Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 111: Puppetmasters of Fate
"Make way!" shouted an outrider, clearing the way for a carriage. "Make way! Move those whores and sheep aside!"
The sheep bleated, and the young women—who would not for the world admit to being whores — swore at him horribly, shaking their fists and making rude gestures. Nonetheless, they scattered, preferring not to be trampled by the six-horse team. A few people jumped up on the stone walls of the Imperial Highway, wanting to peer inside the carriage. Those who did saw three bickering girls.
"Your sewing box is inconveniencing me," Eponine told her younger sister. "Pray move it."
"Forgive me, sister, but there is nowhere else to put it."
The great carriage was crowded once more, as they trundled fast over the road to Jader. Perhaps it was even more crowded than before, since their maids had acquired some luggage of their own.
"Ariette, put the sewing box on the floor," Celandine said firmly to a maid, tired of the noise.
"But…" Eglantine flailed for an excuse. "It might be dirtied."
"No one will look at the bottom," declared the eldest sister, "and the floor is perfectly clean."
The Queen had commanded that they come to Jader. It was very exciting, even though they were not escorted by dear Warden Leliana and gallant Bann Alistair. It felt like going home. Celandine remembered Jader the best, but all of them had memories of lost splendor, and happy recollections of their family all together in the fine family rooms of the Palace Emeraude. It would be delightful to be at a proper Court, even if the monarch were not the Empress of Orlais, but the Queen of Ferelden.
Probably much more delightful, in fact. So far, the Queen had not threatened to kill them.
"Perhaps she will give us official status as her Maids of Honor," mused Eglantine. "That would be very agreeable."
"Perhaps she will give us husbands," Eponine suggested. That was far more to her taste. "And we shall be provided with wedding clothes."
"Perhaps she will proclaim our vocation as cloistered Chantry sisters, and send us to a remote convent in Ferelden," Celandine said gloomily. It seemed to her a very logical way for the Fereldan Queen to dispose of them, while maintaining her reputation for mercy. She hoped that was not what was about to happen, but she had learned that it was best not to hope for much.
"Oh!" Eglantine cried, rather frightened. "She would not, would she? She had been kind to us so far."
Eponine tried to think sensibly, which was not easy, having had little practice, but she finally said, "I think we would be more useful as rewards given to important men in marriage than as sisters in a convent. More useful to her. She does not like the Chantry. Or at least she did not like the Divine, Maker rest her soul."
"That is true," Celandine agreed, gazing moodily at the flat Jader Plain, "but remember it is not all the Queen's decision. Loghain Mac Tir has joined her in Jader, and he is now King. He hates all Orlesians. Perhaps a convent is better than what he would wish for us."
They reached Jader in good time, and were taken directly to the Palace. It was useless for the guards to demand that they keep their heads inside the carriage, for there was simply too much to see. Even the dirty poor people were interesting and picturesque in their own way. The princesses were greeted by the steward of Jader, and by Arl Wulffe, who gave them civil but brisk instructions as to their behavior.
"Your Imperial Highesses. Welcome to Jader. You will be shown to your rooms. Make ready as quickly as you can, because then you'll be taken to make your obeisance to the King and Queen."
"What will they do to us, monseigneur? I pray you, tell us." Eponine pleaded.
"Nothing terrible. Just greet you and show you off, so you might want to smarten yourself up a bit. These officers will show you your rooms. Don't make trouble."
And with these not-so-gallant words, they were led away. They were still princesses, however, and kept their heads high and their shoulders back, because you never knew when a man of good fortune might be looking.
"'Smarten ourselves up a bit?'" Celandine muttered. "Createur! What a figure of speech!"
"Well, there is a smudge on your nose," Eponine pointed out. Celandine scrubbed furiously at her face.
"At last we shall meet the Great Loghain," Eglantine murmured. "I would never have expected that!"
Loghain had no doubt that Bronwyn could talk Alistair around into nearly anything. Rather than letting his wife talk the boy into something that might have unpleasant ramifications for his entire life, Loghain decided it was better to have it out honestly with Alistair, man-to-man. He called Alistair to his private room for a talk in which they need not fear an eavesdropper or a pretty woman's disappointed expression.
"Bronwyn thinks you fancy that Orlesian girl," Loghain said abruptly.
Alistair blushed crimson, unable to control his reaction. Loghain saw it, and raised a black brow.
"Well?" he demanded. "Do you fancy her? The youngest one… whatever her name is… I'm told she's pretty."
"They're all pretty," Alistair muttered. "Pretty and golden-haired. Very pretty. They seem nice, too. Not like… I mean…"
"Not much like Arlessa Isolde of wretched memory?" Loghain asked. "She was pretty and golden-haired, too… at least when Eamon took her as his bride, in the teeth of Maric's disapproval."
"Princess Eglantine isn't anything like Arlessa Isolde," Alistair said. "none of them are. They're very sweet and gentle. They like embroidery and music. They've been threatened with death for years and locked up and had cruel things said to them all the time. People who've had that done to them either become that way themselves or they become as different from that as possible."
Loghain smiled briefly. "And you know this from experience?"
