Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 102: Spoils of War
Roc du Chevalier was a treasure house. It was immense, first of all, and it was full of… stuff.
Even after the Fereldans called themselves victorious, the work was far from done. The prisoners were disarmed and locked in the extensive dungeons. Chevaliers offered their parole, but Bronwyn had no time to deal with them. They, too, were disarmed and locked away.
Several bands of troops searched carefully through the fortress, finding locked rooms, routing out hidden opposition, dealing with the last stands of brave men who would not surrender, and accepting the swords of those who would. There were frightened servants, mostly elves, who feared that the fall of Rock was their own death warrant. These were rounded up, and assured that the terrible Dragon Queen needed maids and cooks just as much as the chevaliers ever had. Some of the servants were sullen; more seemed hopeful. They must be watched, of course, since there might be bards and spies among them. Soldiers were posted throughout the castle. Bronwyn, busy in the outer courtyard, commanded all this, but delegated the operations to good officers.
She had to make certain their wounded were treated well, first of all.
"Clear out one of the barracks," Bronwyn ordered. "We must have a place for our wounded."
Yes, they really had been lucky. No Wardens were killed, but three had been badly wounded. Darach had been stabbed when rescuing Tara. Anders was anxious that he rest and recover, for he had lost a lot of blood. Nevin had taken an arrow through the throat, and was unable to speak at the moment. Hakan had taken a blow to the back that would have killed him, had he been wearing thinner armor.
Some of their Avvar climbers had been killed in the melee in the inner keep; Bronwyn was sorry for them, but glad not to lose Bustrum and Ostap, whom she had come to rely on. She was considering making them Wardens, but the two men did not seem very eager to Join.
Sten had been injured as well, when he had been felled by a heavy timber. Head wounds could be tricky; Anders was keeping an eye on him. Arranging a cot for him proved impossible. A large pile of straw served instead, covered in blankets and sheepskins. The stoic Qunari did not complain during his periods of consciousness, for this was indeed more satisfactory than squeezing onto a tiny, precarious cot. Or two.
Anders, Petra, and Niall were hard at work, healing the wounded. Bronwyn had insisted that their own people must have precedence, but permitted them to see to the enemy, if their own strength held out. At that, the Orlesians were not so used to seeing magic in any form, and some were too frightened or hostile to allow themselves to be treated by mages. Some Orlesians protested. One weakly tried to lash out with a hidden knife.
"Back, maleficar!" he groaned. The knife dropped from his hand, and his eyes rolled whitely.
"Leave him alone!" cried one his comrades.
"You can't force it on them," Niall said to Anders, shaking his head. "If they'd rather suffer, that's their choice."
Altogether they had lost only twenty of their own, aided by surprise and the fact that most of the garrison had been asleep. Once the gate had been taken, the defenders had largely lost heart. More than two hundred Orlesians had been killed in the assault. Some of the wounded would eventually die as well. More than the dead and wounded, the Orlesians were dazed and stricken at how the despised Dog Lords had defeated them. It was a trick, some muttered. It had to a be a trick.
"Of course it was a trick," one more pragmatic soul pointed out. "You can call any clever strategy a trick. Just as winning a duel could be due to a trick of swordsmanship. The Dragon Queen outwitted de Guesclin. We are defeated, all the same."
Fereldan morale was as high as Orlesian morale was low. One of the search parties had found the food stores, and sent the welcome message that Roc du Chevalier had supplies to survive years of seige. There was no reason to stint anyone's rations. Some of the foodstuffs were already being transported to Gherlen's Halt.
Another party, Ser Norrel Haglin's, had located the stronghold's vault, and in it the paychest. Paychests. Lots of them. Gold was heavy, after all, and chests must be small enough that they could be lifted and carried. After coming to have a look, Bronwyn felt she needed to sit down and put her head between her legs. Her companions… her officers… her loyal troops must be rewarded, but afterwards, it was quite the coup. She had not planned to take the Rock for gold, but perhaps she should have. This fortune would fund many more troops and buy a fearsome battery of war machines. Haglin had a pair of clerks adding up the windfall. He was a man more greedy for honor and respect than for gold, so Bronwyn felt she could trust him to give her an accurate total.
She wanted to see more of this place that loomed so large in history and imagination. After the kitchen were raided for food, She set out exploring, accompanied by some of her Wardens.
The Rock was complex, and was more than a mere fortress. There was a handsome chapel, a well-stocked library, comfortable quarters for the junior officers, luxurious accommodations for the elite. There were also some apartments set aside for distinguished guests. A frightened servant, found hiding in a closet, showed them the best of them, the one called the "Imperial Suite," though the Empress had never come this far east. Emperor Florian, though, had once slept there, they were informed.
The door was unlocked by trembling hands, and flung wide. The servant bowed and preceded her, flicking away dust covers from the magnificent furniture.
"Andraste's nightgown!" muttered Bronwyn. Her exclamation was drowned out by the saltier expressions of her friends.
"Whoa!" Toliver was entranced, and with all sincerity said, "This is even nicer than the Pearl!"
"What's the Pearl?" asked Siofranni.
Oghren chuckled. "Best little whorehouse in Denerim."
Bronwyn cleared her throat, but was terribly tempted to burst out laughing. She had never visited a brothel herself, but this place really did resemble her mental picture of an expensive, decadent house of ill-repute. Perhaps it was all the red velvet. Or the gilded swags. Or the ankle-deep silk carpets. Or the paintings. Her people were already gathering in front of one, whose label evocatively entitled it "Beauty Surprised." Alistair's face was as red as the velvet draperies.
"I think her bottom is too big," said Adaia. "And if she were really surprised from behind like that, she shouldn't be smiling."
In an alcove was a glorious bed. There was a gilded crown-piece in the form of an Orlesian sunburst, anchoring elegant folds of yet more red velvet. The counterpane was worked with gold embroidery and a border of dazzling suns. There were carved and gilded steps rising up to it, since the bed was so absurdly high.
In front of the black marble mantelpiece was a sofa, also covered in red velvet, and piled with an assortment of jewel-colored silk cushions. It was made in a shape Bronwyn had not seen before. While one end rose up in a graceful curve, the other end ended without an arm. Aveline studied it.
"It think that's what my father called a 'fainting sofa,'" she said. "Ladies swoon away on it decoratively, either before or after entertaining their gentlemen friends on it."
"Hmmm," Bronwyn responded, trying to imagine 'entertaining' Loghain on such an object. "Perhaps it's not long enough..."
