Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 104: An Empire Crumbles
Loghain felt ten years younger. He made the two crazy girls tell him every detail of the successful assault on the Orlesian stronghold. The role of magic in the attack was a major one, and Loghain gave it due credit. Bronwyn had used it very, very cleverly: not mere blunt-instrument spellcasting, but incorporating skills and talents that none would even think to guard against. His puppy Amber sensed his mood and ran around his quarters, and then stood looking at him, head cocked, panting happily.
Bronwyn had done well. She had done wonderfully well, and he wished she were here at this very moment, so he could tell her so. Bronwyn had achieved a major strategic triumph. Gherlen's Pass was secured, perhaps forever. With the Rock, they should be able to hold it against the entire Orlesian army—which would not be coming, because of the disaster in Val Royeaux. Val Royeaux was closer to the border of Nevarra. Soon most of the soldiers of Orlais would be headed in that direction.
What they might invaded by was more likely to be a tide of Orlesian refugees. That could be annoying. It could even be dangerous if some turned to banditry. The troops he was posting up in the Neck should be able to deal with that. Orlesians could go south, north, or west... preferably far to the west. There was no way Loghain would permit an army of Orlesian beggars to invade his country. The chevaliers had been quite bad enough.
And the darkspawn had attacked Val Royeaux. He could not let go of that fact. He turned it round and round in his mind, like a goldsmith turning a jewel this way and that to catch the light. The Empress was dead. The Orlesian Empire had been beheaded with a single stroke.
And the Chantry would be in no position to threaten Ferelden. Not for years... for decades... perhaps forever. Was the Divine even alive? She was frail and old. How could she escape the darkspawn? The haughty Templars, the Seekers, the Knights-Divine and the Knight-Vigilant and the Lord Seeker... they would have more urgent issues to deal with than whether Ferelden was sufficiently compliant.
Like staying alive.
He smirked. Very well. He could deal with the Ferelden Chantry as he thought fit. The Grand Cleric liked Bronwyn. There was little point in recklessly offending her, but nothing that Tara had retrieved in her previous raid suggested that the Grand Cleric knew anything about the foul goings-on in the Aeonar.
To deal with the stronghold, he would want a very substantial force. He could possibly starve them out, but that might take months, and he did not want to divert resources from other tasks that long. From everything Tara told him, it seemed that the Wardens seemed to have absolutely no trouble with attacking a Chantry installation. The dwarves were indifferent to it, and Tara despised Templars. The archer woman ... Catriona... apparently hated the Chantry for family reasons. Jowan, too, was with them, and had fled the Circle for reasons of his own, and thus could be expected to harbor some ill feelings. Discreetly, Tara and Brosca gave him the story of Jowan's woes.
"...so," Tara whispered, very indignant. "that awful cow was tricking him all along. She never cared for him a bit. She just wanted the credit for capturing a blood mage, but she's the one who manipulated him into being one!"
Loghain had his own view of the matter. No man liked to know that a woman had used him. "I hardly think he would be grateful to you for telling him."
The little elf looked uneasy. "I meant it for the best. I didn't want him beating himself up forever, thinking he'd got the love of his life tortured and killed!"
"She's a stone-cold bitch," Brosca declared, "and I don't mean that in a good way. That dog of his is worth ten of her!"
That Loghain had no trouble believing at all. Amber believed it, too. Lily was a good dog, almost as good as herself.
"Tell your people to keep quiet about the Empress," Loghain ordered. "For that matter, while you might say that you know the darkspawn have risen, don't talk about the Chantry or even that you know that the target was Val Royeaux. Everyone would wonder how you got some information, and there could be accusations of forbidden magic. Besides, I don't want information leaking out to the Orlesians. Let them find out that they're leaderless for themselves."
"If you say so."
"I do."
His mind turned back pleasantly to Bronwyn. What a splendid girl. He must try to join her in Gherlen's Pass as soon as possible. With a present.
Immediately Loghain called for a council with Nathaniel, Wulffe, and after consideration, Corbus, telling them the news. Not all of it, but enough to give them a frame of reference.
"That the darkspawn have risen in Orlais might well have already slipped out," Loghain said. "I have no idea how discreet Bronwyn has told her people to be. She must know about the darkspawn. As to the details, Warden Tara sensibly pointed out that the information might be slanted by the Archdemon. That does not mean that what the Wardens saw is not true: it might simply not be the whole truth."
Wulffe was grinning. "Orlais! Serves the bastards right!"
Such was the general consensus around the table. Even better received was the news that Roc du Chevalier was now Fereldan.
"It should be renamed," Nathaniel urged. "The Orlesian name should be forgotten. Perhaps something in honor of the Queen."
"Good idea," Loghain replied. A very proper suggestion. "Let's all give it some thought."
Everyone was in such a good mood that they were quite agreeable when Loghain broached the subject of the Aeonar. Admittedly, he presented it as a band of rogue clergy, conducting cruel and bizarre experiments on ordinary folk, but it was not too far from the truth, after all.
They moved out the next day. Loghain left Nathaniel in charge, and marched with a company of Maric's Shield, five of the army's mages, and the Wardens. Jowan was brooding, but that was only to be expected.
It was wet and muddy as the snow retreated. Not a pleasant march, but not the worst Loghain had ever endured, either. While they marched, he asked more about the past month. He had had time to read Bronwyn's letter, and he felt she was leaving things out. He was curious about the results of the reconnaissance they had conducted on Jader and Solidor. He learned that the Marquis of Jader had been at Court, and not in Jader, but had been expected by the end of the month. He smirked. Even if the Imperial army had already set out, they would be moving fairly slowly, and news of the darkspawn rising would reach them within days.
"Tell him about the princesses!" Brosca said.
"You tell him! I wasn't there either. That was all Morrigan."
"What princesses?" Loghain asked, in a very good mood.
"Cousins of the Empress!" Brosca loved the story. "Morrigan's been in and out of the place, just like the Rock. She flies around, and gets in, and that's how Bronwyn had these perfect floorplans. Anyway, she found this little garden at the top of a tower, and discovered that the Empress was keeping her cousins there. Three girls and a old bronto of a noblewoman who treats them like shit... calls them traitors...kills their puppies and kittens... that sort of thing. Morrigan thought they were—what's the word, Tara?"
"'Insipid little fools,'" Tara supplied. "She said the youngest was well-meaning, though. She let Morrigan in her hawk form come into their solar to get warm, and the other girls went into to a dither, and the old woman threatened to have Morrigan killed and roasted for the princesses' dinner."
Brosca snorted. "Nice, huh?"
"Of course, Morrigan got away..."
