Victory at Ostagar:
Chapter 108: Beyond Borders
Leandra Hawke had not expected to return to Denerim so soon. Less than a month in South Reach had proved quite enough.
Her reception—and her daughter's—had been markedly cooler on her recent visit than it had been when taken there by dear Leonas, who had been so very popular in his own arling. The late arl's ashes were interred in the South Reach Chantry: Our Lady of Light. Revered Mother Damaris had given Bethany some very hard looks, for it was common knowledge that the arl had been killed—in part at least—because of his progressive views on mages. Nor was she the only one. Perversely, a great many people blamed Bethany for his death.
"Mark my words, if he hadn't tried to please that new wife of his, he'd be alive today."
People did not care if she heard such cruel words. Bethany grew more and more uncomfortable there. She did not feel welcome in the Chantry. Nor did she feel comfortable in the small town of South Reach, down the hill from the castle. People stared at her, and made the sign against evil. Sometimes they spat. They did not dare refuse to sell their goods to her, but there was, quite honestly, little there that she wanted.
Their whole party was out of spirits. Lothar missed his brother Corbus horribly, and acted out on occasion. No one had ever seen him so willful and bad-tempered as he was now. He complained of having nothing to do, and clung to Charade, wanting to practice archery or go hunting.
Charade confessed to Bethany that she wished that she and Rothgar had run away and eloped, so she could have gone with him on campaign.
"Who knows how long he'll be gone? It's ridiculous, sitting around here. Between the steward and the housekeeper, there's nothing left to be done but work on my wedding clothes. Ugh."
"They're very nice wedding clothes. A good thing we bought all the materials in Denerim, though."
"I hate sewing," Charade said flatly. "I swear, once I'm married I will never pick up a needle again, so hear me, Maker!"
Bethany laughed, a little ruefully. "I doubt that you'll need to."
It was only too true that they had little to do. They were in mourning, of course, which made lively entertainments improper and disrespectful to the arl. Leandra, deeply grieving for her kind husband, had gone to South Reach with every good intention of doing her best as her little stepson's regent, but the fact was that she had little experience in administering a large household, much less an arling. The steward, who had been perfectly affable when the arl was alive, now looked with suspicion on his widow, apparently concerned that she would plunder South Reach for her own benefit and that of her children. He was a loyal man, but not loyal to her. Instead, he held out for the rights of the absent young arl, whom he regarded as his rightful master. He was kind only to Lothar, taking him on a brief visit to his future bannorn, of which Leandra, naturally, was also the regent. He was carefully civil to Charade, as the future wife of a decent young nobleman. With Leandra and Bethany, however, he was distant and formal. The housekeeper was no better, and took any interference by Leandra as an insult. Dismissing them would cause more problems than it would solve, for they were earnest, hard-working people who knew their duties, and would be incredibly difficult to replace.
It was not surprising that by the fourth of Drakonis they were back in Denerim. By the time Bethany returned, she had a good idea about what she wanted to do.
She was up early on the morning after their return, and took a long walk alone, muffled in a plain cloak. Her mother would have hated to know she was going alone and unprotected, so Bethany did not tell her her plans. She walked to the Market District, a heavy, old-fashioned key in hand, to see the house that had been bequeathed to her. The arl's seneschal in Denerim had told her something about it when she asked for the key.
"The last tenant was a foreign woman who ran off without paying for the quarter, leaving the place a filthy mess. Must have thrown wine on the walls to leave them so stained. The arl told me to have it freshly white-washed and the floors scrubbed down. Renting it out will bring you a steady income. I trust you'll find it all in order, Mistress Bethany."
The sun was low, and the city walls cast chilly shadows. Nonetheless, she liked the look of the house, close to the shops, a few steps from the Chantry, easy to find. It was in Threadneedle Alley, a tiny cul-de-sac, and the best house there.
The lock clicked open readily enough, and smelled recently oiled. Bethany mentally thanked the seneschal, who was far nicer to them than the people of South Reach. She stepped into the house and took stock of her property.
Oh! If they had had such a house in Lothering, they would have thought themselves well-off, indeed! It was charming. The anteroom had small, high windows, letting in light. It was furnished with benches, which would serve well for what she had in mind, and also with chests and a wardrobe, which would not. The walls were plastered, and yes, newly whitewashed. It smelled pleasantly fresh, though it would need a bit of dusting. She opened the door in the middle of the opposite wall, which led to a delightful parlor, larger than the anteroom, and with a cozy arched fireplace at the far end. There were good-looking wool rugs on the floor, woven in bold Gwarenian patterns. Parts of the walls were covered with handsome oak wainscoting. The ceiling rose to a peak, and the mullioned, triangular window was also high, above the level of the anteroom roof. Good light. She would need to be able to see to do her work properly.
The room was furnished with long couches covered in canvas and deerhide, a table with a chess set, and a pair of bookcases still filled with books. Bethany clenched her hands in her excitement, hoping there was something good to read there. She would need very different furnishings, but she had coin of her own now.
Yes, coin of her own. She had briefly pictured some things at Bryland House she could use, but discarded the notion. That was as good as stealing from Corbus. Everything she needed she would order from a carpenter, and then pay for it herself. It would be hers.
To the left was a bedchamber with its own fireplace. It contained a fine, curtained bed, a cupboard, a wardrobe, and a big iron chest that proved to be empty, save for a few unpaired stockings. They were silk. Their prior owner must have been a woman of property. The bed looked comfortable. Bethany felt an aching desire to throw herself on the bed and hide in this darling little house, only coming out to buy food from the street vendors and to visit the Wonders of Thedas.
But she had not seen it all. To the right of the parlor was the kitchen, which had its own oven for roasting and baking, as a well as a fireplace for other cooking. There was a stone tub, for laundry and bathing. The foodstuffs had been cleaned out, but it would be easy enough to restock. Perhaps she should get a cat, to ward off mice. Perhaps she should have two cats, to keep each another company. A giggle escaped her. In this house, she could have all the cats she liked. She could be a old cat lady, reading her books, playing her lute, and baking her own bread. It sounded lovely.