Zevran sniggered. "No doubt Emperor Florian was far… shorter than your impressive king!" Tara elbowed him, grinning.
Over the mantelpiece was another painting, this one of some masked Orlesian courtiers watching naked dancing girls. It was fairly interesting, since the girls were of every race and type, though all were beautiful.
"No Qunaris, though," Brosca observed. "That would be interesting."
"It would be interesting to meet a female Qunari," said Bronwyn. "Simply looking at naked girls is not particularly interesting, however." She turned to the servant.
"I find those pictures vulgar. Remove them."
"Awww!" rose the protest. She ignored it.
"Take them away and replace them with something else. Do you have any tapestries?"
Rather indignantly, the servant drew himself up, and huffed, "This is a castle, and we have many tapestries..."
"I'm glad to hear it. Find something pleasant, with everyone wearing clothes. Hunting, feasting, music-making. Nothing insulting to Ferelden, either."
Oghren took the servant aside, and Bronwyn could well imagine where the paintings would go. She hardly cared. She could see that they were good art, but she found them distasteful. She did not know if Loghain would feel the same, but if he came here, she did not care to see him looking at any naked woman but herself. Actually… now that she thought of it… all this degeneracy made her think of him more fondly. He might be amused by this… Contemptuous, of course, no question… But amused, too…
"Guess what we found?" Adaia sang out.
An explosion of snickers behind her. A doorway, softened by draperies led into another room. Colored light shone through a stained-glass window.
A dressing room? And a bathing room. With a bathtub the likes of which she had never seen. This was a fantastical version of Bann Ceorlic's elaborate facilities, translated by the Gods.
The bath was huge, and of carved greenstone, richer than marble. It was set around the rim with onyx and amethyst and great opals. The taps which filled it were gold, in the shape of dragons, designed so water would pour out of their mouths instead of flames. Elaborate rugs softened the floor. A tall, gilt-framed looking glass stood in a corner, reflecting their deplorably raffish state. The wash basin—or might there be a grander name for such a work of art—? sat on a greenstone pedestal, and was of cobalt Tevinter glass. Its taps were gold as well. Bronwyn looked about for a chamberpot or commode of equal gorgeousness, but saw only a throne-like chair nearby.
"Don't tell me…" Tara groaned. "Just don't."
Nonetheless, she approached the gilded object and lifted the hinged, brocaded seat.
"Right."
Bronwyn crowded to see with the rest. Sure enough, under the cushion was another seat, made of greenstone and carved for comfort, and a long, golden pipe leading down into darkness. Everyone burst out laughing.
The room was ridiculous. The Imperial Suite was ridiculous. It had not been used in twenty years. Everything here, in this farflung outpost of the Orlesian Empire, was infinitely grander than in the Queen's Apartments in Denerim. No wonder the Orlesians thought them savages. No wonder Orlesian peasants were notoriously poor and wretched. It was easy to see where the taxes went.
"Can I piss in it?" asked Oghren, still entranced by the golden pipes.
Bronwyn rolled her eyes. "If you wait until I am out of the room," she agreed. "And if you aim very carefully."
"Fair enough."
She stalked out of the bathroom and puzzled over the contents of the rest of the suite: the delicate desk and chair, exquisite works of marquetry; the crystal-shrouded oil lamps; the round table, inlaid with mother of pearl, suitable for private dining. She sighed, and dismissed the servant to find someone to stoke the hot-water boilers.
I feel ashamed to sleep here. I must, nonetheless, to make clear that I claim it by right of conquest.
The noise and giggles from the bathroom were slowly dying down. Bronwyn wondered if every single of her companions had used the facilities. Living together in camps had cured them of false modesty, but it was not a sight Bronwyn found particularly appealing.
Aveline was still smiling, as she joined Bronwyn, looking up at the plastered ceiling, molded artfully into scrolls and figures.
"You're going to need a maid, to keep up your position in an establishment like this."
"Ha!"
Bronwyn glumly thought Aveline was right. She might even have to have a new gown made. Her people gathered, restless; hoping to find good quarters for themselves.
Tara poked at a bronze and ivory statuette of a court lady. "So. This is the Rock. What are you going to do to celebrate?"
"Well, first of all," Bronwyn considered. "I should clean off all this blood in the Emperor's bath!"
"In Queen Bronwyn's bath," corrected Zevran.
"Yes." She laughed. "It is, isn't it?"
Val Royeaux was in turmoil. It was necessary to be very, very discreet. Revered Mother Dorothea had reliable agents of her own, but some of them were known to her rivals in the Chantry. She dared not call any of them to her office. She herself was already under suspicion, due to her opposition to the event that today had claimed so many lives. It was that lack of favor to which she owed her own safety. She had been present, but back on the west side of the Cathedral among some of the lesser clergy. All of them had escaped unscathed.
A lightning storm in Guardian! They were most unusual, but not unknown. Lightning had struck the cathedral before, though never so disastrously. When the storm clouds had darkened, she had attempted to persuade the Grand Cleric to delay pronouncing anathema on the Fereldan Queen and Grand Cleric. She had been refused, with angry, bitter words. And for that matter, it was impossible to delay the ceremony, and thereby delay the departure of the army. Who could have foreseen such catastrophic weather? Was it a mere happenstance? The wrath of the Maker himself?
Or was it the work of sinister apostate mages, working hand in hand with the Fereldan heretics? That was the explanation given ex cathedra by the doddering Divine. It had not convinced many people, but if one repeated a lie often enough—repeated it loudly and often, and ruthlessly suppressed such inconveniences as evidence and facts— such a lie could become the truth. Perhaps it would. Others were whispering of the wrath of the Maker. Had not Andraste herself been Fereldan?
The source of the storm was immaterial. What mattered was the ceremony of anathema itself. Dorothea felt that the Divine's handlers—so very much the creatures of the Empress and the expansionist party—had overreached themselves. Many had never set foot outside Orlais. For that matter, some had never left Val Royeaux. They could not be made to see that to intertwine Imperial interests with those of the Chantry was to cheapen and discredit the Chantry in the eyes of the rest of Thedas. Her own years in Ferelden had served her well. She had friends in Ferelden: devout clergy who did not deserve the blanket condemnation they had received today.