"Maybe…" Alistair bristled, somewhat defiant. "I can't see any of them bullying a servant boy just because they can. They're nice to their maids. The Arlessa was horrible to everybody except Connor and the Arl, and she screamed at him, too, sometimes. She was sickening sweet to Connor, though," he muttered.
Then he shrugged, trying to pretend that the past did not hurt anymore. Truth to tell, he didn't know much about Arl Eamon's family after he had been sent away to the Templars. He had seen the Arlessa a few times with her baby boy before he was cast out. She was always cooing at the pink-faced infant, calling him her 'darling boy,' her 'sweet child, her 'little lord.' It had hurt horribly, like a dagger in his belly, when he had heard those loving words, the like of which had never been spoken to him.
"So you do fancy the girl," Loghain concluded.
Alistair stared at the floor, feeling mulish. "She's nice. I wouldn't want anything bad to happen to her."
"What would you say to marrying her?"
Alistair was confounded. "Marry her? Be her husband?" He shook his head, rapidly, stepping back a little. "I don't think she'd like that. I don't want to force anyone to be married to me. That's like… I don't what, but it sounds bad. And she's an imperial princess," he pointed out. Saying something that Loghain thought was remarkably sensible, Alistair added, "I don't want to marry someone who'd look down on me."
"You are the son of Maric," Loghain said. "That's good enough for anyone."
"I wish my father had thought so," Alistair whispered. Loghain looked at him, pained, and Alistair shrugged again. "I'll talk to her," he promised. "If she can stand it, I can stand it."
"Come on then," Loghain said, shoving him lightly toward the door. "They're here and they must be received. Look them over, and try to talk to them. If you don't like the youngest, you could have one of the others instead." He paused. "And if you don't like any of them, you won't be forced to take one."
"Eglantine's all right," Alistair shrugged, very red. "As long as she doesn't have a problem with me."
They were very pretty, Loghain admitted, if you liked that sort of thing: golden-hair, soft skin, big blue eyes, sweet smiles. He brought himself up sharply, remembering a time when he had liked that sort of thing himself. None of the girls looked a great deal like his first wife Celia, but they were certainly of the same type. He studied them, frowning, which seemed to make them nervous. Either they were brilliant actresses, or they really were not the usual sort of sly Orlesian schemers. The youngest looked at Alistair quite a bit and seemed to like him. For that matter, all the girls seemed to like him. Why not? He was a young and handsome Bann of Ferelden, and a good-natured fellow besides. The girls could do far worse. Would do worse, if one of them was bartered to that Duke Prosper in exchange for services rendered.
The Orlesian was standing over there, smirking, looking them over like prime stock. Naturally, he was most interested in the oldest princess, who seemed to Loghain the quietest of the lot: a bit beaten-down, in fact. Not a complete coward, since she met his eyes when she curtseyed with a collected blue gaze. He. however, had plenty of of experience detecting fear. More than her sisters, she was not nervous about making some stupid mistake about court etiquette: she was afraid that he'd say —how did Bronwyn put ? —"Off with her head!"
Bronwyn had arranged the seating so the girl would be beside Duke Prosper tonight. Might as well let her get used to him. What about the middle one, then? They'd have to give it more thought.
Bronwyn did not forgot her resolution to speak to the hahren of the Jader Alienage. She had a great deal to do before setting out for the west, but she would not neglect this. She sent a group of her Wardens, carefully mixing the races, but under the command of Tara, requiring the presence of the hahren and such of his advisers as he wished to bring with him.
The two informers, now rich beyond the dreams of avarice, had told the other elves plenty about their new Queen. The friendly faces of the Wardens—and the presence of elves among them— reassured the elderly hahren a great deal. They did not hurry him. they chatted pleasantly, as other elves gathered round, excited and curious. The Dalish were asked a number of ignorant, foolish questions, but as they had heard these questions before in Denerim and Gwaren, they were not taken aback, and had answers prepared.
They could tell them that the elven homeland was a fact, and where it was, and that there was a village there, and that other elves were welcome.
"This is our home," the hahren said, overwhelmed by the knowledge. "Some would never want to leave." Unspoken was the fear of forced resettlement. Tara picked up on that at once.
"No one has to go who doesn't want to," she said, more cheerfully than she felt. "It's just an opportunity." Underneath her words, the secret existence of an even grander opportunity lay like a sleeping dragon. Elves were wanted, elves were respected, elves had a home.
That, however, she could not reveal. The elves they had met demanded it. There was to be no pollution of the elven lands by shemlens, shortening elven lives and draining their magic. The group that had seen the reality for themselves had agreed that the knowledge must be confined to a small group. Marethari must be told, and once elves had come to the temple in the Brecilian Forest, more knowledge could be shared. They would have to make some decisions soon. Someone must convey the eluvian safely back to the elven temple, where it could be kept secret. Merrill wanted to go herself, but could not escape her obligations with the army. Nor could the Wardens. The eluvian would have to wait for now, protected by a locked door and some elaborate barrier spells.
They could not even tell all the other elves in their party. Fenris disliked magic, and had no use whatever for the traditions of the Dalish or the insular society of the city elves. He had few ties to his own race, in fact. He was a warrior, and that largely summed up his outlook on life. He had more in common with other warriors — whether elven, human, or dwarven — than he did with anyone else. He greatly admired Queen Bronwyn. He got on better with Carver, Aveline, Toliver, Emrys, and Alistair than with anyone else. He got on well with Leliana and Ser Silas, for that matter.
