgamer45 for the suggestions about innovative uses for mabari in warfare.