Nonetheless the army would march; if not today, then tomorrow. The invasion fleet, also, would sail tomorrow, despite the damage the storm had caused it. There was considerable apprehension there. Reports had come of a the sinking of an Orlesian ship by a Nevarran patrol. There had been an explosion: the vessel had caught fire and sank with considerable loss of life. Now it was whispered by Orlesians sailors that the Nevarrans possessed the black powder of the Qunari: a terrifying weapon against which they had no defense. One daring soul had suggested copper-plating the hulls of Imperial ships. Even if the Empress would agree to such a shockingly expensive effort, it would take months, and ruin her plans. No, it must be presumed that this was a fluke; a bizarre happenstance. The fleet would sail, and they would destroy the impudent Fereldans. The captains—none of them noble courtiers—did not hide their faces behind masks, and their expressions were grave.
Dorothea had read the conclusions of the Denerim Conclave herself, and had found food for thought in them. Muirin was no mere political careerist, but an honorable priest. So too were many of the names appearing in the document. The sincerity of Templars like Ser Bryant and Ser Rylock was beyond question, unless one closed one's ears to everything one did not wish to hear.
And Leliana! Wild, repentant Leliana! Dorothea knew her well, and trusted her sincere faith. Dorothea had rescued her from the consequences of her youthful crimes, and Leliana had spent two years as a lay sister in Lothering, perhaps on her way to the priesthood—or perhaps preparing to become a Seeker of Truth. Dorothea herself had given Leliana a Seeker's amulet, hoping that this reformed spirit would someday be a great warrior for the Maker. In a sense, that was exactly what she was. If Leliana believed in Bronwyn's deeds, that carried great weight with Dorothea.
Why should a brave heart not win the way to the Ashes? Whatever else one said about the young Queen of Ferelden, brave she unquestionably was. And the Ashes had effected a cure. Surely that could not be the trick of a demon, but a holy miracle.
Now, she must be brave, too. It would be a shameful thing not to warn her old friends in Ferelden that the Divine had cast them off. She did not care to see Muirin tied to a stake and burned for the amusement of the Empress—and she did not care to trust Muirin's salvation to another direct intervention by the Maker. The Maker did not like having to repeat himself.
"Ser Silas," she said quietly, when the tall Templar passed her, as if by chance, in the north cloister.
"Revered Mother."
Silas Corthwaite was a Fereldan himself, of course; he had fought against Orlais during the Fereldan Rebellion. He had joined the Templars in middle age, finding peace and purpose in the Maker's service. That said, he was appalled at the Divine's sweeping pronouncements, and was very much of her mind about the Denerim conclave.
"I believe there are early snowdrops in the cloister garden," she remarked. "Quite near the sundial."
"Are there indeed?" he remarked. "I must take a moment to admire them."
"Then Maker speed you, my son," said Mother Dorothea, as she passed on.
The Templar bowed, and strode out to the wintry garden. Sure enough, by the sundial, some little white flowers peeped out of the dead grass. He bent to gather a handful, breathed their fugitive fragrance with a slight smile; and then deftly pulled the sealed letter and the travel pass from behind the loose stone in the base of the sundial. In the confusion of the disaster and the army's departure, no one would notice one more Templar on horseback.
Jowan, Carver, and Fenris had been alarmed by the dark smoke rising over Gherlen's Halt. They were bewildered when they found themselves in the midst of a wild celebration. The gate guards had a keg of ale, and were pretty far gone
"We're Grey Wardens!" Carver shouted. "We have urgent news for the Queen!"
A grizzled crossbowman shoved a tankard at him. "She's at the Rock, laddie! You'll have to track her down there!"
Jowan goggled. "She's a prisoner?"
The soldiers at the gate roared with laughter, and pounded the newcomers on the backs—even Fenris, who did not at all appreciate it. The dogs milled about anxiously.
"Not a prisoner! Last night she sneaked up, climbed the wall, and took the Rock right from under the Orlesian's snotty noses! Captured it, she did! Set herself up there and she's looting the place six ways from sundown. Plenty for all, says she, Maker bless her!"
A moment of shocked incomprehension. Then Carver took a drink.
"The smoke?" he asked.
The genial guard shrugged. "Pyres. We didn't lose many, but a lot of Orlesians went to the Maker! And good riddance. Better to burn them than leave them stinking up the place!"
Carver agreed, and then gave Fenris a brief explanation about why the conquest of Roc du Chevalier was a very great deed, and a mighty strategic triumph for Ferelden.
"Now we control Gherlen's Pass, which is the quickest, easiest route into Ferelden. A land force would have to go through the Jader Bay Hills, which are too rugged for cavalry. I've never seen the Rock myself. Come on!"
Cliffs towered on either side, The huge mass of Roc du Chevalier was revealed, bit by bit, as they tramped up the Imperial Highway, past throngs of jubilant soldiers. On their way, the two Wardens ran into people they knew. Jubilant soldiers slapped them on the back, filling in details of the night assault. Wagons rumbled back and forth between to the two fortresses. The crowd at the gate of Roc du Chevalier was so dense that it was difficult to shove their way through. Alistair, taking in the sights on the top of the parapet, saw them and gave a shout.
"Let them through! They're Wardens!"
Guards squeezed back some of the milling mass and the three travelers pressed on. Alistair bounded down from the wall, Scrapper behind him, tail wagging.
"Glad to see you!" He was grinning, glowing with victory and some first-class Orlesian wine. Scrapper smelled his littermates and went wild.
Briefly, Jowan introduced their companion. "This is Fenris. Originally from Tevinter. Helped us out on our mission. Thought he'd like to to help us fight darkspawn."
"Terrific with a greatsword," Carver added.
"From Tevinter?" Alistair whistled, and then reached out to take Fenris' hand in a warrior's welcome. "You've come a long way to help! Good news from Denerim?"
"Some of it is," Carver said evasively. Bronwyn deserved to be the first to know about his stepfather.
They were led through the immense gate, under unused murder holes, past guard posts now manned by grinning Fereldans. Dalish elves wandered the corridors, critiquing the designs on walls and balustrades. At the end of a long hall loomed an arched opening, which took them into what was probably usually a council chamber, but was today a smallish throne room. On a dais covered with silk, Bronwyn sat enthroned in an x-shaped chair of ebony and ivory, awarding trophies to a line of smug, often tipsy officers. Beside her was a chest full of gold trinkets and fancy dress weapons. A lithe, golden-skinned elf stood to one side, eyes searching the room for danger. Fenris recognized the behavior. After all, he had been a body guard himself. A very pretty elf girl in leather armor was helping the queen sort through the treasure.
Carver grinned. "Everybody gets a prize today?"
Alistair whispered, "Some of the loot is still warm from the original owners' bodies!"
"She's killed all the chevaliers?"
"Of course not! Well... some of them. Anyway, once they surrendered, their arms and armor... and everything was her legitimate booty." He grinned. "She gave me this," He pointed at the new dagger on his belt. Carver whistled softly.