"Tell him the good part!"
"And she snatched the old woman's wig off and dropped it over the battlements!"
Loghain's response startled the soldiers in the first ranks.
Brosca grinned, pleased to have made the big guy laugh out loud.
Loghain's laughter died quickly, considering those princesses in their tower. As soon as word got out that the Empress was dead, someone would see their value and grab at them. They could be used as puppets for anyone claiming the Empire. He hoped that Bronwyn had seen that as well. The girls should be captured and held. There was no need to harm them, but every reason for them to be safe in Ferelden hands. If he trusted the Chantry more, he'd suggest they take orders and enter a convent somewhere near Gwaren.
But the Aeonar was in sight, and he must deal with this business first. He sent out a patrol to secure the cottage where the Templar guards lodged. There were eight there, rather than the four Tara had met previously, but they sensibly lowered their weapons when so instructed. Under protest, of course.
"We shall report this to the highest levels of the Chantry!" their leader complained to Loghain.
Loghain smirked quietly, glad that he had told the Wardens to keep most of what they knew to themselves. These buffoons were perfectly welcome to complain to a Divine... poor old biddy... who was likely either dead, or a ragged fugitive.
The templars were put under guard—separately—to keep them off balance, and scouts moved in toward the prison proper, warned to look sharp for traps. These were disarmed, and were not all that impressive. Nor were there any magical barriers, of course.
Rubble and branches had been replaced to obscure the entrance once more, but that was easily put aside. The greatest problem was the main door, which was locked and barred. The dwellers in the Aeonar had learned that lesson, at least. It took some time to bully the proper signal out of the youngest of the Templars. Finally, Loghain demanded the information himself, and Desmond could not hold out against the intimidating presence of Loghain Mac Tir, his boyhood hero. One had to strike the door with the pommel of one's sword with three short blows and then another a beat afterwards.
There was a long silence, and they were beginning to believe Desmond had lied. They tried again, and soon they heard a fumbling within, and a clanking of iron.
"What it is?" demanded the Templar on guard. He took in the strange faces and tried to slam the door in their faces. "Intruders!" he bellowed.
"Follow me!" Cauthrien shouted, and Maric's Shield burst into the Aeonar, the invaders breaking into three groups: smaller ones to the corridors on the right and left, and the main body to the central staircase leading down.
There was no hope of stealth, but the inhabitants were at least surprised. A squad of Templars rushed out from the floor below, loudly wondering if the Wardens were poking about again.
"Lay down your weapons, in the name of the King!" Cauthrien declared.
A tall Knight-Lieutenant blustered, "This is a Chantry holding! You have no authority here!"
Loghain parted the soldiers and stood beside Cauthrien. "My authority is in my soldier's blades. Do you want to test it? Is this place worth dying for?"
A pause.
"Is it? Lay down your weapons, now."
The six of them actually did, too, and were hustled away. After that, things did not go quite so smoothly.
Some of the Templars put up a fierce resistance. Loghain found plenty of work for his soldier's blades here, and for his own blade, too. The Templars were waving their huge greatswords as if he should be impressed, but as always, it was easy enough to get past slow-moving men with greatswords, smash them down with his shield, and put an end to them on the spot. There was a brutal fight in the refectory, and when Maric's Shield finally prevailed, they were not inclined to be merciful. Some of the Templars battened themselves into rooms and prepared to endure a siege. Guards were posted at the doors, and the troops penetrated more deeply into the fortress. The priests gave themselves up without a fight, but with a great deal of indignant screaming.
Tara discovered that they had only scratched the surface before. The Aeonar went deep, and spread broadly on some of those lower levels. There were cells. There were rooms with familiar instruments of torture and some very exotic ones indeed. There were the restraining chairs and the lyrium irons. A spiked metal cage contained a recently dead young girl, whose body, it was explained, had not yet been removed because the notes on her case were still incomplete.
"Was she a mage?" Loghain asked.
"Oh—certainly!" he was assured. At least... she had shown signs of magic... and her mother was a known mage... and she might have had unusual skills, had she survived the questioning to display them...
"In other words," Tara scoffed. "She wasn't a mage at all. They were just torturing her, hoping that she would manifest magic if under enough stress and pain. If she'd been a mage, she would have become an abomination, and they could have patted themselves on the back for killing her!"
"So she wasn't a mage," Loghain considered. "What crime had she committed?"
"She was a mage!" a priest protested.
"What magic had she performed?"
"Well... none. But she might have!"
"A mage who couldn't do magic." Loghain sneered at the knot of priests and brothers. "I suppose you might attempt to stretch your authority to include everyone in Thedas, since all of us might be hiding secret magical abilities. No. It won't do. This girl committed no crime and was no mage, and you imprisoned, tortured, and killed her. It might come as a surprise to you, sheltered as you are, but murder is against the law." He turned to his soldiers. "Lock them up."
"The Divine will hear of this—"
They saw worse things as they descended. They found the pits—the kind called oubliettes by the Orlesians— where victims were dropped into stench and darkness to slowly starve to death. A few wretches were found alive, living off the rotting bodies of those who had gone before. Some were mad; some begged for death.
Of course, none of these were mages, either. You could not leave a mage alone in an ordinary prison, or they would knock the place down or set it afire. A small number of genuine mages were in the Aeonar, under heavy continual guard by Templars draining their mana. These, unhappily, were immediately killed by the Templars as soon as they realized they were under attack. Some of Uldred's army mages looked at the bodies, but did not recognize anyone.
"They might well have been apostates," said Uldred. "Or they might have been from other Circles."
There were quite a few individuals who might formerly have been mages. Apparently the Rite of Tranquility did work on some non-mages. It was now difficult to distinguish who had once been a mage, and who had not. The easiest thing was to ask the Tranquil themselves, who were far beyond prevarication in the matter.
The kitchen was staffed with Tranquil. Tranquil cleaned the floors and the torture implements. They disposed of bodies and performed the rest of the ugly, dirty tasks that were beneath their masters. And in one remote corridor Cauthrien found a row of several cells, each containing a cot and a young girl or boy. They, too, were Tranquil. And naked. Some of them had had their teeth removed. They were quite forthright about the kinds of services they provided, and considered themselves better off than most.
"We are well fed," one of them said, with eerie calm. "And none of us is kept here long."
Jowan and Brosca led a band of soldiers into a quiet hall, which turned out to be where the priests were quartered. In one of the rooms, oblivious the battle surging around her, a young priest was napping. The noise of her door being forced brought her sitting up straight in her bed, clutching a blanket close for modesty.
At the sight of Jowan she screamed.