There was a pantry, too, with a woodpile and two large kegs of what turned out to be quite decent wine. Bethany thought the pantry excessive, considering the size of the kitchen. With a little work, this could actually be turned into a decent little sleeping room. There was a ring in the floor, and a trapdoor opened to reveal some musty wooden stairs to a cellar. Not having a candle at hand, Bethany decided to put off exploring the cellar... until someone else was with her. It was a little creepy. She lowered the trapdoor and pulled one of the empty shelves over it, knowing she was being silly.
I wonder if there's a loft.
That might be hidden, too. Sure enough, she discovered where it must be, above the kitchen. It was probably small, since the ceiling of the parlor was too high to allow a loft to cover the entire house. Bethany puzzled over that, since the building on the outside seemed to have a straight roof. A brief check showed there was also a small loft above the bedchamber. She had seen a ladder in the anteroom, but she would need a chain or a rope to fix to the hooks. Maker only knew what was up there. She would want to bring some dust sheets to spread over the furniture, because it would certainly be filthy.
But this was hers, all hers, and it would do very, very well. Now it was time to consult someone who had the power to make her plan succeed or fail.
The Grand Cleric Muirin was startled to find that the young woman seeking audience with her was Mistress Bethany Hawke, the late Arl Bryland's mage step-daughter. Though she was a lightning rod for debate about the changing role of mages, she had always seemed to Muirin a very sweet girl. She curtseyed nicely, and sitting in the visitor's chair, looked much like any young initiate or lay sister who was hoping to talk Muirin into something.
"Your Reverence," Bethany began hesitantly. "There is something I would very much like to do, but I don't want to shock people, or make them feel they are doing wrong, or something contrary to the Chantry..."
Muirin raised her brows. Bethany struggled on.
"In fact, I hope you like the idea, because I think it would be best for me to have some Chantry supervision. Not that I'm dangerous," she hurriedly assured Muirin. "But people might think I am, and if I had supervision, then people would feel safe, which would make them happier and more comfortable. I don't want to be seen as making some sort of political statement. I have nothing to hide. I've never used forbidden magics. My father made me promise that my magic 'would serve the best in me, not that which is most base.' And it wouldn't cost the Chantry anything, because I already have a place for it, and I can pay for the things I need."
"My dear child," Muirin stopped her. "Perhaps you should tell me exactly what it is you wish to do."
A little later, Muirin sent for Ser Otto. She could think of no one better to be the Chantry's representative at a free clinic in Denerim Market, only a few steps away. The rich had their own household healers. Now the rest of Denerim would have the benefit of magical healing, too.
While the young girl and the gentle-voiced Templar talked, Muirin got up and looked through her window at the Market below, deeply moved. It was a splendid idea, and it was a disgrace that no one had thought of it before now, or dared to suggest it. Were the theologians in Val Royeaux so pitifully afraid of anything that might make mages look useful? What would the Divine say, if she knew? Muirin did not care. She must leave for Val Royeaux soon, and would face the storm when it came. However briefly this clinic lasted, it would be a blessing for the people of this city.
Ser Otto was quite taken with the plan, but he was an idealist, and it would naturally appeal to him. He suggested that they make regular visits to the Alienage as well, since the people there might be hesitant to come to the market. They even discussed if the presence of a lay sister might not be desirable. Sister Ursula knew something of healing, and might be of great assistance in the work. She was a hearty, good-humored widow, who had joined the Chantry because she had had nowhere else to go after losing her husband and home. Muirin nodded absently. They were working it all out very nicely between them. They needed nothing but Muirin's approval, and she was quite inclined to grant it. She liked it all the better for the fact that the Divine would denounce it.
Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. Or burned.
Ser Otto was eager to see the future clinic for himself. The girl explained her current limitations with the cellar and lofts. Ser Otto told her they would take his friend Irminric with them, along with a lantern and a length of rope. Muirin told them to take that gangly boy Ser Kevan with them, too. He was a willing lad, and strong enough to carry firewood and draw water, at least.
It was later in the day, well past noon, when a king's messenger arrived, giving her the news of the dreadful thing that the darkspawn had done. Muirin wept for the destruction of so much grandeur and beauty, and prayed for the dead. She would not be going to Val Royeaux, after all. Her trunks, half packed, were emptied, and she spent the night on her knees before the statue of Andraste, hardly able to form a coherent prayer, ashamed of herself to be so relieved by her own deliverance.
News spread through the streets. It was rather like a festival on one hand, and a wake on the other. While it was unreasonable to expect Fereldans to show pity toward the Empress, Muirin held a solemn memorial service to commemorate the innocent dead and the destruction of the Grand Cathedral.
A thread had broken, the strong tie that had bound her to the Divine and the central authority of the Chantry. The Divine might well be dead, and certainly a great many of the powerful figures of the clergy as well. The Lord Seeker, the Knight-Vigilant, the Knights-Divine... some at least would have perished. No one would know for quite some time. By the power of the Maker, the Fereldan Chantry was now on its own, for good or ill. Muirin shivered under her heavy ceremonial robes, bowed down by the terrible responsiblity.
A few days later, further news came: a secret message that relayed the shocking story of her own and the Queen's burning in effigy and the lightning damage to the Grand Cathedral, Murin was glad that she had held the memorial ceremony beforehand, for she found herself somewhat out of charity with the Divine. As it was, the Maker had spoken. Rather loudly, in fact.
She was very glad that she had approved the clinic. She was even happier that she would be here, in Denerim, watching over it.
"But darling!" Leandra protested. "How will you have time to attend salons and dinners with me if you're at that clinic of yours all the time?"
Bethany had suspected this would be the hardest fight of her life. Too bad she was right.
"There's no point in showing me off like some sort of noble catch, Mother," Bethany said. "I'm a mage. No nobleman—no one in his right mind—would marry me. This clinic is something of mine. Nobody else can do it. The Grand Cleric has approved of it. It's a way of reconciling mages and Chantry. It's a way of doing real, practical good for the people of Denerim. My only other choice, as I see it, is to join the Wardens like Carver. Would you prefer that?"