"Rubies on the handle! Nice."
Bronwyn called up the next man, smiling. In her hands was a chased gold goblet.
"—Captain Rhys, take this as a keepsake of the battle, with my thanks for your good service..."
As the man stepped back, bowing, Bronwyn looked up and caught Alistair's wave. She saw Jowan and Carver, and her smile burst forth like sunshine. Fenris was struck by it.
"I'm so glad to see you! Bann Alistair, make sure they have food and drink. I'll speak to them later in my quarters!" She resumed her gift-giving.
"—And now, Captain Valenta, this is for you..."
"That is the Queen?" Fenris said, his eyes on her.
After hearing so much, he was not sure what he had expected. She was not in armor, but in a gown of crimson silk, a ruby-studded diadem on her brow. She looked softer and more beautiful than the dragon-riding hero of Carver's tales, and much more like the noble lady that Arl Nathaniel had described. Even at this distance he had seen the flash of her brilliant green eyes. Her smile, however, had taken him by surprise.
"Yup, that's our Bronwyn," Carver agreed fondly. "Come on. She said something about food."
Fenris knew enough about Wardens by now not to stand between a Warden and a meal.
"Who were those elves?" he asked Jowan. "Are they also Wardens?"
"Tara is. Zevran isn't. He's a former Crow."
Fenris raised his brows. Everyone had heard of the Crows. Zevran, presumably, was a very competent bodyguard.
Instead of taking their party down to the mess hall, Alistair led them upstairs, to a sumptuous private parlor, where a feast was laid out. A mob of humans, dwarves, and elves were lounging, drinking, eating, and laughing. A bald man with a scarred head was playing a merry dance on a lute.
"Look!" Alistair shouted, by way of greeting. "It's Carver and Jowan! And... er..."
"Fenris."
"And Fenris!"
A pair of mischievous-faced dwarf girls peered at them over the top of a long table.
"Fenris," said Jowan. "These ladies are Brosca and Sigrun. Fear them."
Out of scale as they were, they looked like menacing children, sitting there with gold cups in their hands. Brosca was wearing a gold neck torque on her head. Sigrun had woven gold beads into her pigtails, They were both very drunk.
"Hi, guys!" Brosca said, eyes glassy. "We just beat the shit out the Orlesians! Some place, huh? Bronwyn's room is fancier than the King of Orzammar's! Or at least my sister's room. Er... are there three of you?"
Carver pulled up a chair on the other side of the table, eyeing the rich food and fragrant wine greedily. "Carver," he said, pointing to himself. "Jowan, and Fenris."
"Do I know you?" Brosca asked, squinting at Fenris.
"No."
"Are you an Orlesian?"
"Hardly."
"Oh, good. Try this," she said, pouring a golden liquid from a crystal decanter. "It's Orlesian Honeywine. It's pretty good. More of a kick than you'd expect."
Fenris dutifully tasted it. It was sweeter than he liked, but not unpleasant.
"Come to Join our merry band?" asked Sigrun, with an odd emphasis on the word "Join."
"I was told I could fight with you, even if I were not a Warden."
"Oh, sure," Brosca gestured expansively. "We take all sorts. You'll see sense in time. Try the sausage." She shoved a gold platter at him, laden with delicacies.
Sigrun kissed her fingers. "Umm! So good! Alistair likes that cheese with the blue mold, but I think it's rotten."
"It's not rotten!" Alistair protested. "It's ripe!" He sat down by the cheese plate and snatch up a mouthful. "Ahhh! Bliss!"
Not all the Wardens were indulging themselves. Danith had gone to the hospital barracks to see Darach, and with her were Cathair, Siofranni, Steren, and Nuala. Niall saw them coming through, and went to meet them.
"Darach's sleeping, but I think he'll be fine. He'll need rest and lots of liquids. Come on. I'll show you."
The Fereldan sick were fairly quiet. If they were not sleeping, they were cheerful, at least, and out of pain. Danith would have preferred it if there had been a true Dalish Keeper among them, who might understand her own people better. A few Dalish had been hurt, but Danith had to acknowledge that their human Healers were honorable folk, and treated all alike with care.
As she passed, she spoke to the elves, all of whom she recognized.
Cathair found a bench, and carried it over to Darach's cot.
"Ah, his color is better," murmured Nuala.
"Should be," remarked a human soldier who lay on the nearest cot. "The Queen came by not long ago with the news that every soldier who fought today is getting three gold sovereigns! Is this a great country or what?"
Danith snorted faintly, and then leaned closer when she noticed Darach's eyelids flutter. He smiled.
"So it is," he whispered. "Might I have some water, lethallan? Tara gave me some earlier, but I still thirst."
She lifted a waterskin to his lips carefully, and let him have his fill.
"Niall thinks you will be well soon," she said. She examined his bandaged, and sniffed thoughtfully. The wound was clean.
"And the others?" Darach asked. "Hakan was sore hurt."
"I do not know. We shall visit our fellow Wardens when we leave you," Danith promised, a little ashamed that she needed this reminder. "And we shall see Sten, as well. It is a strange thing, that the elvhen should be hurt in a battle between humans. 'A great country?'" she quoted, glancing at the dozing human. "I do not know. I know that in the ways that matter, it is not our country, nor is Bronwyn our queen."
"But she is our friend," Darach whispered. "and that does matter."
"True," Danith sighed. It was, indeed, more or less true.
"A strange state of affairs," agreed Cathair, "but we must do all we can to keep back the Orlesians. If they win, our homeland is as dust. It is fortunate that we are here to do our part. These soldiers will not forget that elves stood with them."
Steren considered that. "Should we send word to Lanaya and Marethari and Merrill? They were waiting for news of darkspawn, but this is as great a danger. The Orlesian army is on the march, according to Zevran."
Danith bit her lip, and then agreed. "Yes, it must be done. The sooner they come, the better."
Bronwyn sent word when she was back in her private quarters. Carver, Jowan, and Fenris were asked to come and report, and she asked Alistair to join them.
"This is Fenris," said Carver. "He joined us in Kirkwall and wanted to fight alongside the Wardens."
Fenris thought the Queen quite as attractive close up as she was at a distance. He had been told of the long scar on her face, but it was faint and not disfiguring. He bowed respectfully, in the Tevinter style.
"Welcome, Fenris," Bronwyn said, not sure what to make of the strange markings. This was clearly no Dalish elf. "We are happy to welcome friends and comrades! You are from Kirkwall, then?"