"A man! A man in the dormitory!" Then she saw the staff and shrieked inarticulately until Brosca cuffed her.
"Shut up!"
"Lily!" cried Jowan.
The name riveted the attention of both a black mabari puppy and the young priest. The girl stared at Jowan rather blankly, not recognizing the man in light Warden leathers. Then her expression hardened.
"Jowan?"
Brosca smirked. "Yeah, it's Jowan, Your Holiness. Come on, guys," she called to the soldiers in their squad. "Search the room for weapons. She carries a knife on her, so watch it."
Jowan stared at her, transfixed, his feelings in tumult. She looked very different without her habit on and with her hair unbraided and down.
"Get up, Sister," ordered a woman soldier. "Stand over there while we search your room."
"Get out of here!" Lily hissed. "How dare you! The Divine will declare you anathema for this crime."
"Ooo, scary!" sneered Brosca. "Dwarf here, if you haven't noticed. Get up and put your hands on top of your head."
"I'll do nothing of the sort."
"Lily," Jowan said softly, "just do what they say."
A harsh, disbelieving laugh. "You— Blood Mage? You dare tell me what to do?"
Brosca was over at the side of the bed so fast Jowan did not see her move. She caught Lily by the arm and twisted it behind her, and tumbled her out bed. "Not so hard, is it? And that's 'Warden Jowan' to you!"
"You dirty short mouth!" Lily snarled, rubbing her elbow.
Jowan reached down to help her. "Lily, just let us search your room and then—"
She struck out, stabbing him under the armpit. Jowan stared at her, not feeling the pain at first. Lily yanked the dagger back, her teeth bared, while Jowan collapsed to his knees. Growling, the black dog seized the offending wrist in powerful jaws and clamped down, worrying at it as she would a rat.
Lily screamed and tried to shake the dog off, kicking out.
Brosca bounded up onto the bed, grabbed the girl by the hair, yanked her head back, and cut her throat.
"Die, bitch!"
She threw the dying Lily aside and jumped down to see to Jowan.
"Find Tara!" she yelled at a soldier. "He's hurt bad! Come on, Magic Boy," she cooed gruffly at Jowan. "Do your stuff! Heal yourself!"
"Lily..."
"Drop that arm, Lily, and get over here. See, Jowan? Your nice pup is right here. Shit! You're bleeding like a stuck nug! You over there! Put your hand here and press down hard!" She put Jowan's head on her lap. "Heal yourself, you lazy son of a Duster!"
"I killed her..."
"No, you didn't! I did! That bitch would've stabbed anybody who came in here. Come on, Jowan! We're counting on you! Don't give up now!"
Tara burst into the room running, and swore at the sight of Jowan bleeding on the floor. She dropped to her knees, and immediately cast the only healing spell she knew. It slowed the bleeding, but did not close the wound.
"We should put him on the bed..."
Brosca jerked her head, indicating the dead body and the blood-soaked mattress.
Tara took the hint. "... Somewhere else..."
The soldiers carried him to another priest's room and laid him on the prim little bed. The dog whimpered, getting under everyone's feet. Brosca unbuckled his armor and sliced off his shirt. Jowan chest was very white and nearly hairless, and his skin surprisingly soft. He was half-conscious, his eyelids fluttering.
"That's where she got him," Brosca muttered. "Nasty. Don't think the shiv was poisoned, though..."
Tara said loudly, "I'm going to give you some lyrium, Jowan, and I'm going to poultice the wound. I need you to think about healing yourself. Just think about it, all right?"
Brosca lifted his head, and most of the potion went into his mouth. A little spilled over the smooth white pillow in a glittering blue stream. Jowan coughed, and then took a stronger breath. Tara slapped on the poultice and tied it down. She put her hand on his chest, and leaned over.
"I'm asking you, Jowan, as your best friend in life, not to die. Not here, Not now. You owe me. Promise me you won't die before I do. Promise. Remember? 'Never forsake me, and I will never forsake you.'"
Jowan's eyes did not open, his lips moved in a sad, fugitive smile.
"Promise!" Tara demanded. 'Never forsake me—"
A tear trickled from the corner of his eye. He whispered, "'—I will never forsake you as long as I live.'"
The holdouts were eventually killed or captured, and the Aeonar was in the hands of the King of Ferelden. The mages were enraged over the cruelties practiced here, but also elated over the astonishing magical artifacts stored away. Tara found a curious gilt-framed mirror, hidden under a heavy spider-silk drape, and immediately claimed it as part of the Warden's share of the loot.
The Tranquil were put to work, and Loghain did his best to see they were treated humanely. The thirty-odd surviving Templars were locked away in the dungeons, and the fiourteen priests were locked in their barracks, after it was emptied of everything but the barest necessities. The handful of lay brothers were held in an empty storeroom. Loghain's people had had a handful of casualties, but their best Healer was flat on his back, after a narrow escape from death. No one was feeling very friendly toward their captives.
"They're murders and rapists," Tara growled. "You should just hang them all."
"Not all of them," Loghain pointed out.
"And some of them are wounded," Cauthrien pointed out.
"Good," snarled Tara. "I hope they die. I'm no Healer, and Jowan won't be fit to do anything for anybody for days. Let some of Uldred's people fuss over them if they've a mind to. I'll never forgive myself for not killing that bitch the last time we were here!"
"All the same," said Loghain, sympathizing with her, "we have to deal with the prisoners, and with some degree of justice."
In many ways, it was a very awkward situation. Some of their captives, like young Desmond, were new to the order and had only stood guard duty at the nearby cottage. It would be unjust to treat them all alike. Some of them, yes, Loghain would like nothing better than to hang, but knew it was impolitic, even with the Grand Cathedral in ruins. Besides, it was one thing for his men to be horrified at what they'd seen. If the clergy were executed, word would get out, and people who had not seen the atrocities here would only understand that he had killed priests and Templars.
Cauthrien, sensing his disquiet, made a suggestion that everyone hated at first and then saw might do.
"They said they were acting under the orders of the Divine—or one of her advisers. Why not let the Divine deal with them?"
"Uh... Ser... I mean Bann Cauthrien... the Divine's probably dead..." Brosca reminded her.
"They don't know that," Cauthrien replied coolly. "Why not put them on some boats, take them to the Orlesian coast, and drop them off? Let them look for her. Maybe they'll find her, maybe not. Maybe something else will find them. Maybe they'll find that that area desolate, and starve to death. Do we care?"
Loghain rather liked the idea, but saw a flaw in it.
"We may soon be attacked by an Orlesian fleet. We can hardly spare the ships."