They could not safely tell anyone among the Dalish clans or city elves unless they could persuade them to come to the homeland in the Brecilian Forest first. Many would never leave their homes. Tara was baffled by this mindset. Why in the Maker's name would the elves want to stay in this sty of an Alienage anyway? People made themselves slaves of the familiar. For that matter, there were plenty of mages afraid to leave the Circle. Tara looked about her, face expressionless, at the tall, shabby, crumbling warrens, so very different than the rest of the city. The place stank of old cabbage and stale urine. There was no open sewer, as in Denerim, but refuse was piled everywhere, and drunken elves lounged outside their doors, gawking at the visitors.
They were gawked at outside the Alienage gates, too; as they walked back to the Palace, escorting the nervous hahren and his frightened daughter and son-in-law, as well as two old cronies. People on the streets gathered, speculating on the crimes committed by the "typical shifty elves," and looking forward to their just punishment. Others commented on the appearance of the female elves, as if they were dumb animals. Tara, at the head of the detail, turned and glared at a pair of such offenders: dirty, stupid brutes with scruffy beards and broken teeth.
"Look at the knife-ears!"
"Prancing around in front like that! Don't that beat all? What do you think she'd charge for a quick one?"
Zevran was already drifting ominously in their direction, but Tara shook her head at him. Her authority must be made clear. Her gaze flicked to Carver: human and male. He was glad to oblige. A mailed fist in a jaw, an elbow in a throat. Two bodies sprawled on the pavement moaning. The onlookers drew back, startled. Carver gave them a challenging stare. Magister barked cheerfully, and then pissed on one of the louts.
"Watch how you speak to a Warden," snarled Carver, stepping back. He made a point of saluting Tara. "Senior Warden."
"Thank you, Warden Carver," Tara said formally. "And now, let's move on." She did so herself, her step light and swaggering.
The hahren was clearly terrified to be brought before the throne. Bronwyn sighed to herself, acknowledged Loghain's lifted eyebrows —"What did you expect?"— and let Loghain offer some general words about protecting their loyal elven subjects. She then quietly ordered Tara to take their visitors to the little parlor, where they could speak informally.
It was a rather one-sided conversation at first. Luckily, Tara was there, and could start things off with a list of old grievances, garnered during her visit to the Alienage: dilatory refuse removal, sanctions against elves opening shops of any kind, the constant demands for payoffs and bribes, the shorted wages, the difficulty of arranging marriages and funerals through the Chantry, the casual brutality of the rest of the populace. Once the floodgates opened, the elves had plenty to say.
Her clerk made notes. Bronwyn listened, sickened and weary.
If I were an elf, how I would hate humans.
Some things could be dealt with immediately. A shop would be authorized in the Alienage, selling foodstuffs and general goods. A city the size of Jader could stand the competition of one small merchant. A proper charter, noting that the shopkeeper sold by appointment of the Crown, would offer some protection from rapacious guards. The shopkeeper, in turn, could offer employment to some, and piece work to others: spinners, weavers, tailors, shoemakers. The hahren could give her the name of a likely candidate. Very likely the woman he mentioned was already keeping such a shop, only illegally.
Loghain had already spoken to the Captain of the City Guard about certain changes that must be made throughout the city. He had put some of his own men in as auditors. At least it was made clear that outright bribery was illegal and would be punished if discovered, rather than tacitly tolerated as part of a guard's rightful perquisites. To offset this loss of income, the wages of the city guards had been raised.
Bronwyn made up her mind to a long talk with the Revered Mother of that very magnificent Chantry. Doubtless elves were not welcome there. Their weddings took place in the Alienage and their poor funerals outside the city walls. Still, there was no reason why one day a quarter at the Chantry could not be set aside for elven weddings, and why some priest, among the dozens, could not be tasked with the duty of seeing the elves off decently to the Maker's side.
Bronwyn's next conversations were with more exalted individuals. Loghain presumed that she would handle this more sensitively than he could — and he was right — but she still felt uncomfortable with what she had to do.
For her part, Princess Celandine was uneasy at being summoned for a private audience with the Queen. It was even more distressing that it was held it the room that had been her family's private family parlor, long ago, before her cousin Celene had seized the throne, forced them into flight and hiding, and then had caught them, bringing down her claws like a cat on trembling mice.
The room had changed somewhat, in the years that it had been used by the newly-appointed Marquis of Jader and his family. The portraits were different; her own embroidery no longer hung on the walls; the old bookcase was gone.
A fire crackled cheerfully in the grate, however, and the carved mantelpiece was achingly familiar. Celandine had sat in front of it on her own little stool hundreds of times, learning to sew, playing dolls with her little sisters, singing old songs.
C'était l'histoire du Sire de Framboisy,
Avait pris femme, la plus belle du pays,
La prit trop jeune, bientôt s'en repentit.
Partit en guerre, afin qu'elle murît.
Revint de guerre après cinq ans et d'mi...