"No, Your Majesty. I am originally from Tevinter."
A pause. Bronwyn's first thoughts were of Tevinter agents and magisters.
"You're a long way from home."
Jowan stepped in. "Fenris used to be a slave in Tevinter. He escaped and the magister who owned him sent bounty hunters to capture him. Arl Nathaniel couldn't see anyone enslaved. He and Adam—Bann Adam— were impressed with Fenris' skills with a greatsword—"
"—We all were," Carver put in.
"—And he joined our party. He's done good service. Either one of the noblemen would have been glad to have him in their guards, but Fenris thought he'd like to try the Wardens."
Fenris spoke up. "The Wardens," he said, "seem far more comfortable with elves bearing swords."
Bronwyn laughed. "That's true enough!"
They were suitably impressed by the splendor of her quarters—though perhaps not as impressed as people would be who had never visited Nevarra—but Bronwyn did not give them time to look about them. They sat around the small dining table, and Bronwyn served them wine and little Orlesian cakes flavored with anise and almonds. Carver knew he needed no more wine, but it made giving her his news easier.
"We brought you some letters…"
"I'll read them later. Tell me the news yourself! Is Loghain well? Is he on the march?" She saw the shadow flit across Carver's face. "What happened? Tell me!"
"The Nevarran embassy was a big success," Carve said slowly, "and the King is fine and he coming with three thousand men. But…"
"I don't like that 'but,'" she said. "Tell me the worst straight out. Then give me the good news to sweeten it a bit."
"All right. My stepfather Arl Bryland was assassinated eleven days ago."
Bronwyn had expected nearly everything but that. "Cousin Leonas! Dead!"
Jowan saw how it upset Carver, and took up the tale. "It was at your brother's wedding, as they were leaving the Cathedral."
Carver put up a hand, and Jowan was silenced. "A man rushed up holding flowers for my mother. While everyone was distracted, he stabbed the arl in the heart. He died almost instantly. Bethany couldn't do anything for him."
"Who did it?" Bronwyn demanded, her face terrible.
"A poor half-wit," Carver said heavily. "Trained to strike and babble verses from the Chant of Light afterwards. He was not able to give a sensible name to the one who used him as a catspaw. He was executed, of course. It's clear that the arl was a target because of his pro-mage stance."
"Your poor mother!"
"Yes, she's taken it hard. The arl left her as his regent in South Reach, and provided well for everyone."
Bronwyn frowned, sick at the idea of Cousin Leonas paying such a price for being brave and fair and outspoken. He had been such a kind friend to her and loyal servant of the kingdom. Was it the Chantry? Was it the Orlesians? Or most likely, pro-Orlesian, anti-mage fanatics…
She could not like Habren, but she could not consider this loss without understanding how much more painful it would be for her cousin. "I shall miss him sorely. And how is Habren taking it? To lose her father…"
"I haven't seen her," Carver said. "She wasn't at the funeral. Kane says she's sick. Expecting a child, you see, and not in good shape."
"I've seen her," Jowan spoke up. "Arl Kane called me to see to her, when he broke the news. She's been very unwell and keeping to her room. Her father's death hit her hard. She became hysterical. I had to give her a calming potion." He pressed his lips together, uncertain if he should say more in front of the others. He looked at Bronwyn in mute appeal.
Bronwyn gave him a nod, understanding that there was more to the story. She would hear it later. Habren would have to wait.
"Well, I'm very sorry for her," she said, trying to be. "Tell me about the embassy. Were the Nevarrans receptive?"
This was a far pleasanter topic, and Carver and Jowan took turns with the tale, giving every detail, from their gruesome voyage, to their meeting with Varric and Fenris in Kirkwall, to the strange Warden prison (which puzzled Bronwyn exceedingly) to the glories of Nevarra.
Next they told of the very concrete evidences of friendship given by the king in gold, ships… and wives.
"Nathaniel is married!" She shrugged, secretly displeased, but resigned. "We suspected it would happen. Tell me all about the lady."
She heard about the beauties of Callista Pentaghast and also about the charms of Carver new sister-in-law, Berenice. Then Carver, returning to the blood and thunder bits he liked best, told her how Jowan had sunk an Orlesian warship on the high seas.
"Andraste's nightgown!" cried Bronwyn, slapping the arm of her inlaid chair. "You didn't!"
Jowan blushed, and grinned like a fool. "I really did."
"Well done! We may need more of those fireballs very soon. Look here— I've been giving rewards all day, and I might as well reward you as well, for you certainly deserve it!"
She got up and rummaged through one of the treasure chests. "Here are some rings. They're quite nice. Let's find some to fit you." She smiled at Fenris' apprehensive expression. "Yes, you too, Fenris."
Bronwyn awakened in her ridiculous red-velvet room. Even the light through the draperies was red. It was a bit like waking in the belly of a monster. She was not alone. In this huge room and this huge bed there was plenty of space for some of her comrades. Aveline and Catriona shared the bed, with Maeve sleeping at the foot. Brosca was snoring on the fainting sofa, and Sigrun and Adaia seemed comfortable enough, wrapped in furs on the soft carpet and an assortment of cushions.
Scout was in the warm spot by the fireplace, tail twitching in doggy dreams.
They had celebrated late and long in the course of the day before, but Bronwyn awakened to a new set of problems, and was still facing the arrival of a large Orlesian army by the beginning of Drakonis. She held the Rock. This was a magnificent fortress, and she should be able to hold it even against an army of thousands— even against the darkspawn, unless the Archdemon came here itself and shattered it to its foundations. If they worked diligently in the next few days, the sappers and engineers could create more of the defenses that already filled the Gherlen Pass. Was that enough?
She sat up, trying not to wake Catriona, and slipped out of bed, pushing aside the bed curtains, and going to the window to touch the pane and judge the temperature. Still mild. No hard frost had slowed the thaw. A pang of anxiety made her stomach roil. Any day now… any day…
It's only a matter of time.
She could be alone in the sumptuous bathroom, and so went in there and washed her face, brooding. Loghain needed to know about the Rock. He needed to know about a few other things too. Since she knew the route he was taking west, it should not be difficult to send him a message.
Her reflection studied her from the mirror. Bronwyn did not much liking her washed-out appearance. Too much wine; too much stress; too little sleep. Her dreams were turbulent: everything was rushing about as the chess pieces were arranged. Were they her own pieces or another's?
Adaia trailed in, squinting at the colored light from the window. It made a patch of soft red and blue on the floor.
"Is it day already?"