"Oh, Maker! No!" Leandra tugged on her hair, obviously worried and frustrated. "That's much too dangerous! I don't see why the Queen couldn't leave Carver in Denerim with those dwarves... But this is dangerous, too! Leonas was killed by a man who hated mages! You'll be alone among strangers. If only Adam were here..." she paused. "... or Carver..."
"They're not," Bethany said, feeling a bit cruel. "They have their own lives now. I want my own life, too. You have Lothar to take care of and Charade to show off at the salons. She's better at all that than I ever could have been anyhow."
"Oh, Bethany..." Leandra's voice trailed off, tears standing in her eyes.
"No! No pity! I can't stand it when you look as if you're sorry for me!"
Now Leandra was crying in earnest. "At least let me help you!"
Bethany bit back her reply. Yes, she would like to do it all by herself. Still, she could show the house to her mother, and let her see how nice it was. Maybe that would help reconcile her to the plan.
It worked out fairly well. Leandra insisted on traveling by carriage with an escort, even though it was not a long walk. Mother was an arlessa, after all. They found the house unlocked and Sister Ursula and Ser Kevan hard at work.
"But this is delightful!" Leandra cried. "What a pretty little house!"
Proudly, Bethany showed her every detail, especially the altered parlor, where four cots had been delivered. These were sturdier and higher than regular cots. In the bedchamber, in addition to the big bed, were a little writing desk and a chair and a birthing stool of Bethany's own design. She had helped her father deliver babies, years before, and was excited about using some of his ideas. She had decided on using the bedchamber for childbirth, both to give the new mothers more privacy, and because they might make a great deal of noise. Most mothers would choose to have their child at home, but Bethany had seen many cases in the old days when a terrified young mother-to-be appeared on their doorstep—a girl who had been thrown out by her family and spurned by the child's father. Something of the sort was bound to happen here.
Work was being done on the pantry. Lathe had been put up for plastering and whitewashing. A narrow window had been drilled into the wall, and was already glazed. It did not let in a great deal of light, but any natural light was infinitely better than none. It was being new furnished with a single bed, and the chest and wardrobe that had stood in the antechamber.
They had a little more work to do before the clinic was ready to open. The lofts had proved to be full of nothing but trash: moth-eaten rugs and rat droppings. Bethany took that to heart and found a mouser in need of a good home. Sister Ursula liked cats herself and thought Pyewacket a good investment.
The cellar was filthy as well. Bins of what Ser Otto thought might be rotten turnips vied with rusty, jagged-edged pails for the description of the most unattractive rubbish. It smelled of damp and decay. The floor was earth, and rough. Otto thought that having some men lay tile or brick there would make the place more tolerable. There were opened sacks of quicklime and a shelf with a few forgotten jars of honey: ancient, cobwebbed, and wax sealed. Theoretically, honey never spoiled, so Bethany made a face, wiped them off, and carried them upstairs. Honey was a good salve for wounds, and prevented infection.
Mother was even more reconciled to the idea of the clinic, when Bethany told her she would not be sleeping there, but at home at Bryland House. Sister Ursula, however, would stay there at times, rotating with Ser Otto and Ser Irminric, who was quite taken with the whole concept himself. The plan for the single bed in the little bedchamber was altered to a very well-built, comfortable, and long set of bunk beds. Otto and Irminric were quite tall men.
And Mother did have one very good idea, after they went home and she had time to think. She decided to hold a salon, and invited all the notable residents of Denerim, as a way of announcing her return to the city. There, they could talk about the clinic, first as a wonderful idea in itself, and second, as one sanctioned by the Grand Cleric. The Chantry personnel were invited to attend. Even the Grand Cleric agreed to make an appearance.
"I hope Habren comes," Leandra fretted. "Surely by now she's able to cope with social gatherings. Either that, or we really must call on her, Bethany. Anything else would look odd and unfriendly. Lothar ought to see his sister, if she is unable to come to us."
But Habren did not come. Despite Leandra's warmly-written invitation, Arl Kane arrived, attended only by his little sisters, who were wild to see dear Arlessa Leandra. While the girls hugged Leandra and Charade, Kane took Bethany aside.
"Your mother's set on seeing Habren, isn't she?"
"Well... yes. She's her stepmother. She feels it's her duty."
"Fine woman, your mother. Good to the girls. Always liked her." His too-handsome face knit in a frown. "Look here, I agree that someone should see to Habren. She's not right. I'm not sure the boy should come, though. It might be get ugly."
Bethany stared. "What's wrong? Habren's very ill?"
Kane spread his hands, his expression calculated to display what a devoted young husband should feel when concerned about his expectant wife. He lowered he voice.
"She's... not right. She gets so upset and hysterical. She attacked Faline's little puppy—tried to throw her out the window!— and she hurt the governess, too, one time when I was out of the house. Warden Jowan saw her awhile back, when I had to break the news about her father, and he gave her something to calm her; but he said that she couldn't take that all the time. Maybe you should come... perhaps with your mother and Lady Charade. If she could behave herself, I wouldn't have to have her watched so closely. If you're there, you can keep her from hurting herself."
Now quite alarmed, Bethany sputtered in confusion. "I'll certainly... discuss this with Mother. Could we come today?"
"Before sundown," he suggested. "Habren sleeps at odd hours. I know I can trust you not to spread this about. Imagine how it would hurt all of us... hurt the child... if word got out that his mother was... mad."
He was called away by one of his many admirers, and Bethany was left to digest this very serious news. She disliked Habren fairly intensely, but if she needed healing of any sort, of course Bethany would help. And perhaps her behavior might be somewhat forgiven, if it was caused by a mental illness... perhaps grief over the death of her father. Bethany tried to put it from her mind for the moment, while smiling for her noble friends.
Everyone was saying such kind things about the clinic, vowing to tell everyone they knew, offering financial support and gifts. A few people carefully expressed their concern about Bethany overworking herself, since she would be the only Healer there. it was a very broad hint that she should have skilled—magical— help, but so far, no one was willing to make the point outright.
They all went to the Arl of Denerim's estate in the carriage. It had been decided that Lothar would visit Faline and Jancey while the ladies paid a call on Arlessa Habren.