"I don't mean warships. Some of those fishing boats could carry a dozen or so men in the hold. Hire a few of them. The fishermen would be glad of the coin. Keep the prisoners in chains, and given them a few guards. Have them cross the Narrows and hug the north coast. Drop them off near the northern border of Orlais. Let them walk to Val Royeaux if they like."
"Not the women," Tara said. "We can't make a present of women to the darkspawn."
That was horribly true, but there was another, obvious solution.
"Send them to Denerim—also by fishing boat—with a letter for the Grand Cleric, telling her what they've done. I don't think she'll go easy on them... not now."
Eventually it was agreed that they would send the priests back to Denerim under guard, and that twelve of the worst miscreants among the Templars and brothers would be exiled on one of the biggest of the fishing fleet. Loghain wondered if the fishermen would simply drop them over the side, rather than attempting the long and arduous journey to the end of the Waking Sea. He rather hoped they did.
The rest of the men would be kept imprisoned until more was known of the darkspawn movements. If the darkspawn turned east, the Templars might make themselves useful, or at least fight for their lives.
"Some of them will go crazy without their lyrium," Tara pointed out.
"I never forced them to take lyrium," said Loghain. "I don't intend to feed their habit now."
Within two days of the disaster at Val Royeaux, fast riders overtook the slow-moving Imperial army, telling them the dreadful news of the attack. One of them was a Warden who had been on watch that night. As he had been awake during the attack, he had not seen the vision that so many other Wardens had witnessed in the Fade, and so knew nothing of the fate of the Empress.
While the situation called for unity and resolve, for quick-thinking and prompt action, the army fell instead into quarreling factions. The command was splintered by debate and petty, self-serving politics. In short, they talked and talked, while camped at the mouth of the River Orne, which flows from Lake Celestine, deep in the Heartlands of Orlais, northeast to the Waking Sea.
The Marquis of Jader was torn with indecision. Obviously, Val Royeaux and the Empress needed their help, but other parts of the Empire needed to be secured as well. The Marquis' brother felt a part of the army ought to continue with the planned invasion of rebellious Ferelden, since he pointed out, with some justice, that the navy had been dispatched, and was now beyond recall. He suggested being entrusted with a third of the chevaliers, which would ride quickly for the border and support the naval operations.
The Marquis knew that once his brother had those men under his command, he himself could forget about ever holding Jader again, for his brother would seize it. Another nobleman proposed that they march back west, but then head to Val Foret, and fortify the city against the horde. This seemed a sensible compromise to many.
Another noble chevalier, bolder and more loyal than the rest, denounced them as poltroons, and demanded that the Marquis lead the army back to Val Royeaux at once. He roused a great number of his fellows, many of whom had families in the capital, and hundreds of them took up the chant he started:
"To Val Royeaux! To Val Royeaux!
For the Empress and the Divine!"
Tempers flared and fights broke out. The Warden who had brought the news was given a fresh horse and then pressed on, south to Montsimmard, A courier was dispatched to Val Foret, and another one southeast to Verchiel. The Marquis pacified his army with great difficulty, and assured them that they would march north on the morrow, but that now they must rest, in order to be fresh for the struggle to come. In his heart, he rather favored the Val Foret plan himself. Val Royeaux must already be lost. He turned in, sleeping fitfully in his grand red and gold tent, in the center of a concentric circle of other colorful tents, and surrounded by long lines of little white tents which sheltered the common soldiers. The lines and circles were illuminated by rows and curves of thousands of campfires. From above, to eyes that saw keenly in the dark, the camp looked exactly like a bright, colorful target.
The Archdemon had had not the least difficulty in following the Warden's trail. As expected, he had led to better sport than one tired warrior. The dragon swooped silently down, down, flaming out of a star-spangled, blue-black sky, incinerating the camp in long blazing swathes. The Marquis of Jader, the center of the archery butt, was ashes before he could fully awaken to brief agony. His brother, dreaming of holding Jader as his own, died ten heartbeats later. Men ran from their tents, tangled in burning canvas. Some leaped into the River Orne and saved their lives. Some hid under the shadows of the trees. The Archdemon turned in the air, and came back to blast them once more, flying low. A handful of archers had the presence of mind to fire a return volley. The Archdemon largely ignored them, their puny arrows hardly registering as pinpricks. The Archdemon made two more passes, neatly burning a flaming cross into the heart of the Orlesian army. Pleased at the symmetry of its handiwork and the extent of the destruction, it then soared away, back to its Tainted nest in the ruins of Val Royeaux. Over a fourth of the army had been killed, and most of its baggage and equipment destroyed. Of the chevaliers and officers camped in the center, only a score escaped alive.
The Orlesian fleet, under the command of Imperial Grand Admiral, His Excellency the Duc de Verchiel-Dauvin Roget, forged majestically through the Waking Sea, braving the rough waves along the south coast. The professionals among the captains were uneasy about hugging the coast so closely, since it was notoriously full of shifting sandbars. Even at Jader Bay, they would have to be cautious, because of the long spit of sand, called the Horn, that divided the harbor channel in two. It lay under the surface of the water, mostly invisible. Occasionally, at low tide, it was possible to walk out on it for a long distance—as long as one had not walked out too far to escape the high tides when they rushed back in, fast and rolling. The sensible, professional captains had taken care to have two experienced pilots with the fleet who knew that particular harbor very well.
It was a very impressive fleet indeed: some fifteen warships protecting fifty-four transports filled with men and horses. The Grand Admiral's flagship, Emperor Drakon, was a huge, six hundred-ton carrack: a monstrosity with a towering, gilded aftcastle, housing the admiral's sumptuous cabin.
It was four days out of Val Royeaux when they rounded Cape Gris Nez, north of Halamshiral, and found a fleet of sleek, low-slung Nevarran warships lying in wait for them. Fireballs spat toward them, and blossomed out in a storm of devastation.
"We've got to bring those girls in," Bronwyn said, irritable from lack of sleep. Her dreams had been dreadful. "The princesses at Solidor. If we don't, someone else will, and they'll use them to claim the Empire."
"You wouldn't..." Alistair fumbled for words. "I mean..."
"Would I kill them?' Bronwyn asked, exasperated. "Of course not. What have I ever done that would make you think that? Lock them up in comfortable custody, yes. That's pretty much what the Empress has already done. If there is no Empress, then technically one of those girls might be regarded as the heiress-presumptive. Which one, I have no idea. The safest way is to gather up all three of them."