Tears dazzled in her eyes, breaking up the firelight into hot little jewels. She made a curtsey to the Queen, and stood, awaiting her fate. Bronwyn briefly explained their plans, gave the name of the prospective husband, and some other pertinent details.
"You don't have to agree to this," Bronwyn continued, glancing at the still, white face. "If the idea is repulsive to you, your sister, the Princess Eponine, is next in seniority. However, if you do refuse, your situation as eldest and thus heiress-presumptive would call her rights to the throne into question were you to marry and have heirs. You would have to renounce your blood rights, and take vows as a priest."
Celandine knew that Eponine would agree to this plan in an instant. Eponine would be ecstatic, in fact. Eponine was a man-crazy fool.
But was she, Celandine, ready to give up her one chance of marriage, of having children—her greatest desire, of having a reasonably normal life in the sphere into which she had been born? Was it not her duty to accept this — she must admit —very generous and noble offer? Could she not do more good as Empress of even a small, reduced Orlais than as a priest of the chantry?
It took only a moment to make up her mind. She curtseyed again.
"I thank Your Majesty for your wise arrangements on my behalf. I would be most willing to wed my noble cousin Duke Prosper at the conclusion of the war, or whenever you deem the proper time."
"Very well. The betrothal will be announced the night before the army marches. I would prefer that you keep this information to yourself until then, though I suppose you will wish to share it with your sisters. That is all."
The girl was dismissed, and said nothing to her sisters as she passed them by. Eponine was ushered in next. She was nervous, but not particularly fearful. Celandine had not left in tears, after all. She vaguely recognized the room as part of the family apartments, and looked about with some nostalgia.
"I sent for you to discuss some possible future plans for you," Bronwyn began. "The army will be leaving in a day or two. You and your sisters will remain, and it is extremely important that your conduct be blameless and circumspect. Any shadow cast on your reputations could destroy your future marital prospects."
Eponine, her spirits lifting, made a most beautiful curtsey. "I shall in all ways obey you, Your Majesty."
"It is possible," said Bronwyn, "that any future marriage might take you far away from the land of your birth. Would you find that unbearable?"
"Not at all, Majesty, if it is your will." Eponine did not much care to whom she was married, as long as she was married. She left, and the youngest sister entered the room. She had discovered that she did not really remember the Emerald Palace at all, other than by Celandine's description of it, and so studied the old family parlor with curiosity. Perhaps she might have recognized something, had she been placed in the nursery. That, of course, was no longer appropriate.
She was pale and submissive when told of the plan to match her with the new Arl of Jader. When the identity of said Arl was revealed, she was quite transformed: her face pink with joy and relief.
"I should be most happy to wed the noble Arl Alistair!" she assured Bronwyn. "Most happy. It is exactly what I would wish!"
"Sit," Bronwyn commanded. When the girl had arranged her skirts, Bronwyn gave her a serious look. "Are you aware that Alistair is the natural son of King Maric?"
Eglantine curtseyed, unable to hide her pride in knowing something important. "I am, Majesty."
"As a natural son," Bronwyn continued, "he of course has no right to the throne of Ferelden. However, it is only proper that his birth be recognized and honored, as Maric's sole surviving child. The night before the army marches, Alistair's elevation and your betrothal will be announced. Until then, discuss it only with your sisters. That does not mean that I wish you to include your maids in the discussion."
She had little confidence in the princesses' discretion, and was resigned to leaks. She was quite surprised when Princess Eglantine impulsively knelt and kissed her hand before departing.
As soon as she was gone, Bronwyn rolled her eyes.
"Silly girl..."
Leliana came upstairs to pay a call on the princesses, and found them in the midst of a furious, tearful squabble. Handkerchiefs were thrown, hands were wrung, tea was spilled. No one was happy, except for Eglantine, who was happy but terribly guilty about it. Leliana stepped back, not wishing to find herself in the midst of such a scene, but she listened from behind the draperies all the same, quite fascinated.
"But what about me?" sobbed Eponine. "What about me? Am I to be forgotten? Am I to be a prisoner when you go away with your husbands? It is not fair to announce your betrothals while I sit there, shamed and humiliated, like a thing of no value!"
"No one says you are not of value!" Celandine lifted her hands up to the Maker. "You may well make a better match than either of us. My betrothed is old enough to be my father, and has a son younger than me! Why are you angry at us? I advise you to make your complaints to the Queen!"
"I should!" Eponine quavered. "I should do just that! It is so improper for the younger sister to be wed before her elder. I understand why you should be married to Duke Prosper. I understand why you should be declared Empress. You are the eldest— the birthright is yours. But why should Eglantine be married to Bann Alistair? It is not fair!"
"But sister," Eglantine rallied. "You did not think Bann Alistair was high enough in rank to marry! You dismissed him from your consideration. I always liked him."
Eponine wailed, "I like him, too, now that he will rule Jader!"
"Be that as is may," Celandine said. "Eglantine flirted with the gentleman, and you did not. Therefore, he might well have thought you despised him. The Queen is his friend, and very likely asked his opinion. He is to be only an Arl after all. Eglantine will be an Arlessa, which is a horrid word. 'Arlessa Eglantine!' I do not think that sounds well."