"I don't want to see Habren anyway," Lothar declared. "I hate Habren."
"Lothar, darling," Leandra admonished him, "you mustn't say such things about your sister."
Bethany and Charade shared a look. Lothar remained defiant, and turned away from them, staring out the window at the streets.
He whispered, "But I do hate her. Why couldn't she have been killed instead of Father?"
Leandra sighed, and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. She was relieved that he did not shrug it off.
"We won't be there long," she said. "Habren isn't well, and Bethany will see if there is anything we can do for her."
"All right. At least there'll be someone to play with."
Charade said, "Faline and Jancey were pretty excited about having a visitor. They'll probably have treats. Don't ruin your supper!"
He grinned wickedly over his shoulder. Charade laughed at him.
The Kendalls were waiting for them in the reception hall. Faline and Jancey were bouncing with delight. Kane greeted them in his friendliest way, ruffling Lothar's hair.
"Hello, little brother!"
Lothar scowled, but managed a polite bow.
"My lord Arl."
Bows and curtseys were exchanged, and mild gossip about the improving weather. Kane was planning an outing to Dragon's Peak, since his duties were not of the sort that would prevent any pleasure of his. He was quite at the disposal of the South Reach ladies.
Truth to tell, he was secretly annoyed that these women would meddle in his private matters, but they were not doing it out of spite. Very likely they would never have troubled their heads about Habren, had they not thought it was their duty. For that matter, young Lady Charade looked like she'd rather be anywhere else. He trusted his luck, which had not yet failed him, and even more to Habren's complete inability to behave decently to anyone.
"I told her you were coming, and that she ought to see you," he sighed, playing the worried husband card. "I'm glad a proper Healer's going to have a look at her."
The women glanced at each other, very concerned. Bethany had told them about Habren's deranged behavior—especially about the attack on the puppy, which was certainly beyond the bounds of sanity.
"Meanwhile," Kane suggested, "why don't Lothar and girls go and have a pleasant time? Mistress Manda's planned some fine games!"
Lothar trudged off, as if going to a funeral, but most of that was pretense to make everyone sorry for him. Once the children were gone, Kane's face became grave, and he led them down the long north hall, speaking quietly.
"Let me go in first, and get her used to the idea. Wait here."
"Of course," Leandra agreed. Once he was out of sight, it occurred to her that Kane's manners were atrocious—worse even than Loghain Mac Tir's— but his handsome face let him get away with things no plainer man could. Of course, much of that was due to his upbringing…
"All right." Kane was back. He grimaced uneasily. "This is not one of her good days."
He gestured them through the door, and shut it behind them softly.
Habren's pregnancy was not yet advanced enough to show, but her appearance had altered a great deal from the last time they had seen her. Her hair was straggling and greasy, her gown wrinkled and unclean. She took a deep breath, and then rushed at them, eyes wild.
"Let me out of here!" she shrieked. "Let me out of here!"
The three ladies gaped, utterly taken aback. Habren threw herself at Leandra, shaking her by the shoulders, ripping her lovely purple gown.
"Do you hear me?" she roared. "I demand that you inform the Landsmeet that my husband is keeping me a prisoner!"
"Now, now," Kane said mildly, detaching Habren's hands from the shocked Leandra, and gently interposing himself between the women now that the damage was already done. "That's no way to behave to your good stepmother."
"Stepmother!" Habren barked a bitter laugh. She turned to Leandra and snarled out her words. "Listen, you gold-digging hag, I want you and that abomination over there—" she pointed at Bethany, who gasped "—to tell everyone how I'm being treated!"
Charade lost her temper. "How dare you, you crazy bitch! Don't you talk to my family that way! You tried to throw a puppy out the window! You may be noble, but you're not normal. So sit down and shut up!"
"Charade, don't!" Leandra pleaded.
Habren, red with rage, lunged at Charade, who seemed quite ready to punch her.
Bethany cried, "Kane! Catch her!" and cast a sleep spell on Habren. It struck, and the furious woman slumped. Kane caught her easily, and carried her over to her rumpled bed.
"She's like this sometimes." He sighed. "I don't know what to do. She's going to hurt herself, or someone else, or the baby. If her father were here…" He shook his head dolefully, trying not to overdo it.
"She shouldn't be alone," Bethany said. "You should find someone to sit with her and talk quietly to her. Someone…" She thrashed about for a good idea. "Someone strong. Maybe a lay sister from the Chantry?"
"I'll find someone," Kane said, showing his fine white teeth. "That's a wonderful idea. It's important to be keep this quiet. She may get better someday, and she'd be so ashamed…" He had already decided to hire a well-paid female guard. Maybe two. Strong? Absolutely. Habren had tried to cut him with a sharpened pendant only a few days ago.
Bethany did not expect Habren's conduct to improve, since it seemed all of a piece with her usual conduct. Habren was still Habren, only frighteningly more so. Still, she had a duty as a Healer, and checked the sleeping woman out carefully.
"The baby seems fine," she told Kane. "And Habren too, though all this agitation isn't good for her. I'll come by every week, and of course you can always call on me if there's an emergency…"
"I knew I could," Kane said, with artless gratitude. He led the ladies away, his spirits dancing. "We're family, after all. Why don't you stay for some refreshments so the children have more time to play?"
"There's absolutely no reason not to return to Denerim," Fergus told his beautiful new wife. She was glowing with happiness. They were both glowing with happiness. The darkspawn had risen in the far, far west of Thedas, the Empress was dead, the Chantry unable to further chastise Ferelden, and the vaunted Orlesian navy was at the bottom of the sea—or in port, as prizes held under Ferelden colors. Some of them were here in Highever, being given new names. Captain Isabela had thrown quite the party on the biggest of her new ships.
Anora threw her arms around Fergus, unable to contain herself. Yes, it was horrible that the darkspawn had risen, and no doubt all sort of innocent people had suffered, but they were not Fereldan people. Ferelden, instead, had fought off the darkspawn so bravely and so intrepidly that the monsters had gone elsewhere. Word had come that the Rock had fallen to Bronwyn, rendering Gherlen's Pass secure.