Taking Solidor would be a bold move. It would also make Jader very vulnerable. Was it wrong to turn covetous eyes toward that rich, splendid city? Perhaps so. Bronwyn felt a bit like a vulture, picking the bones of the Empire. The Empress was dead, and soon there would be a mad dash for plunder. No doubt a half-dozen pretenders would claim the title of Emperor.
For that matter, the Nevarrans must have seen the vision as well. What would they do? Most likely, they would swoop toward the border, pushing and pushing, gobbling city after city: Churneau, Ghislain, Arlesans... Their own Wardens might be on the march as well, preparing to face the horror in Val Royeaux. The visions had been blurred and confused last night. Perhaps the Archdemon did not want them to have a clear idea what was happening. Perhaps the Wardens were still holding out in their compound in Val Royeaux, selling their lives dearly.
A city like Val Royeaux could not be completely conquered in one night, not even by the Archdemon and the horde itself. There must be pockets of resistance: chevaliers, guardsmen, Wardens, and stout men-at-arms who would fight bravely. People might well have escaped, living to fight another day. And the greatest number of Wardens was not in Val Royeaux, but at their headquarters in Montsimmard, several days to the southeast. A great many women had been captured by the darkspawn, and within a month would be spawning reinforcements for the horde. That was not a desirable outcome.
Which brought her to her own duty. She had denounced the rest of Thedas for leaving Ferelden to its fate. Would she now do likewise, smugly watching the destruction of her hated enemy? All of the arguments she had used against such complacency were still perfectly true. It was stupid and short-sighted to allow the darkspawn to have their way in the Empire. They would only grow stronger and then they would move on to despoil some other land. That land might well be Ferelden. Had she herself not pointed out that the darkspawn cared nothing for borders?
She must prepare to continue her war against the darkspawn, and if the darkspawn were in Orlais, she must prepare to continue it there. They must secure the way into Orlais and she might well consider recruiting more Wardens. She must strengthen their own position. It was awkward, how far their supply lines stretched now. There were obvious solutions.
Jader was closer to West Hill than it was to Halamshiral, the next large Orlesian city. And Loghain felt it would round out the borders of Ferelden so very well. That was true. Solidor protected the Frostback Gate: the gap in the mountains through which the Imperial Highway ran. If they could hold the Frostback Gate, then Jader was theirs, and all that fertile lowland plain as well. It was not a huge amount of new territory, not so big as to be indigestible; but having it would give Ferelden far better and more defensible borders... and it contained a very fine city. If it were part of Ferelden, it would need a lord. An Arl of Jader? It was certainly large enough to merit the name of arling. It would encompass all of the land from the Frostback Gate east to the Neck and south to the borders of Redcliffe. That would put Cauthrien's bannorn of Haven within its purview.
Bronwyn made her mind stop racing. She was getting ahead of herself. She had darkspawn to fight. She must get rid of her Orlesian prisoners and focus on the real enemy.
But, a sly little voice inside her head whispered, "Wouldn't it be far easier to fight the darkspawn from a base like Jader?"
It was a strong city with plenty of barrack space for her army and wealth to pay her troops. It had one of the best harbors in the Waking Sea and easy access to the Imperial Highway. And the farther into Orlais she carried the fight against the darkspawn, the safer Ferelden would be.
"Solidor first," she told her companions. "We'll take Solidor first. If we're going to move on the darkspawn, we must command the Imperial Highway."
It began with breakfast, because all days began that way. The Imperial Princesses Celandine, Eponine, and Eglantine were completely ignorant of all events that had happened in Thedas over the past seven years. They knew nothing of political economy or diplomacy or even arithmetic more advanced than addition and subtraction. Their education had been limited to the artistic, the religious, the innocuous. They could all play the lute, embroider beautifully, and recite large portions of the Chant of Light from memory. No expense had been spared by the Empress to make them at once exquisitely accomplished and profoundly incompetent. Between their gouvernante, the Comtesse Coquelicot, and her crony, Revered Mother Rictrude, they not only were without the skills to intrigue for the Empire or rule it; but they did not even know how to dress themselves, or make tea.
However, amidst the congeries of little known and useless facts they were permitted to know, they had some concept of the classical dramatic unities.
The unity of action: a play should have one main action that it follows, with no or few subplots.
The unity of place: a play should cover a single physical space and should not attempt to compress geography, nor should the stage represent more than one place.
The unity of time: the action in a play should take place over no more than a single day.
The most dramatic event of their lives happened at Chateau Solidor, in a single day, And they were so absorbed in the event as it pertained to them, that they were oblivious to any possible subplots.
After their usual breakfast of porridge, cream, and honey, the princesses retired to the solar for the usual pursuits of reading romances, embroidering yet more cushion covers, and making music. The Comtesse did not join them at once, as she was no doubt ranting at the steward and laying down the domestic law—in the most insulting manner possible— to the housekeeper. She was more unpleasant than ever, now that she was forced to wear her second-best wig, which was black instead of auburn. The girls cherished the few moments of privacy before she arrived, talking quietly about the shreds of gossip divulged by the servants. Isolated as their tower was, they heard nothing going on in the rest of the castle.
Celandine whispered, "I know now why Lisette is no longer here. I was told that she and the footman Auberon engaged in 'illicit intercourse.'"
"Whatever that means," shrugged Eponine. "I feel certain that she would not be sent away simply for talking."
"But what could—"
"Oh, look!" cried Eglantine, "The hawk is back!"
"Don't open the door, Eglantine," Celandine complained, "It is too cold!"
Eponine shuddered. "And the bird will get in again!"
Ignoring them, Eglantine opened the door to the little garden.
"Bonjour, Monsiegneur Faucon!" A raven fluttered down to the dormant rosetree and cocked its head. "And a raven! I have never seen one so close!" She walked to the battlements to have a look at the view, streaked in the east with rose and gold, and then gasped.
"An army!"
The other girls hurried out to see. Over the tower there was a boom of thunder and then a dazzling shower of blue and gold sparks. Eglantine clapped her hands.
"How beautiful! And in our official colors, too!"
Bronwyn urged her horse forward, well within bowshot, having decided to explain why a prudent man would indeed lower the drawbridge and admit her and her host. She gave a signal, and a missile was fired from one of their portable trebuchets. It exploded above the north wall with a terrible thunder and a rain of lyrium-enhanced fire. Her troops had come up the road in the night and surrounded the castle. The captain of the castle guard was gaping down at the forces arrayed against him, which had appeared as if by magic. The man was very surprised and seriously frightened by the demonstration of their explosives. Bronwyn smirked up at him.