"I like it!" Eglantine declared.
"And she will owe homage to the Fereldan Court, and be the vassal of those lower than she by birth. I do not wish you to be dissatisfied with your lot, Eglantine. If the young man pleases you and you are happy with your choice, then it is you who must live with it, but if Val Royeaux had not fallen, you know that no one would have thought a mere Arl of Ferelden good enough for an Imperial Princess, handsome and gallant as he is."
"He is the son of King Maric!" Eglantine declared proudly. "He is of royal blood!"
That gave her two sisters pause.
"Ah," Celandine considered. "That is true, of course. A son of the left hand, as it were. It is puzzling that he was not publicly acknowledged by the king his father, but such things happen. It is an important consideration. I must say that it makes me feel much better about the marriage."
Eponine sulked. "It makes me feel worse!"
Leliana decided she had listened long enough. She made some noise at the door, and came forth and made her curtsey as if she had heard nothing.
"Your Imperial Highnesses..."
"Warden Leliana!" cried Eponine, looking for sympathy. "Something terrible has happened!"
"Hush, sister!" Celandine blushed. "We are not supposed to speak of it before time."
"But Warden Leliana must know! She is in the Queen's confidence!"
Leliana dimpled charmingly. She had known nothing until a few moments before, but she had surmised much.
"Is this about your betrothals?"
"Not about mine!" Eponine pouted. "But Celandine will be Empress. That is all very proper. She should have been Empress before, but for Cousin Celene and her horrible Shadows. She is to be married to Duke Prosper."
"My felicitations, Highness," Leliana said to Celandine. "The people of Orlais need leaders to care for them."
Celandine could not conceive of herself as anything resembling a leader, but she had always heard that Duke Prosper was brave and cunning. Perhaps that would do. "You are very kind, Warden Leliana."
"And you, Highness," Leliana said to Eglantine, "will be Arlessa of Jader. It will make the change much easier for the people. And Alistair is a very good person."
Eglantine flushed rosily. "I am fortunate, Warden."
Eponine was still sulking. Leliana smiled. "And you, Highness! I am sure that there is some deep plot involving you! Some important foreign alliance to be made, perhaps?"
That had the desired effect. The sulk melted away, replaced by genuine curiosity.
"The Queen did say that my marriage might take me far from my homeland."
"Who could it be, I wonder?" Leliana teased. "There is the Crown Prince of Antiva..."
The squabble became an excited discussion of the current Thedosian dynasties. The princesses, who were sadly behind the times, implored Leliana for the names of every eligible royal known to her.
"Well, the Prince of Starkhaven also has a son of the proper age..."
"Maker!" Aveline groaned. "Once these spears are stuck in something, they're really stuck!"
Bronwyn grinned sympathetically. "They do what I asked them to do. I suppose we mustn't grumble."
They used their swords at first, and then their daggers, to carve the pronged spear heads out of the ox carcasses.
It was gruesome and bloody, but the Wardens needed practice with the formidable dragon-hunting spears forged by Master Wade. They were of two types: one was a standard spear, man-height, light but strong, barbed, and wickedly sharp; the other was shorter— the spring-loaded model with leather straps. If you jammed it into your target properly and flicked the catch, heavy prongs unsheathed, driving straight down and to the sides, making the weapon impossible to remove without digging huge holes in a carcass. The leather harness at the end could be fastened around a warrior's waist and the length adjusted, making one far less likely to fall off the back of an angry, fighting dragon. It took quite a bit of work to dislodge these spears, just as now; and then further work to clean them thoroughly and carefully press the sharp prongs back into the locking position.
These were the weapons that Bronwyn had ordered from Wade, now some months ago. Jowan had overseen the first prototypes, and they were exactly what Bronwyn had wanted. Killing the dragon Flemeth had taught Bronwyn vital lessons about the hazards inherent in attacking such a creature. Dragon hide was tough and smooth: when bloody it was slick and treacherous. If a dragon took off into the air, the chances of staying on its back were not good: not without an edge like this spear-anchor. It would be a rough ride, but at least they would not be dashed to the ground. And swords and daggers were puny weapons against a dragon. Dwarven axes were better, but forced the warrior to move in very close. The Nevarrans had always used spears, and the long ones forged by Master Wade could both penetrate deeply and slash as well, using the long, barbed head.
Of course, it was unlikely they would have the opportunity to test these weapons before meeting the Archdemon. There was no time to hunt down any wild dragons in the Frostbacks. The closest they could come would be Leopold, Duke Prosper's wyvern, and their new ally would not be pleased if the Wardens, their shape-shifting studies complete, took it into their heads to show up one day to pile on and kill the Orlesian's pet. However, one never knew. Everyone would have some of these spears close at hand. If the Archdemon visited the army, they would be ready.
Using Leopold's harness as a template, a saddlemaker had been commissioned to make copies that would allow two or three people to ride a wyvern into battle, and to provide saddlebags to carry weapons and bombs. Armor, also, was being forged to protect a wyvern's head, back and breast. It was all very rushed, and not the perfect designs one would wish, but they had little time before they must march.