"I do hope," Anora said tartly, after a long kiss, "that the rest of Thedas will wake up and start doing its duty. Why should Ferelden defend Orlais? They did nothing for us, Maker knows. And now we are safe!"
They had made an appearance at the party on the docks, and had come home to a pleasant supper, among good friends in the largely repaired dining hall of Castle Highever. There was still a great deal of work to do—many improvements to make, for that matter—but the castle was livable. They were happy enough in the splendid bedchamber that had been the retreat of the Teyrn and Teyrna of Highever for ages past. Anora had some ideas about redecorating here, and Fergus was glad to indulge her. Their marriage had been clouded by the assassination and the funeral of Arl Bryland; by the horrific execution of his murderer; but their honeymoon in Highever was everything they desired. Anora learned every street of her new city, and together they made plans to beautify it. They rode out into the country and up into the Coast Range and to the Cliffs of Conobar. They visited humble freeholders and newly-made banns alike.
Howe's ill-gotten gains, which Fergus had retrieved from his siege of Vigil's Keep, were making change an effortless matter. The damage done to the family rooms made it imperative to order newer, finer furniture; to cover stone walls with wainscoting; to purchase new carpets; to set the weavers to making new hangings and linens.
Bronwyn's old room was almost entirely changed, only keeping the splendid old bed. It was still mostly in green, Bronwyn's favorite color. Fergus hoped that she would visit, at some point. She had been there... she had seen what was done... perhaps the pain was still too great.
He was not able to enter the room he had once shared with Oriana. He had left it entirely to Anora, who ordered it largely gutted, save for the glorious carved woodwork. It would be their child's nursery, when a child came. The walls here, too, would be wainscoted in places and plastered elsewhere, with a partitioned sleeping alcove the child and his—or her— nurse. And there would be a child. It was too early to tell now, but they were both absolutely confident that so much diligent activity could not be in vain.
The huge hall into which all the family room faced was deemed by Anora to be entirely wasted space. She had purchased a wonderful table and chairs for the room, and a handsome huntboard, carved with game, so the family could use the area as a private dining room. She had also commissioned paintings to hang there. The one of Fergus and Anora was almost complete. The large formal dining hall downstairs and the Great Hall were also in the process of improvement, and spectacular tapestries had been ordered to adorn them.
The maid was dismissed, so Fergus could brush out his wife's shining golden locks himself.
"There are plenty of good reasons to return to Denerim, for that matter," he said. "The Tevinters might arrive very soon, and we must be ready for them."
"Oh, yes," Anora smiled, thinking of the surprise the slavers were likely to have. "I agree we should go. I'd like to see the rooftop garden at Highever House made ready for the spring. Besides, I'm not at all sure Kane is quite up to the challenge of dealing with our foreign 'guests.'"
"I'm not sure he's up to any challenge... but enough of other men in my bedchamber!"
She laughed like a young girl as he tossed the brush aside and took her in his arms again.
"Greagoir," First Enchanter Irving gently remonstrated. "Brooding won't help. You need to eat something. That broth looks quite good..."
The Knight-Commander of the Fereldan Circle mumbled an indistinct answer, his head in his hands, slumped over his cluttered desk. Irving grimaced, and moved the bottle of brandy from the desk to a cupboard, and then shut the door without a noise. He sat down in the chair opposite, gazing in compassion at the man who was both enemy and companion of his old age.
He cleared his throat. "Many have died, but we still live. We can could do much to help the fight."
"'M too old," Greagoir groaned, still rather drunk. "Old and bloody useless. They're all dead."
"We're too old to dash into a fight, perhaps," Irving agreed, "but not to old to train and encourage. Our young people need us." Personally, he did not think he himself was too old at all, but perhaps it would help Greagoir pull himself together if he thought he was not alone. They had serious work to do. The Grand Cleric had sent them orders, and Irving, from reading the letter upside-down, had discovered them to be astonishingly agreeable. Without Val Royeaux looking over her shoulder, perhaps Grand Cleric Muirin would prove the leader the Chantry here in Ferelden needed. She had been remarkably open-minded at the conclave.
Of course the news from Val Royeaux was what had crushed Greagoir's spirits. He had friends there, after all. A lot of friends. Of course, most of them were retired Templars, spending their last years mindless and drooling in the Templar Hospice, but Greagoir remembered them as able and devout men and women. Irving thought that death was better than such an existence, but mages looked at life and death quite differently than members of the clergy. One must not be too downhearted about death. It could strike a mage at any moment. Irving knew people at the White Spire, the Circle of Magi in Val Royeaux. He was very sorry if they were all dead, but they would have died hereafter, one way or another. They could die like Wynne, murdered out of spite for no real reason at all. Or they could be killed out of hand for looking the wrong way at a Templar. Or the Chantry could arbitrarily decide to Annul a Circle, and that was the end of all the mages in it, the innocent and guilty alike. In this particular case, the Orlesian Circle had been Annulled, so to speak, by the darkspawn. Bad things happened to good people. Good things happened to bad people. There was no justice, Irving was convinced, under the sun. The First Enchanter was in fact a secret agnostic, not at all convinced of the existence of the Maker. If He did exist, Irving thought, He should be thoroughly ashamed of Himself. Thedas must have been created on one of his off days.
"Does the Grand Cleric have any task for me?" he asked. "Is there any way I can help you?"
He already knew the answer, but carefully kept up his mask of innocence.
Greagoir shoved the letter at him. "Her Grace wants a Healer and two apprentices of the School of Creation sent to Denerim. She's setting up a clinic for the poor. If it's a success, she might want more Healers, too." He snorted, "She really wants magic to "serve man," starting today!"
"Why not young Florian?" suggested Irving. "He's quite gifted, and a civilized life in Denerim seems right up his alley. He's never given any Templar the least trouble."
"Civilized life," Greagoir snorted. "Wouldn't we all love that? That little ponce." He wiped his face. "'Scuse me. She —Her Grace— wants us to do more about the Blight, too. Maybe send another batch of mages to Queen Bronwyn, whom she reminds me is 'dear to Our Lady.' She also said if I've got excess Templars who want to help the Wardens, I should let them go."