"Hear me!" she shouted. "I am Bronwyn Cousland the Dragonslayer, Queen of Ferelden. As you see, we can shatter your gates with ease. We can blow your castle apart. If you do not surrender at once, I will order my engineers to begin the demolition of this castle, and when the gate gives way, I will order my soldier to sack Solidor and put the defenders to the sword, to the last man, woman, and child. If you lay down your weapons, I will show you mercy."
"What is going on?" wondered Celandine. "Is it the Marquis of Jader?" She had always thought he must be handsome, though she had never seen his face. His fine, tall, person and his noble bearing suggested that under the mask was a being of godlike beauty.
"I do not see his arms," said Eglantine. "The chevalier leading them is in red armor. How striking!" She then saw Alistair, and remarked, "Look at the young man on the bay horse. He is quite comely."
"He is not a gentleman," Celandine reproved her. "He wears no mask. "You should not look at him. Look at the fine chevalier in the red armor instead! Is he not splendid?"
Eponine leaned over the battlements and waved at the troops with her white silk handkerchief. "The helmet is very charming and fanciful, with the wings going up like that. And the mask is part of it. That is clever. I wonder who he is?" She sighed. "I wish he would call upon us. It would be so diverting."
Celandine shook her head. "The Comtesse would never permit it!" She took out her handkerchief and waved, too. "Come, Eglantine, wave at the chevalier!"
"I wish we were not so high up," Eglantine complained. "I wish we could hear their conversation!" She waved her handkerchief with great enthusiasm. "Bonjour! Bonjour! Maker bless all you brave soldiers!"
Ser Norrel squinted at what appeared to be white flags waving from the highest tower. "Are they surrendering?"
Bronwyn scowled at the hapless captain. "Ser Captain, are you mocking me? Are you treacherously pretending to surrender while scheming to attack?"
"No! No!" He craned his neck at looked up at the tower. "It is their Imperial Highnesses. They must think you have come to call."
"I have come to call," Bronwyn said coldly. "The Princesses have offered their surrender, and I suggest you do not delay me in accepting it." She waved back at the princesses, who giggled with excitement.
"Gentlemen," ordered Bronwyn, looking back at her knights and Wardens. "Bow to the Imperial Princesses. They have surrendered Chateau Solidor to us." There was some laughter, and the princesses were duly saluted. Bronwyn glared at the captain. "Lay down your arms. The next explosion will destroy your gates."
An aged woman in a black wig and lace mask appeared on the top of the gate by the captain, and shrilled out, "What is going on? What was that noise? How dare you! Do you know who I am?"
Bronwyn eyed her without respect. "The question, Madame, is: Do you know who I am? Enough of this trifling," she said to Haglin. "Give orders to begin the bombardment." She turned her horse's head.
The captain called, desperate. "I must defend Their Imperial Highnesses! Will you give me your word that they will not be harmed?"
"I give you my word. I have not the least desire to harm them. They will be treated with the honor their rank demands. Surrender, and I will spare them, and you and your men. Any who resist will perish."
"You fool!" screeched the Comtesse. "Shoot them! Shoot! Shoot! Shoot!"
"—And I believe that I may have to begin with that harridan," said Bronwyn. "Do shut her up."
The Comtesse's jowls quivered under the lace mask, and she rushed away.
"Good riddance," snorted Bronwyn. "And now, Ser, there is the matter of your capitulation..."
"Oh! Oh!" cried Eglantine. "The gate is opening! Oh, I do hope that we are permitted to meet our guests!"
"Should we put on our masks?" Eponine dithered anxiously. "Would it be proper to receive visitors without them?"
"Madame la Comtesse will inform us if we are to come down," said Celandine. "Of course we shall wear our masks once we leave our private chambers."
There was a noise in the corridor outside the solar. Someone was rushing up the stone steps. The angry voice of the Comtesse made the girls fall silent in dread. A moment later, the door was thrown open, and a pair of frightening brutes with wickedly sharp daggers burst into the room, followed by the Comtesse.
"Kill them!" she screamed, pointing at the shocked princesses. "They must not be captured!"
A chaos of shrieks rose up, and the princesses ran outside to the little garden and huddled together, on their knees.
"No! No! Oh, ser, spare us!"
The Comtesse's henchmen lunged through the door of the solar, daggers raised.
... and were frozen in place.
The Princesses blinked, not understanding what they were seeing. The Comtesse stared, and then uttered a hoarse cry.
"A mage! A filthy ma—"
She too, was frozen.
The raven was not to be seen. In its place was a tall and handsome man with blonde hair and a winning smile.
"Much more the thing. Too much screaming and knife-waving. Calm down, calm down, Anders is on the job..."
The cup of wonders was not yet full. The hawk dissolved, transforming into an exotically beautiful woman, who fixed yellow eyes on them: eyes full of amusement and contempt.
"Well, well, what have we here? Three little princesses all in a row?"
The girls stared at her, terrified. Yes, they were just as terrified of her as they were of the Comtesse, but the Comtesse was cruel and repulsive in appearance. This woman looked like she might be cruel, too, but she was also lovely. She reminded them a little of their cousin the Empress, and how she had smiled at them while describing the executions of their father and mother.
And charming as Anders could be, the appearance of the two mages, as they shifted from bird to human, was in no way reassuring. Mages were evil: they were the source of all the world's sin and sorrow, and these were free and unhampered by the Chantry; working their magical arts on people and changing into birds, and —
"Oh!" cried Eglantine, racked with humiliation. "I invited you into the castle!"
"Eglantine!" Eponine scolded. "This is all your fault!"
Celandine sobbed, "You foolish child!"
Their nurse had told them that evil creatures like demons and mages could not enter one's home unless invited. As long as you did not proffer an invitation, your home was safe. The wicked mage had tricked Eglantine, appearing as an innocent bird, and Eglantine had brought disaster on them all.
More people were coming. Soldiers. Soldiers who were obviously not Orlesian. They did not seem surprised by the frozen assassins, nor by the frozen Comtesse, who looked very fierce, her face distorted with murderous rage. The soldiers were rough and smelly. They did not bow. In fact, they paid almost no attention to the girls at all.
Anders said, waving at the unmoving figures, "They were going to kill the princesses, just as the Queen suspected. Better lock them up. She might want to question them."
"What has happened?" whispered Celandine. "Who are these people?"
Anders beamed, and then to his disappointment, noted that his smiles were wasted on her. "The castle has been taken by Queen Bronwyn. She won't hurt you."
Eponine was bewildered. "Who is Queen Bronwyn?"
The soldiers lugging out the stiffened prisoners looked at each other with some amazement and at the girls with derision. One made the quick gesture that suggested the girls were half-wits or insane. The rest shrugged. Morrigan gave a harsh laugh like a hawk's cry.