The three Jader Wardens were doing their part, some more readily than others. They had invited the rest of the Wardens into their spacious compound, where there was plenty of space for weapons-practice and even for fairly discreet shape-shifting. Clovis was senior enough that he could access the supplies for the Joining potion, and Niall and Tara had brewed the base for more of the improved potion.
They had sixteen new recruits who would leave with them. Their Joining could not take place until they had faced darkspawn, survived, and retrieved a vial of darkspawn blood. Some surface dwarves, some Legionnaires, a pair of Dalish elves, two bold elves of Jader, and the rest a miscellany of army veterans seeking adventure along with former subjects of the Orlesian Empire, seeking advancement and the notice of the Queen.
The new Warden recruits were housed in theWarden compound. Astrid, as a Senior Warden, had been put in command of the compound, with her own dwarven Wardens, and Aveline, Toliver, Nuala, Steren, and Oghren to provide a leavening of experience. Petra and Niall were moved over there to accustom the new recruits to the presence of magic and mages. Adaia and Siofranni were moved over there, too, since there was space for their bomb-making, and thus less chance of blowing off the roof of the Palace. The girls were not pleased to leave their cozy room, and quite openly took most of the furnishings with them to the Compound, setting up a new establishment as comfortable as the old.
Bronwyn liked the compound. It was an excellent place for arms practice, out of range of curious eyes, and extremely well designed and equipped. Clovis had shown her around the place. The servants were here, of course, and suitably deferential. She could sense that they did not like the idea of her pawing through Riordan's private room, but there was of course no reason for her to do so, anyway.
It was quite an old structure, purpose-built from Warden funds, and not simply some unused Palace apartments, which was what the Denerim Warden compound amounted to. It was perfectly independent, and had a far, far better library. A pity they would not be spending more time here. She ran her fingers over the titles, wishing for more time to look at them.
And it had its own stables,too. Some of the recruits had their own mounts, which were sheltered and cared for here by the two grooms left behind. Loghain had put out a call for horses, letting it be known that the Crown of Ferelden would pay well for sound horseflesh. Some of the horses, Bronwyn hoped, would be sent east for breeding. Ferelden had been short of horses since the Occupation.
The Antivan Wardens made good time in their fleet of five ships. The fleet put in at Ostwick, and then at Highever for fresh water. At Highever, four passengers— who were not Wardens — left the ship. In the bustling chaos of rebuilding Highever, they asked some questions of the locals. They then headed west on the North Road toward West Hill, where they were told Arl Nathaniel Howe was leading his men in support of the King. Quiet and professional, they did nothing to attract attention to themselves.
It was no great distance to the fortress of West Hill. If it was being improved and refurbished, surely it was in need of more servants. Two of the party had succeeded previously with that ploy, and it was unlikely that anyone in young Howe's retinue would recognize them.
The mages rode out to Galehaut again, and studied Leopold at greater length. Jowan was instructed to leave Lily behind, as the dog might find the day bewildering and frightening. This time Velanna joined them. The Dalish elf was quite interested in this form of magic, but had not had time previously to study with Morrigan. She learned quickly, however; not failing to claim that shape-shifting had been an invention of the ancient elves, stolen from them by the thieving shemlen.
Once Anders mastered the change, however, they had to take the lessons elsewhere, for Leopold was growing more and more puzzled and excited by the smell of other wyverns, and more and more determined to break free and meet them. Morrigan, to be sure, had been bold enough to change in the stable and make the wyvern's acquaintance in her new form. Perhaps Leopold had never really seen one of his own kind before. The meeting could have gone very badly, but did not. Leopold was too curious to challenge her, and in fact, as long as this beautiful female did not attempt to steal his meat, he was quite content to have a visitor.
"I am not so sure how he will react to another male, however," Morrigan told her students. They took themselves downwind of the wyvern, and out of sight.
It was not simply a matter of making themselves take the form of a powerful creature. They needed to learn how to move in this form, to fight, to leap, to evade pursuit. Tara, so magically talented otherwise, was the last to succeed in making the change.
"Are you distracted?" Morrigan asked, frowning. "I do not understand why you find this difficult."
"I wasn't around animals until I left the Circle!" Tara protested. "They smell funny!"
Velanna huffed scornfully, which made Tara want to punch her. Even more annoying, Velanna managed to shape-shift immediately after Anders, shifted back and forth to show off, and was now already considering out loud which other animals would be useful.
"Birds are excellent for scouting, and foxes are clever and elusive..."
"Something that's not prey, obviously," muttered Jowan. He thought he might be able to take shape as a mabari, once he mastered the trick of it completely. A mabari would be good. Few animals would attack one, and no human would kill them on sight. No indeed: anyone who saw a mabari was more likely to want to keep it. And no one would be surprised by a smart mabari. It would be a very good animal if one wanted to spy. His next attempt to shape-shift was a bizarre combination of dog and wyvern.
"Concentrate!" Morrigan scolded him. "What a pack of children!"
Petra was dutifully concentrating: sprouting odd quills and claws, then abruptly manifesting as a wyvern. Since she was standing too close to Anders and Niall, she knocked them down, and stumbled, sprawling. Her clumsily swishing tail thudded against a tree.