That was promising. Whatever his views on the Maker, the Ashes of Andraste had proved a wonder, and Irving had a very high opinion of Ferelden's young Queen.
"Well..." Irving tugged on his beard and ventured, "These are all good things, are they not? Helping the sick, helping the fight against the darkspawn... They're good things, and not beyond our powers."
"No," Greagoir snarled. His fist pounded the desk, making the bowl of broth slop over. "'S'not beyond our powers to send young people to their deaths, while we sit back drinking our bloody brandy!"
Technically, it was Greagoir's brandy. Irving was offered a drink when Greagoir was in a good mood. Irving understood what Greagoir meant to say, however. Greagoir was feeling guilty about Cullen again. That happened from time to time. He had sent young Cullen off with the Wardens, wanting him to spy on the Warden mages, and the young man had ended up bitten in two by a dragon. Bronwyn had sent Greagoir the kindest letter, extolling Cullen's virtues, but Greagoir still felt the boy's death as a great reproach to himself personally: a judgment on him for playing games and fancying himself subtle.
"We don't have to sit back. No one says we have have march all the way to the darkspawn," Irving pointed out. "You could ride a horse, couldn't you? I, of course, would find a wagon more agreeable."
"We can't leave the Circle." There was a curious gleam in Greagoir's eye. Irving knew he was winning.
"Of course we can," he said briskly. "Just as we did when we left to attend the conclave. I thought you were grooming Ser Rhodry as your successor. A little stern," Irving lied, thinking Rhodry quite a reasonable fellow, actually, but wanting to make Greagoir think he'd be leaving the Circle in the hands of a terrible taskmaster, "but I'm sure he would grow into the position. And Sweeney could manage the mages..."
"He's half blind!"
" ...with the help of Leorah..." Irving smiled ruefully. "Perhaps death-defying adventures are not only for the young. The two of us have been defying death for some years now."
As the Grey Wardens of Thedas made their way south or west, they experienced their share of hindrances and hazards. Daring bandits raided baggage trains. The boldest of them struck at the First Warden's own guard one night, when they camped on the Silent Plains under the brilliant stars. The bandits were driven off, for the most part. Those bandits who were caught were gruesomely executed, and their heads displayed along the Imperial Highway, with the placard "Enemy of the Grey Wardens" tacked to the stakes. The First Warden considered conscripting them, but decided that making an example was more useful at the moment. Those interfering with Wardens in the performance of their duty would pay the price.
The Felicisima Armada attacked the Rivainni Wardens at sea. The pirates were soundly trounced, but the Rivainnis still had to put in at Wycome for repairs. The Rivainni Warden-Commander set his jaw with forced patience, but privately swore revenge on the Armada. They had ruled these seas too long. Anyone who hindered or delayed Wardens in their duty ought to face the harshest penalties. He could not spare the time now, but he suspected that his friends in Antiva would be glad to join him in sacking Llomeryn, the pirates' stronghold. Perhaps some of the Marchers would join in. It should be profitable, and very, very satisfying.
The Nevarran Wardens, naturally, were the first to arrive in Cumberland. They marched quickly toward the Orlesian border, fast-moving scouts on horseback in the lead. All along the way they met weary refugees, pleading for help. From them, they learned what was happening to the west. Val Chevin, the closest of all cities to Val Royeaux, was already bursting with refugees, and the city had closed its gates to more. Newcomers were being directed either north, or east to the Nevarran border, where the guards were letting through those who had the coin to bribe them. For those too poor to pay, a sprawling, disorganized refugee camp had sprung up near the Imperial Highway, just at the border crossing by the River Chevin. It was a vile place, where savagery ruled; where rape and robbery were commonplace; and it grew larger every day. Some Chantry people had arrived there: a Revered Mother and a few Templars and priests. They were trying to put the place in order, but it was a desperate affair.
The darkspawn had not ventured further north than a few miles from Val Royeaux. The crossroads at Belle Fourche were still open, as far as anyone knew. It could be that the horde was moving south, or southwest, toward the rich city of Val Foret. No one was sure of anything, except that they wanted to get as far away as possible.
On the seventh of Drakonis, news finally reached Qunandar of the Orlesian collapse. It had traveled quickly by the usual agents, one of whom had happened to discover that the Rivainni Grey Wardens were going south to fight the Blight. A few of the Wardens had visited a tavern and spread the news. The agent had boldly questioned the men, and then had galloped to Kont-arr and found a ship. The Grey Wardens had ever been a thorn in the side of the Qunari in Rivain. While the Qunari had come to Thedas long after the last of the fabled "Blights," the order of Grey Wardens remained in their wake; a useless relic, as far as the Qunari could determine. Qunari had occasionally captured Grey Wardens, but found them remarkably difficult to indoctrinate. Nor did they respond normally to the use of qamek to subdue them.
It did not take long for the Arishok, the Arigena, and the Ariqun to meet in council, discuss the matter and agree on a plan. The Arishok had sent a party of Beresaad to Ferelden some months ago to discover the answer to the question: "What is the Blight?" but had not heard from the Sten in command. Very likely the soldiers of the Beresaad were dead, which might be a kind of answer to the question they were sent to investigate.
The Qunari cared little about the history of Thedas prior to their arrival from the north. Much of it consisted of the insignificant accounts of pointless battles amongst even more pointless robber lords. However, the Blights loomed large, and while much of the lore of the darkspawn was obviously superstitious rubbish, there did appear to be a core of truth somewhere amidst the myths.
If the city of the strongest of the bas had been sacked by the creatures, perhaps it was time for the people of the Qun to take a hand in restoring order. An expeditionary force was loaded into a dreadnought and sent south, with orders to land on the coast of the Waking Sea and discover if Orlais was ripe for conversion. The Qunari had previously targeted the minor territory of Ferelden for conquest, to give them a strategic foothold in the south, but this new opportunity was far more promising.
Lanaya took the news that they were needed in the west very well. She was strong in her conviction that they owed the Grey Wardens their loyalty. Her clan, at least, would support Merrill in her efforts to rally the Dalish.