"Afraid so," said Bronwyn. "Another day. We need to get dressed, round up something to eat, and have a talk."
"I can go and have something sent from the kitchens. Do you want it here or in that parlor we found?"
"In the parlor. I want everyone present for a council."
"We don't even get one day off after that big victory?"
"No," Bronwyn laughed, rather rueful. "We celebrated all day yesterday. Now it's time to get back to work!"
"Speaking of getting back to work," said Aveline from the great bed, "I hope there's a laundry in this castle. I'm on my last set of clean smallclothes."
Despite hangovers, minor contusions from the battle, and general sloth, everyone managed to get up, rouse the late sleepers, and collect in the parlor that had been claimed by the Wardens. Only a few were missing: Niall and Petra had stayed overnight at the infirmary, tending the wounded. Anders would have to go down there soon and take his turn. There were non-magical healers among the troops, of course, and they could take over more and more of the care, as the worst of the injuries were healed by magic.
"I'll need to visit our wounded, too," Bronwyn remarked, between spoonfuls of porridge. "I'll go down with you. First, let's make some plans. No getting drunk today, please—or any drunker than absolutely necessary," she added, with a glance at Oghren. "We need to keep our eyes open. Leliana will be back from her patrol tomorrow, and I want some of you to go back to the lodge. We need to keep a close eye on the Imperial Highway and Jader. I don't think many defenders escaped the fall of the Rock yesterday, but some might have, and they might well have reached Jader by now and reported."
Danith volunteered for this. She preferred the lodge in the forest—and even the cold, long watches in the trees—to the noise and smell of a shemlen fortress. Besides, this place was full of elvhen reduced to servitude: timid, beaten-down, submissive. They made her queasy. All the more reason to admire Adaia's spirit. A pity more city elves were not like her. At least some of the ones in Denerim had slipped away with Marethari and her people. They might still be saved. She glanced at the newcomer Fenris. He intrigued her. Clearly a notable warrior, respected by Carver and Jowan. Not Dalish, but not like a city elf either. And those markings...
"I shall go," she said, "after I, too, visit the wounded. Perhaps Darach will be recovered enough to join us. The clean air would do him good."
Anders was not so sure. "Maybe. As long as he takes it easy."
"Furthermore, "continued Danith, "one of our number must go and take a message to the rest of the Dalish. We have come to the conclusion that the Orlesians present almost as great a danger to the elvhen as the darkspawn. Many Dalish would come to help protect our new homeland."
Siofranni said, "I can run fast. I can take a southern route and reach them within a few days."
"Very well," Bronwyn said, with a concerned glance at the elf girl. "There is no question but that they would be welcome. We need all the swords and bows we can get, and the Keepers' magic too."
The Dalish nodded, satisfied that Bronwyn, at least, valued them.
"And there's one more thing," Bronwyn added, leaning back, playing with her golden cup, running over the raised designs with her fingertips. "I really don't like having the Aeonar at our back…"
"Yes!" cried Tara, very pleased.
"…but we can't spare a lot of people to seize it. Based on the notes you brought back, this seems to be a radical faction of the Chantry, with a very unpleasant agenda. While the Chantry might have some legal basis for claiming to have jurisdiction of mages—save your breath, Anders— they have no legal right whatever to experiment upon and to torture to death non-magical subjects of the Fereldan Crown. I don't want to make trouble for the dwarves, but I think if it's explained to their leaders that these people are trying to cut the dwarves out of their lyrium profits, they'll look the other way… or maybe help. So…"
Tara beamed, popping almonds into her mouth. "So?"
"I still can't spare a lot of people for this, but I'll let you go and find Loghain, Tara. Yes. Find Loghain. There's a lot he needs to know, anyway. I'll give you a letter to him. Take your usual party with you—except Darach, of course. Loghain is in the Deep Roads and should be only a few days away—"
"I could go, too," Jowan offered.
"So could I," Carver chimed in, not feeling at all friendly toward "radical factions" of the Chantry.
"Jowan can go," Bronwyn allowed. "But not you, Carver, nor you, Fenris. Jowan can caste Haste and move the party along, but we're likely to need swords very soon. Once Tara finds Loghain, he'll have plenty of men to secure the Aeonar."
The Rock's former commander, Berthold de Guesclin, had been kept under guard in his own quarters, far from his former subordinates. It was unlikely that he could escape, unless he was as brilliant a climber as Bronwyn, had found a way to make a rope from his bedclothes—which might take him half-way down, and then was able jump the rest of the distance and somehow survive. His elf mistress was his only companion. His rooms had been thoroughly searched, and all his letters and documents confiscated and taken to Bronwyn to be studied. The captives' meals were plain, but plentiful, and brought in by loyal Fereldans, who were instructed to tell him nothing. However, de Guesclin did give them a message, and for that reason, was escorted to the impromptu throne room for an audience. His firebrand lover remained locked up.
"You wish to be ransomed," Bronwyn said, ensconced in the x-shaped chair she fancied, her head leaning on a hand. "You wish to give your parole. The usual terms, I presume: you would swear never again to bear arms against Ferelden, its people, or its rulers."
"I would so swear," de Guesclin declared. "My ransom would not be stinted. My wife will pay you a thousand gold Orlesian sovereigns, to be delivered upon my arrival home. De Guesclins keep their word."
Bronwyn eyed him for some time. De Guesclin was a brave man, but could not help fidgeting a little. Many were in attendance, to witness this conversation and to defend their Queen. The knights, Faraday and Haglin, were there, regarding him like a felon; the handsome young warrior glaring at him was the bastard son of King Maric, the one whom the Empress would have liked to have caught in her net. An armed and smiling elf watched the proceeding from the sidelines, all coiled stillness, placing himself so that any untoward movements by de Guesclin would be met with a dagger in the back. Others, human, elf, and dwarf, ranged about the green-eyed queen. Most were Wardens, he suspected. All looked fairly hostile. Queen Bronwyn, surprisingly, was the least overtly menacing of them.
"I would like to take your word," she finally said. "You are a brave man, and I believe you love your country. It gives me no pleasure to oppress such. I have had the quality of mercy preached to me in circumstances and by beings that you cannot imagine. For that matter, it would be convenient to be rid of you. A thousand sovereigns would be a pleasant sum. I am not inclined to haggle, though if I were, I believe you could raise far more. I would accept the sum, though I would not release you until the gold was in my possession." She put up a hand to forestall his protests.