"Everyone back!" shouted Morrigan. She shifted herself and set about training Petra into how to move in her new form, showing her how to manage four feet, two wings, and a tail. Watching her was even more useful to the mages than her earlier exercises.
Petra was instructed to run, to walk, to leap, to flex her wings, to glide. She was occupied for some time doing that. Velanna could not resist showing how much better she was at it, and kept getting in Petra's way, until a ferocious, snarling Morrigan-wyvern faced her down and made her back off.
They broke off for a hearty meal. The food improved their performance. Jowan and Niall finally succeeded, though they were awkward in their new forms. Morrigan made everyone practice shifting and shifting back, again and again.
Tara watched them until something finally clicked into place in her brain. Apparently, the magic of shape-shifting had nothing to do with relative size. The resulting wyvern was very impressive. Velanna's bristling quills drooped submissively.
Hector Pentaghast and the Wardens of Nevarra first made contact with the darkspawn on the twelfth of Drakonis. There had been no resistance from the remnant of the Orlesian army at the border. Other than a handful guards, there were no Orlesian troops to be found. The Wardens had been welcomed in, and had passed by the swelling refugee camp outside of Val Chevin. The worthy Revered Mother had approached them for food as soon as they were in sight. Pentaghast saw no reason to offend her; not when more Wardens and more supplies were coming in their wake. He was not overly generous, however, and required news before distributing the goods.
The Templar in command, an attractive young woman, approached him for news in her turn.
"People need to know where they can go to be safe," she said. "We don't know what to tell them. They can't stay here forever."
"I know less than you about the darkspawn attacks. I can tell you that more Wardens are coming from the north. It could be that taking the road northeast to Cumberland or northwest toward Montfort might be the thing to do."
Val Chevin had not fallen, but its southern fields were exposed to darkspawn raids. There was a great deal of hysteria and rumor, and the people they questioned were not as level-headed as the priest at the camp. Nonetheless, they were beginning to get a good picture of what was happening. No Grey Wardens had been seen or heard from moving north from Val Royeaux. That was grim tidings in itself,
In a heavy mist, they left Val Chevin. Not three hours later they came to a fertile field where it appeared that men were sowing grain, bent to their task. As they drew nearer, the realized that the stooped figures were not putting anything into the ground. They were looting and defiling corpses. And there was an odd rasping sensation.
"Darkspawn!" shouted a scout.
In a flash, the darkspawn charged them, gobbling and mouthing. Pentaghast's horse reared, screaming in protest. He leaped down and tossed the reins to a youngster.
"Horses to the rear! They are of no use here! Archers! Give them a volley!"
Every Nevarran Grey Warden had slain his darkspawn in order to qualify for the Joining. There was a great difference, however, between a handful of darkspawn, in the shadows of the Deep Roads, and a full company of them, loping toward them under the sun. It felt horribly... wrong. A storm of arrows hissed down, taking darkspawn with them. A few: too few. In a moment, the Grey Wardens were engaged, and fighting for their lives.
The twelfth of Drakonis was the last date that former Orlesian subjects could do homage in order to keep their lands. Well-dressed people trickled into Jader, those so indecisive or slothful as to wait for the very last moment. They had kept Loghain and Bronwyn waiting, and so they were made to wait in their turn. Some had sworn to defy the Fereldan Dog Lords to their last breath, but the looming threat of dispossession, poverty, the darkspawn menace, the lack of any credible allies, and the danger to family still in Jader made them amenable at last.
One anxious, middle-aged woman, Madame de Danancy told them about a neighbor, an aged gentlewoman too old and bed-ridden to come to Court. Her sons were dead, one daughter was in the Chantry in Lydes, and her only grandchild was in the Orlesian army. The woman had been uneasy leaving the old lady alone herself, and asked if some exception might be made for her. Loghain detailed an officer and his company to check out the story. If true, mercy might be shown the old woman. Bronwyn flicked him a glance. Loghain sighed. Madame de Danancy paid her homage, presented quite a nice gift of fine wool, received her writ, and was sent her way, accompanied by the soldiers.
Once the ceremony was complete, it was time to sit down with the map of Jader and the territories they now claimed within their borders, marking down those manors and demesnes which had not submitted. They would be investigated, and unless there was some extraordinary reason, the lands would be forfeited to the Crown, to be granted to someone more loyal.
The very next day, Cauthrien set out to pay some visits, commanding a company of Maric's Shield. The royal holdings increased significantly.
They would hold a last court, a last feast, before the army moved west. There was time to visit the brothels, for those whose tastes ran in that direction. There was time for a solemn service in the Chantry, for others. Bronwyn and Loghain attended, of course, since it would be foolish to scandalize the devout among their new subjects. The conversation with the Revered Mother had not gone too badly. Borders shifted, and the Chantry occasionally had to accept that their allegiance would henceforth be owed elsewhere.
It was not mentioned between either woman that both the Queen of Ferelden and Grand Cleric had been declared anathema by edict of Divine Beatrix V, and been burnt in effigy in front of the Grand Cathedral. The news had of course come to the Revered Mother's ears, However, given the fact that the Maker's displeasure had fallen rather heavily on Val Royeaux just subsequent to that event, and given that no one knew if the Divine were alive or dead, it was prudent to accept that the wind was now blowing from the east.