Four hundred odd Dalish were on the march, moving swiftly toward the Frostback passes. Some Fereldans knew that the Dalish were involved in the war against the darkspawn, and thus made allowances for the large number of aravels openly journeying on Fereldan roads. Others were frightened and angered at the sight of so many armed elves. Farmers and their families hid in their houses. Random arrows flickered through the trees. Insults were shouted in the villages the Dalish could not avoid without time-wasting detours.
Hostile guardsmen at a nobleman's manor challenged them one day, hands lingering on their sword hilts.
"Heard you knife-ears were given land of your own. Why don't you stay on it?" one gibed.
The Dalish warriors bristled, but Merrill gazed on the men in wide-eyed astonishment.
"Queen Bronwyn has called us to fight the darkspawn," she told them in her sweet, lilting voice. "You don't think we should disobey her, do you?"
The guards looked at each other, and then backed away.
"Er, no… 'course not. On your way, then."
The elves passed, crowding the guards off the road. Merrill called to the disgruntled men over her shoulder.
"You should come with us. Bronwyn's terribly nice. We'll have lots of fun at the war!"
They needed to move fast, but not so fast that they were too tired to fight. Riordan had moved his people up the Imperial Highway without delay, but various problems had arisen. People began asking questions when they saw the entire complement of the Jader Grey Wardens marching through the countryside. There were one hundred and fifteen of them, after all, along with their supply wagons. It was slow-going through the hills around Halamshiral. It was not surprising that the city guards of Halamshiral should be concerned, when they admitted such a large force.
And it would be wrong to lie. When taxed by the captain of the guard, Riordan told the man the truth: the darkspawn had risen and attacked Val Royeaux. The Archdemon had led them. The Blight was in Orlais. The man immediately took Riordan to speak to the Vicomte de Brangelome, who was steward in the absence of Duke Enguerrand. A council was called, and Riordan felt obligated to stay and tell the leaders of the province everything he knew, realizing that he might well be leaving panic in his wake.
The Vicomte begged him to stay, or to at least leave him a few Wardens. Riordan considered it, but refused. They would need every Warden to combat the horde he had seen in the Fade. Instead, he conscripted all the fit-looking criminals in the city dungeons. Perhaps he could find a use for them.
It rained on the journey, not improving their spirits. Riordan's dreams were confused. Perhaps the Archdemon was blocking clearer visions, having lifted the veil enough to shock and awe them.
They reached Lydes just as the first refugees from Val Royeaux arrived there. This also slowed them down considerably, for they needed to talk to them and find out more of what actually had happened. The city was overcrowded and chaotic, trying absorb too many penniless people at once.
Many of the people were too overwhelmed by the horrors they had experienced to give a clear story. It had been the middle of the night; they had been roused by a living, stinking nightmare that was all too real. Some had lost wives, children, parents in their flight; families had been torn apart by the rush of maddened, hysterical crowds; survivors had seen loved ones slip under the water when they grew too exhausted to keep clinging to the side of a boat. Many had had no time even to gather the barest necessities. Some were barefoot; their feet torn and scabby. Some who had fled half-naked had perished of exposure on the ships, and then been tipped into the sea. So many corpses had attracted huge numbers of sharks, which followed the rag-tag fleet, feeding off death in a blood frenzy.
There were a number of children who could not be matched to an adult, and the Lydes Chantry did not feel equipped to take in any but the infants who would die immediately without care. That left children as young as four or five out on the streets to fend for themselves. Some were quickly snapped up by brothel-keepers; some had banded together in feral packs on the half-day's ghastly march from the Port of Lydes. Small bodies were found every day in filthy alleys, dead of hunger, of cold, of abuse, of heartbreak.
Fiona and some other elven Wardens went to the Alienage, to talk to the handful of elven refugees. To some extent, the elves who had actually survived—and they were not many—were better off than the humans. There was a defined community they could go to. The elves of the Lydes Alienage were poor, of course, but they were willing to share what they had. The surviving elves all had a roof over their heads.
"They really don't know what happened around the Palace or the Cathedral," Fiona told Riordan later. "The survivors were almost all servants from noble houses fairly close to the docks. Anyone farther away could not outrun the darkspawn, or they fled by the north or east gates."
She did not bother to repeat some of the horror stories, but they had roused furious indignation in the Alienage. Two elven girls had been pulled to what they thought was safety on a boat, and then had been gang-raped by the men on board for the entire two days it took to cross the Waking Sea. Old men and women had given sailors everything they owned, and had been thrown to the sharks afterwards. Babies had been killed for making too much noise. Taken by themselves, no one event was all that unusual. In the aggregate, it was an ugly reminder of how little humans valued elven lives.
"If it looks like the darkspawn are coming east, the elves are talking about moving out en masse and heading for the Fereldan border. Words been trickling in about the new Dalish homeland, and that the Fereldan queen has elven advisors. The elves know that no Orlesian soldier will die for an elf, and the elves have so little that it would not be wrench to leave what they have behind."
"Did you see any candidates for the Joining?"
"One or two, but the elves see little point in fighting for Orlais, either. They could be conscripted, but they very likely would run away."
"Then we don't need them. I found some prospects among the refugees. Thugs, mostly, but with the look of good fighters." He rubbed a hand over his eyes. "They would march on Val Royeaux—even face the darkspawn— for the privilege of picking through the rubble."
Fiona was disgusted, but knew they must be practical. "They we should take what we can get."
There were only a dozen of them, and not all would live, but Riordan gave them a brief talk and some equipment, just as he had the seven from Halamshiral. There was no time for a Joining. Perhaps they would do that in Verchiel...
Which turned out to be impossible, since the gates of Verchiel were shut against them. Smoke hung over the city in an ominous haze. At a distance, Riordan had at first feared the darkspawn had already reached it, but this was human violence. Verchiel had fallen to Olivier, the Sieur de Flambard, and his soldiers, who were determined to hold it against all threats. Those threats, in the opinion of de Flambard. included Grey Wardens. He and Riordan had a heated, shouted conference with one outside the gate and the other standing up above the gatehouse. A band of hostile archers took aim at the Wardens below, ready to shoot on order.