"However, such an arrangement presupposes that I can, in fact, trust your word. You are flushed, Monseigneur. Do not dare to be indignant. I am a Fereldan, after all. Orlesians invaded us, robbed us, raped us, oppressed us for eighty long years. Do you think we did not notice that you felt no obligation to keep your word to us? Was it not openly declared that to swear falsely to a mere dog of a Fereldan was no dishonor, since 'it was impossible to break faith with an animal?' My father and grandfather heard those words; my mother and grandmother as well. What say you?"
De Guesclin blew out a breath. "Your Majesty, I am a man of honor. I do not wish to be judged by the actions of people long ago—people who acted in different circumstances, from different motives. You are the daughter of a noble and honorable man. As one noble to another, I wish to see my family once more."
Bronwyn refrained from asking if he intended to take his feisty little elven mistress home with him. She kept looking at him. She would love to get rid of this hungry mob of Orlesians, but she did not wish to find herself besieged by them immediately afterward.
"You do realize," she said slowly, "that if I ever saw you in arms against me, I would have a perfect right to slay you on the spot as an outlaw and oathbreaker— as a dishonored felon and no true knight? That if opportunity came my way, I would be justified on taking vengeance against your family and dispossessing them of everything they owned?"
She was considering the possibility at least. De Guesclin's heart swelled with hope. He was also perfectly aware that a man like Ser Norrel Haglin would be pleased to hang him from the battlements, simply because he was an Orlesian. And then too, when Loghain arrived, De Guesclin expected his options to diminish alarmingly. He must find a way for the Dragon Queen to trust him. And quickly.
"Where is your home?" Bronwyn asked.
"Chateau Corbelin, north of Montsimmard, Majesty."
The green gaze did not flicker. "Do not imagine that the distance to the Orlesian Heartlands would offer your security from my just revenge, Monseigneur," she told him. "I shall consider your petition. You have my leave to go."
The Orlesian bowed, and then retreated to the door, walking backwards, and then bowed again. It was proper Orlesian etiquette, and the courtesy made Bronwyn think better of the man.
Ser Norrel, who now otherwise approved mightily of his young Queen, feared that she might be too soft on their enemies.
"The Orlesians would have hanged us all by now, if we'd lost, you know. Or worse. Even the wounded."
Bronwyn smiled tightly. "They are not our teachers. Why should I copy an Orlesian in anything?"
"Would you really ransom de Guesclin and his chevaliers, Your Majesty?" Ser Blayne asked, worried.
"I might," Bronwyn mused. "eventually. Not with an Orlesian army heading our way, but perhaps eventually. I've stripped the Orlesian officers of their weapons and valuables. They would walk out of here in their smallclothes and shirts." She huffed a laugh. "I might let them keep their boots, but no weapons of any kind. Even with the great stores of weapons at Jader, it would be difficult for the Orlesians to rearm them all adequately at short notice. However, I will not let them go without the ransom in hand. Anything else would be absurd. Ransoming over fifty nobles and knights would fill our coffers. I'm more concerned about what to do with the common soldiers. I don't want them packed in the dungeons for months on end. We'll end up with a plague, at the very least. Some of them can be integrated into the troops here."
"But not many," Ser Blayne cautioned her.
"No, not many. Some could be sent inland and resettled in distant Fereldan postings. Most we will simply have to let go. We might march them to Solidor or Jader, and let them keep walking west."
Ser Norrel could not help pointing out the obvious. "Most of them would set up as bandits."
Bronwyn shrugged. "Then they will be the Orlesians' problem, rather than ours. It's true that many are conscripts, probably hoping for a chance to escape the army altogether. In fact," she considered further, "I might let the commoners keep their breeches, so as to be able to blend in." She sighed. "But I really, really, cannot let anyone go now, to swell the army that is coming. It would be madness."
Ser Norrel snorted, "I suppose just killing them all is out of the question?"
"It is not a crime to serve one's country," Bronwyn said, trying not to snap at the man. "And our own people might find slaughtering hundreds of unarmed men like pigs more difficult than you imagine. I'd rather find a use for the Orlesians, if I can trust enough of them to make the effort worthwhile."
Bronwyn's dreams were even more disturbed that night, and the following day, Leliana returned with her party, very concerned as well. The bard's dreams had been wild, frantic, and filled with tireless activity and endless, endless stairs...
And Leliana was not pleased to have been left out of the storming of Roc du Chevalier. She arrived, with Shale thumping behind; with Ulfa and Asa at her side, with a train of dwarves happy to find a decent meal awaiting them. However, she also arrived to find everything changed, and a great many Orlesians imprisoned. After she and her companions were shown to the Wardens' parlor and had something to eat, she asked outright to speak to Bronwyn privately. Once in the solitude of the Imperial Suite, Leliana's unhappiness burst forth.
"Did you think I would refuse to follow you? Did you think I would tell? Had you already decided to attack when you sent me to the Deep Roads?"
Bronwyn had expected this response, though not to the extent of Leliana's eyes growing red with unshed tears. Still, there was nothing to do but be frank about it.
"Yes, I had planned it for some time. I did not for a moment think you'd betray us, but I did consider the possibility that was unique to you: that you might be put in the painful position of having to cross swords with a friend. Why subject you to that, when I did indeed need someone to keep an eye on the darkspawn?"
Leliana understood, but was still unhappy. She slumped on the red velvet sofa and took a dainty cup of tea from Bronwyn. Eventually she took note of her surroundings.
"How beautiful everything is!" she murmured, stroking the velvet.
"If you want a bath," Bronwyn gestured, rather amused, "go have a look at the bathing facilities in there. We kept the servants on who were assigned to stoke the boilers."
Leliana followed her gesture, and after a moment Bronwyn heard her delighted exclamations.
"I must find my clean clothes!"
"Your things are stowed in the Wardens' parlor. I had them brought over. We have more room here than we had at the Halt, Maker knows. Look here, Leliana. I did what I did to spare you from something that might have hurt you badly. Perhaps it's only putting off the inevitable, but I meant it for the best. The Orlesian army is coming; it's coming soon. By the first of Drakonis it should reach Jader, and then we're in for quite the time. Whatever the darkspawn are doing, the political situation is blowing up. Have you seen Carver or Jowan?"
"No, not yet."
"Well, they're back from a mission to Nevarra, which was quite successful. And... when they were in Denerim, my cousin Arl Bryland was murdered by a fanatic."
Leliana's blue eyes were very wide. "It is certain that it was an Orlesian?"
"No. I might well have been a Chantry conservative. The murderer was apparently an imbecile, trained for the purpose, who spouted the Chant of Light. The arl was killed in front of his family, and died nearly instantly."