"The Girl Warden, the Dragonslayer, The Queen of Ferelden. The Warden Queen. The Red Queen. The Dragon Queen—"
"—and Andraste's True Champion!" Anders declared, grinning.
The girls were more and more bewildered.
"Did she marry the rebel Maric?" faltered Celandine.
Both mages laughed, frightening the princesses even more. At that point, Alistair arrived.
"Got the situation in hand I see," he said. "The ladies are all right?"
"They're fine, Alistair," Anders assured him, "just a bit nervous around the scary mages! Mwah-ha-ha!" He waggled his hands in mock threat, and the girls shrank back, squealing. Morrigan snorted in disgust.
"Whimpering and witless fools," she sneered. "Look at them, huddled like sheep! Hardly worth the effort to safe their worthless lives."
Alistair remembered why he had never liked Morrigan.
"Maybe they wouldn't be frightened if there hadn't just been an attempt to kill them, and if you weren't scaring them!" he snapped. Then he made a point of giving the poor girls the bow he had learned to give Arlessa Isolde years before.
"Your Imperial Highnesses. It's an honor to meet you. The Queen will send for you very soon. For now, please stay here in your apartments. No one is going to hurt you or—"
"Ser... Alistair?" ventured Eglantine.
"Not 'Ser," said Morrigan, with mocking emphasis. "'Tis Bann Alistair. Bann Alistair Fitzmaric of Stonehaven!"
He reddened. He should have introduced himself as a Warden from the first. Now Morrigan had mentioned that stupid title. "Yes, Bann Alistair, I'm afraid."
"You are noble!" said Eponine, relieved. "You are a gentleman!"
"Well... yes."
Celandine gushed, "Pardon our confusion as to your rank. You are not masked." Then she realized that she was not masked either, and flushed. It was all very improper.
"No. Don't have a mask," Alistair mumbled. "We never wear them in... er...Ferelden." He grimaced, and said to Anders, "They're scared of you. Maybe you and Morrigan should go, and I'll explain what happened."
Morrigan shrugged. "With pleasure!"
"No!" cried Eglantine. "She cannot go if you stay!"
Alistair, miserable and red-faced, stared at them in confusion. Morrigan was offended and Anders amused.
As if it were obvious to the meanest intelligence, Eglantine explained, "We cannot possibly speak in our private apartments with a man unrelated to us and with no chaperone present."
Eponine's eyes were huge. "It would be a scandal!"
"We could be executed!" Celandine solemnly assured them.
"Hmmm." Anders smirked. "There are three of you. Can't you just... I don't know... chaperone each other?" Alistair was silent, dizzily contemplating a worldview in which Morrigan could be regarded as a chaperone.
"Or we could all just leave," Morrigan hinted, bored.
"Right," said Alistair, rather glad of the suggestion. Young ladies—especially pretty young ladies— made him nervous. "We'll all just leave. Now. The guards at the door are there to protect you. Nobody's going to bother you. Just stay here. We'll let you know when Bron—Queen Bronwyn's ready to see you. Your Imperial Highnesses," he remembered to add.
He bowed again, backing away, and tripped over his own feet. The mages laughed heartlessly. In a moment they were all gone, shutting the door of the solar behind them.
"What an odd man," remarked Celandine.
"But a noble," Eponine pointed out.
Eglantine nodded, her eyes dreamy. "And handsome! Even without a mask!"
"They are pretty fools," Morrigan said to Bronwyn, with a shrug. "Very nearly mindless. They were horrified at being exposed to the impurity of mages, and equally horrified at the idea of being left alone with our bold and lecherous Alistair—"
"Hey!" Alistair protested.
"—without a chaperone," Morrigan finished, relishing the sarcasm. "One would think that after their last chaperone attempted to murder them, they would have had enough of such creatures!"
"I'll have Leliana deal with them," Bronwyn said. "She should know all the protocol rubbish they're accustomed to. Or I'll find a reliable female officer to escort them. I want them out of here as soon as possible. They need to be sent east, out of any pretender's reach."
So she sent for Leliana, though she had more important things on her mind than three silly girls. A long conversation with the captain of Chateau Solidor had explained some of the reason for the collapse of all resistance.
The Grey Wardens of Jader had come through two days before, and Riordan had informed the captain of the rising of the darkspawn and the attack on Val Royeaux. The gravity of the situation was not lost on the captain, and he had been uncertain what to do. Riordan had also told the Marquis' steward in Jader about the attack. Word was out, and every man in the garrison here had heard the news. They were afraid, now that the Blight was here in Orlais, and not far away in enemy country. Many wanted to go home to their families. Bronwyn pressed for news of Riordan, but the captain knew little.
"The Senior Warden said he would go to Montsimmard, to the head of the order in Orlais, and join forces with him. It will take them at least seven days, even if they travel fast."
It was less and less likely that the Orlesian invasion force would attack Ferelden. If no one else informed them of the disaster, Riordan would eventually meet the army. It could not attack the eastern border when the capital of its own country was being ravaged by the darkspawn. Interestingly, the captain said nothing of the Empress. Bronwyn danced about the issue, but apparently Riordan had not given him that detail, perhaps hoping to prevent a panic.
Well, the news would get out eventually, and panic there would be. Bronwyn was just as glad to keep it quiet for now, reducing the value of the young princesses.
The garrison had been disarmed—stripped of their armor, too. Bronwyn planned to have them escorted west along the Imperial Highway, then have them told to keep marching. If they tried to double back, they would be killed. The next sizable city was Halamshiral, two days away. No, more like three, if the defeated Orlesians had no boots. By the time they reached Halamshiral, news should have arrived about the events in Val Royeaux. The Orlesians would have better things to do than try to retake Solidor.
"We'll keep the officers and the Comtesse," she said to Alistair. "We might get ransom for them. The woman might have some useful information for us, too, once she gets tired of bread and water. For the rankers, it's best to simply let them go. I don't want to feed them."
Leliana arrived, very cheerful from her examination of the castle, and Bronwyn gave her her new assignment.
"I'd like you to take charge of the princesses for now. Have them come down so I can speak to them. No masks. That's an Orlesian custom I can't abide, and they need to learn to do without them. They seem to think they need a chaperone, even though they are hardly children. Win their confidence and find out what you can about them."
"Nothing easier!" Leliana beamed, rather pleased at the idea of being entrusted with such a task. Three princess, locked in a tower, would be delighted to have the company of a minstrel. The romance of the situation appealed to her greatly. "I shall go up to them at once!"