"We want no Grey Wardens in Verchiel!" declared the angry nobleman. "Wardens attract the Archdemon! We saw it at the camp on the River Orne!"
"On the River Orne? Where is the Imperial Army?" Riordan shouted back, desperate for news. Possibly the man was right: it could have happened that the Archdemon, sensing a Warden, might have followed him.
"There is no Imperial Army! Not anymore!"
"What happened?" Riordan asked, his heart in his boots. This was a disaster.
"Much of what is left of the army is within these walls! A Warden brought the news of the fall of Val Royeaux to the Imperial Army as we were camped by the River Orne. Then he rode on to Montsimmard. That very night, the Archdemon swooped down upon us and destroyed the camp with fire. The Marquis, his brother, and his entire staff were roasted alive. A quarter of the army was killed. We spent the next few days picking up the pieces. Many deserted. The Wardens from Montsimmard arrived and tried to make us follow them to Val Royeaux. It is madness. Some followed them, but others—and the wounded— came here under my command. There were Wardens at Val Royeaux, too. I'm no fool. I've heard that Wardens can sense darkspawn. It's clear to me that they can sense you, too. So get out of here. Go chase the Archdemon, but don't lure it back here, or I'll kill you all. I have people to protect."
Riordan studied the man. It was inevitable that every so often someone— more keenly perceptive than most— would divine some of the Warden secrets. A pity that this man was so against them, for he seemed intelligent and brave. If he were not up on a wall, surrounded by archers, Riordan would have conscripted him on the spot.
"And what will you do," he demanded, "if the horde marches on Verchiel?"
Olivier de Flambard glared down at him. "Then we will hold this city. We are provisioning ourselves for a siege. We have ballista that can be aimed at the sky. We keep watch. If the darkspawn try to storm the walls, we have boiling oil to pour down on them. If they try to burrow up through the ground, we will poison them in their tunnels like rabbits. We don't need Wardens. Now go."
"You don't know everything," Riordan said, trying to reason with him. "Believe me, you do need Wardens. Only a Warden can slay an Archdemon—"
"You have until I count three to start leaving," replied de Flambard. "And then I will order my archers to shoot. One... two..."
"Wardens! Move out!"
They retreated, feeling terribly exposed. A few raunchy insults followed them. Some of the Wardens swore bitterly, and others muttered dark threats.
"—When the darkspawn come, I say we let them have this pesthole!"
"—He won't be so haughty when he's rotting from the Taint."
Fiona huffed sharply at that. Riordan sighed, and gave her a look of mild reproof.
"Well, he won't be," she muttered.
"Possibly not, but how many innocents will die to satisfy his pride?"
"Riordan?" asked an archer. "Where do we go now? Montsimmard?"
That was a question. He had no idea how to answer the woman. It was in the Maker's hands.
"We'll go back to that stream we saw earlier in the day," he decided. "There is good water there. We will hold the Joining. Then I must think."
They went deep enough into the forest not to be visible to anyone in Verchiel, even on the highest towers. They set up a carefully well organized, defensible camp, talking volubly. Disputes broke out. The oldtimers had their hands full keeping the recruits on task. Riordan sat on his folding canvas stool, chin on his fist, trying to sort out what to do in the face of this very bad situation. Fiona busily mixed the Joining compound. The ritual had special meaning, in these desperate circumstances. Twelve out of the nineteen recruits lived, which was reasonably successful. Riordan hoped it was a sign.
After something to eat, they felt better. It was no longer so cold at night, so the Wardens did not complain much when Riordan made them put out the fires after supper. The surviving recruits were laid on blankets in a tent to sleep off the shock of the Joining. The dead were taken deeper into the forest and left for the wolves: an old-fashioned country alternative to burning. A large pyre would be unwise.
"There is no reason to make ourselves noticed," he said quietly. "We must rest. Alain, organize a good watch. Let nothing slip past. We will talk in the morning."
He was stalling, he acknowledged to himself. He was stalling because he had no idea what to do.
His dreams were not much help, unless one imagined that seeing Gerod Caron's rotting head on a stake was a help. The man was a Senior Warden of Montsimmard, and Riordan knew him well. The Fade vision was too blurred and vague to give Riordan a hint as to where the chuckling darkspawn were. Somewhere, some Wardens had met the darkspawn, and it had not gone well.
Still, sleep worked its old magic, as it always did. By dawn, he was able to come up with something resembling a plan.
"We will not go to Montsimmard," he told them. "We are going northwest, toward the army's last camp at the River Orne. We will scout to determine if it was indeed a dragon that attacked the army. We will attempt to round up any stragglers..." He paused. "If they are human, they may be in need of the Joining. If they are darkspawn... we fight. We will continue northwest to Val Foret, where perhaps we can learn more."
It all seemed reasonable, and there were nods. Riordan was not yet done.
"Fabrice, Clovis, Minjonet— you are going back to the border."
"To Jader?" asked Clovis, a sturdy sword and shield man.
"No," Riordan said firmly. "Beyond the border. Go wherever you need to go to find the Fereldan Wardens. Seek out Bronwyn. Tell her what we have discovered so far. Tell her where we have gone. Tell her to recruit as many as she can. Ask her to show more mercy than she has been shown, and to come to us. The time for foolish secrecy is over. We are all Wardens."
Thanks to my reviewers: Nemrut, Vibrolux61, Juliafied, Tirion I, Kyren, NPC200, Rexiselic, Massgamer45, Mage, Mike3207, Sauurman, DjinniGenie, anon, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, JackOfBladesX, Chiara Crawford, KngihtOfHolyLight, darksky01, MsBarrow, mille libri, KrystylSky, James317, BandGeekNinja, PsychoLeopard, HeavensScribe, Robbie the Phoenix, Ie-maru, sizuka2, Blinded in a bolthole, Lyssa Terald, Lohr, Phygmalion, watchermostcharmed, Lehni, Jenna53, AD Lewis, jnybot, dragonmactir, Costin, RB23G, Ravus, and mille libri.