"What a wicked thing!"
"Obviously I agree, but someone must have thought it a righteous act. Surely the Divine has by now seen the results of the Denerim Conclave. Who knows what she made of them?"
"With all the proofs... all the evidence... surely..."
"I don't know," Bronwyn shrugged. "Some people believe only what they find convenient. We must accept that the Divine is our enemy.. or at least those close to her are. And you might as well know where Tara has gone. She's found the Aeonar prison, as I'm sure you've heard. She visited there again, and discovered that they are performing experiments on non-mages: experiments with the Rite of Tranquility, designed to create submissive laborers. The notes she brought back suggest they're interested in lyrium mining, which as you know is something that only dwarves can perform with any degree of safety. If, however, they could create miners who would obey even at the inevitable cost of their lives..."
"I cannot believe that the Divine would consent to this!"
"We found no proof that she knows of it. It might well be the idea of a few lunatics. Nonetheless, they've got control of a base, and we can't allow such things to continue. Tara's gone to join forces with Loghain and shut them down."
"But... how horrible... but..."
"Come on. We'll find someone to clean your armor, and you can have a lovely bath."
Leliana shook her head, baffled. "The darkspawn are restless. I have seen them in my dreams. They are preparing to attack. How can people be so foolish, when such a danger threatens? How can they pretend that nothing has changed, when everything has changed? They have Wardens. The Wardens must have warned them."
"Ah, but none of the their Wardens is also their Queen."
Morrigan lay back on the elegant bed, holding up the curious talisman to the red firelight. Her smile was not pleasant.
"What's that?" Anders asked, pouncing onto the bed from the other side. "Ugly thing. Looks Chasind... maybe."
"'Tis not Chasind," Morrigan corrected him coolly. "'Tis...older."
"Worth anything, do you think?"
"A great deal, to me. I shall never let it leave my possession."
Anders had a certain gleam in his eye, so Morrigan turned her attention to her own pleasures. He was extremely well-trained now, and knew exactly how to satisfy her. Perhaps another woman would grow bored with the same man giving her the same reliable, intense release, night after night, but Morrigan was not bored. She did not intend to remove her claws from Anders anytime soon. Perhaps never. Flemeth had stipulated that Morrigan was go into hiding alone after accomplishing her task, but Morrigan had come to the conclusion that Flemeth simply wished to isolate Morrigan for her own convenience. Morrigan had not the least intention of attempting the difficult parts of her task without a brilliant Healer in attendance, nor without surrounding herself with every comfort possible.
Besides, Anders was not simply her intended Grey Warden mate; nor merely her handsome lover; nor even only the useful Healer she required. He amused her in other ways than in bed, and he understood the importance of decent hygiene. At the moment he smelled pleasantly of soap, oil of bergamot, and sex.
It was all very delightful. Flemeth had scorned luxury and despised comfort, and had tried to inculcate those values in Morrigan. In the past few months, however, Morrigan had discovered that life had better things to offer than preparing root-and-rodent stew to Flemeth's taste and sleeping in a shanty in a swamp, while entertaining a succession of hairy, stinking barbarians at Flemeth's behest.
It was an ugly sort of training, Morrigan now realized; the sort of training a pimp or madam would put a young girl through when breaking her to whoredom. Flemeth wanted Morrigan to perform well enough to seduce any man; and to be so desensitized to other aspects of sex that any man would be exactly the same to her as any other. It was all part of Flemeth's Great Plan. Luckily for Morrigan, Flemeth was—at least temporarily—dead, and Morrigan had her own plans.
Had Flemeth grasped how much Morrigan's life would change when she sent her to join Bronwyn Cousland? Wise and powerful as Flemeth was, Morrigan suspected that some things—like simple comradeship—were completely beyond her ken. Nor did she grasp the lure of luxury, the joy of appropriating this comfortable bed and well-furnished chamber from the wealthy noble now locked away in the dungeons below.
A flare of white light exploded behind her eyes, fading slowly into a series of ecstatic spasms. Anders relaxed, clutching her close, sweat trickling down his sides. And then he kissed her sweetly, as he always did afterwards. She even condescended to kiss him back. They arranged themselves for sleep, but Morrigan lay awake, thinking, listening to Anders' breathing even out, her hand on the talisman under the pillow. If the object was what she believed it to be, she would hold it close. Had she believed it possible, she would have destroyed it, though she suspected unpleasant things might happen to anyone who tried it. Flemeth would perhaps live again, but not in Morrigan's own lifetime.
The bones of Flemeth's plans remained. Anders' dreams were disturbed of late. All the Wardens felt that darkspawn were near to rising. Eventually the Archdemon would reveal herself, and Bronwyn would march against the horde. Flemeth had expressed considerable confidence in Bronwyn's destiny to stop the Blight. At some point, Morrigan would have to cease taking her doses of contraceptive tea, if she wished to perform the rite that would make her the mother of a God.
Thanks to my reviewers for your overwhelming response to the last chapter: Nemrut, JTheClivaz, anon, Trevalyan, TironI, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, darksky01, BandGeekNinja, KnightOfHolyLight, RakeeshJ4, NPC200, Massgamer45, Garm88, MayhemPrincess, Acaila, Chiara Crawford, RohanVos, Isala Uthenera, cyko2041, Mike3207, Ie-maru, arutka2000, Robbie the Phoenix, dragonblade3200, JackOfBladesX, Rexiselic, sizuka2, Reynes, Tangyman, Remenants, Herebedragons66, Psyche Sinclair, Suna Chunin, Jenna53, Phygmalion, Have Socks. Will Travel, Silvescale, Cjonwalrus, The Flying Hobbo, Chandagnac, Blinded in a bolthole, Lexiconnoisseur, AD Lewis, butterflygrrl, Halm Vendrella, MsBarrows, mille libri, Costin, dragonmactir, Girl-chama, Promenius, and PhantomX0990.
Thanks to Rexiselic for a wonderful film rec, Lion of the Desert, from which Bronwyn gets her response to Haglin.
An x-shaped chair is also called a Savonarola chair. Google the images under that name. Since there was no Savonarola in Thedas, I used the other term. Or use "inlaid Savonarola chair" to be more precise as to what Bronwyn was using.
For those who do not follow the Dragon Age game. The amulet in Morrigan's possession is a horcrux: Flemeth's horcrux. In DA2, Hawke and company are persuaded to take it to Kirkwall when they escape from the Blight. A Dalish ritual causes Flemeth to rise again and fly away in her dragon form, obviously to wreak more mischief.