Solidor was a fine castle, though nowhere near the size of the Rock. It was an imperial possession, and had often been used as a prison, as it as now, for distinguished but inconvenient individuals. Bronwyn set about organizing a garrison of her own, and discovering what weak points this castle, so serendipitously fallen into her hands, might have. While she was busily giving orders and listening to reports, Leliana arrived with the princesses. Each was exquisitely pretty in a frail, white-skinned, fine-boned way. Each was gowned in sumptuous velvet: blue, gold, or rose. They wore elaborate pearl diadems to hold back their pale-gold hair. They were presented by Leliana, and they made Bronwyn elaborate curtseys.
They were clearly very much afraid of her.
Bronwyn realized that she might be intimidating to such sheltered individuals. She was in armor. She towered over them. On the other hand, they were a little old to be so childish. The youngest might not yet be twenty, but the two older princesses were older than Bronwyn herself. Perhaps it had suited the Empress for them to be timid and ignorant, but they had also been pampered with comforts and luxuries and the endless labor of many servants' hands. Bronwyn was not going to provide them with such a lavish lifestyle. Not when she herself often had to sleep rough out of doors or on stone in the Deep Roads. She looked down on these feeble, inbred specimens, the offspring of cousins, of uncles and nieces, and saw little to respect.
To be sure, she could not fully comprehend what a strange figure she cut before the Imperial princesses. She was tall and imposing, certainly, and her red dragon armor was splendid; however, the princesses had never seen any woman with any pretense to gentility appear even among other women with her face unpainted. That she was also unmasked—and demanded that they, too, be unmasked, even in the presence of men and commoners—seemed rather indecent. They might not grasp her courage and daring, but they noticed the dirt under her fingernails and her untidy hair. Eglantine thought her face might be pretty, with some lip rouge on her pale mouth, and with her eyebrows properly plucked thin and the horrid scar covered up. Her eyes, though, were terrifying: piercing and hard, and a bright, bright green that made Eglantine think of snakes and poison... or...somehow... of dragons. Of course, she was altogether too big. Her feet and hands were like a man's. They could see the sinews of her neck, unfeminine and muscular. She did not look like a Queen. She did not even look like a lady. She looked like she had been working in the fields, like a peasant woman.
Then, too, her retinue was composed of uncouth and sinister creatures... The big dog, of course: almost a cliché in itself. There was a huge giant of a man with grey skin and lavender eyes. There were elves, armed and daring to look them straight in the eye, some smiling, some grave and disapproving, like the tall, white-haired one. What was that look directed at them by that little elf girl? Insupportable impudence! It was unnerving. A crude stone figure stood in a corner, as tall as the giant man. The princesses wondered what is was, because it was the ugliest statue they had ever seen. Then there were the two mages that had tricked them, and another mage as well, all boldly bearing their staffs for everyone to see. Dwarves loafed about, mightily at their ease. The armed human men—and women— about the queen wore dirty, stained armor and the grips of their swords and daggers looked greasy and unclean. Not one of them looked like a noble chevalier, aside from Bann Alistair, and he was not very clean either.
Still, this Queen Bronwyn did not speak to them unkindly, though she did not use all the ceremony that was their due, as they were Princesses of the Imperial line of Drakon Kordilius, and she a mere upstart queen of a little barbarian realm.
"Ladies," Bronwyn said briefly. "You have nothing to fear from me. I shall see that you are protected. In a few days, you will leave Chateau Solidor and take up residence in another of my strongholds. You may each select a servant to take with you, and you will be provided with a wagon for your possessions. An escort will be assigned to you."
They were too cowed to ask her their thousand questions, and Bronwyn was too busy to coddle them, so she gave them a curt nod of dismissal. "Warden Leliana, take the ladies back to their quarters, and help them begin preparing for their journey."
Frightened into speaking, Eponine asked, "Our escort will not contain... mages, I trust?"
The Queen frowned, displeased, and Eponine quailed briefly.
"What? Like those mages," Bronwyn said slowly, her green eyes terrible, "who saved your lives not two hours ago? You object to their presence. Is that not correct? Am I to understand that rather endure the presence of mages, you would have preferred to have been gutted by a pair of thugs at the behest of that vile old women in the dungeons?"
Embarrassed and confused by such a response, the princesses blushed and lowered their heads. Eglantine tried to sort out her own feelings. Of course she was glad not to have been killed, and that the Comtesse was in the dungeons was wonderful news; but it was very improper for a lady to use the word 'gutted.' And the mages were still... mages...
Bronwyn rolled her eyes. "Take them away, Leliana. I'm busy."
Thanks to my reviewers: Vibrolux61, Nemrut, Serena R. Snape, DjinniGenie, JTheClivaz, trevorswim, Koden21, Nightbrainzz, JackOfBladesX, HeavensScribe, The Flying Hobbo, RohanVos, Girl-chama, Mike3207, RaZoRMandiblez, Rexiselic, Cjonwalrus, anon, darksky01, Calliope Sol, Herebedragons66, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, KngihtOfHolyLight, Chiara Crawford, Ie-maru, Guest, Acaila, Blinded in a bolthold, TirionI, kirbster676, BAMS, Robbie the Phoenix, So you want to be an Author, Phygmalion, Highlord, timunderwood9, mille libri, chrysanne, Costin, sizuka2, PhantomX0990, Persephone Chiara, Jenna53, Verpine, Suna Chunin, Halm Vendrella, RakeeshJ4, jnybot, Juliafied, Kalom, AD Lewis, amanda weber, Mike 3207, forget the rest, YayforYuffie, Lyssa Terald, Psyche Sinclair, Lexiconnoisseur, RB23G, Sauurman, trevalyan, Josie Lange, and Alex.
The Orlesian fleet is not as big as the Spanish Armada, which was composed of 22 warships and 108 coverted merchantman. There were also a number of small vessels accompanying them. On the other hand, Celene had not been planning her invasion as long as Philip II. For that matter, the Fereldans did not have the naval power that the English possessed. While the English ships were much smaller than the Spanish, and heavily outgunned, there were around 200 of them. Ferelden can only muster a total of two dozen, tops, and some of them are privateers and converted fishing boats and merchantmen.
English theatre has never paid much attention to the Aristotelian unities. They have been powerfully influential, however, in European dramaturgy. It's one of the reasons that many Europeans, up until the mid-19th century, thought Shakespeare barbarous. Big sprawling plays like King Lear, with its many locations and huge cast, made no sense to them.
Had some honeywine Friday night. Not Orlesian, but Ethiopian. Tej. Interesting and not at all like mead.
A piece of fan art for Victory at Ostagar! Thanks to Girl-Chama. There is a link on my profile page.