The service was quite lovely, and the royal pew was luxuriously cushioned. The choir was disciplined and professional, and the incense of the highest quality. The princesses attended the ceremony with them, and very much enjoyed the outing.
When they returned to the palace, Bronwyn showed Loghain her sketches of a new Ferelden cathedral.
"What's this?" he grunted, squinting at the elevations. "Denerim already has a cathedral."
"Denerim has a pokey old shed that's not fit for a village of goatherds," Bronwyn declared. "I know that we've ten places to put every penny, but if we want foreigners to take us seriously, we have to spend some money making Denerim look better. See— I've put it on the south side of town—"
"I see, I see," he waved at her irritably.
Bronwyn was not to be dismissed like a servant. "No, you don't see. I want you to look at this. It's very important. If foreigners couldn't sneer at us, they wouldn't have been quite so quick to leave us to our fate. Everything we're hearing indicates that the world is rushing to Orlais because Val Royeaux has been destroyed. Do you think they would have done as much for Denerim? I say we use some of the windfall from our seizure of this territory to make us appear to the world the way we know ourselves to be in our hearts. Now look at this!"
He glared at her, but sat at the table and took a closer look at the drawings. "Marble staircases, I suppose."
"Why not? For the Palace, too. And marble floors."
He muffled a groan. Bronwyn was not done.
"Maybe some greenstone pillars... but we can loot some of those from the quarries here."
He brightened at that idea. "It's not looting if we own it."
There was quite a bit of cheering at that last feast. Quite a bit of drinking, too. Toasts were made to the King and Queen; to the dwarves, to the elves, to the Wardens; to all the members of the Alliance, who would set forth on the morrow. The Orlesians were quite thrilled at the announcement of the betrothal of the Imperial Princess Celandine to Duke Prosper de Montfort. It was also made clear by Loghain that Princess Celandine's rights as heir to the throne of Orlais would be honored and supported by her Fereldan allies.
"Long life to the Empress-elect!" shouted one drunken nobleman. The cry was taken up. "Vive l'Impératrice Celandine!"
These words were not well understood by others in the hall.
Corbus scowled. "I didn't vote for her," he muttered.
Wulffe, sitting next to him, leaned over to explain. "It means she's the rightful empress, but hasn't been crowned yet and hasn't started ruling. Personally, I think that we should have gone ahead and had some sort of coronation for her, but Bronwyn thought it would be better to wait so it can be performed in Orlais, and make the Orlesians pay for it. The girl will make a good figurehead for the Orlesians marching with us, and an even better one as we move through Orlais. The Duke's coming with us, of course. We can say we're traveling through Orlais by the authority of Empress Celandine. She'll stay here, of course, well guarded with her sisters. The smiths have forged a royal seal for her. Pretty thing. Loghain's taking that along, of course. The Orlesians can make up some banners with a golden celandine flower on them if they like. "
"I sort of see," Corbus admitted. "That way it doesn't look like we're conquering the whole country, but helping them out."
"Right you are."
"Good thing that we've got ourselves a credible puppet," Loghain grunted to Bronwyn, his voice low as his cold eyes swept the crowd. "Someone else might try to steal a march on us. There's no one with a better claim than the girl, unless it's that Florestan fellow, but he's likely darkspawn meat by now. You never know, though. We'll have to keep our ears open."
The next declaration, that Alistair FitzMaric was the new Arl of Jader, was received politely by the Jaderians, who did not really know him except as a handsome and modest young man. The Fereldans were pleased and the Wardens overjoyed. The Orlesian response warmed a great deal when his betrothal to Princess Eglantine was announced, and the information circulated quietly of his royal — if irregular — birth. The new subjects seemed to think that they had done well.
More importantly, the alliance with the Orlesian volunteers was strengthened by these evidences of chivalry and respect for the ancient line of Kordilius Drakon. Most of the credit went to Bronwyn, which was not quite fair, but Loghain was perfectly fine with everyone believing her to be the tenderhearted counter to his own Fereldan barbarism. Then, too, it was noticed that the young couple seemed pleased. The attention of the unattached nobles shifted entirely to Eponine, who rather enjoyed it.
In the bustle in between dances, Morrigan accosted Bronwyn, wanting a word.
Her voice low and her yellow eyes brilliant, Morrigan whispered, "Have you taken proper precautions, now that your Hero has returned to you?"
"I don't quite know—" Bronwyn paused. She did know. "You mean Herb of Grace—"
"Properly speaking, I mean silphium tea. Have you been partaking of it every evening? The coming march will not be any easier than our ventures in the Deep Roads. You cannot risk yourself needlessly."
"It is kind of you to think of me," Bronwyn said warmly. "Very kind. No, I confess I have nothing of the sort about me."
"Do not accuse me of any such muddleheadedness. 'Tis simply practical. I shall bring a cup to your room. Drink it at once. If Loghain insists on tasting it first, 'twill do him no harm." She shrugged, with a smirk. "No good either. And it tastes quite terrible."
True to her word, once the ball was over and the exhausted merrymakers gone, Morrigan, dressed in an elaborately embroidered dressing gown, appeared at the door of the Queen's apartments. Sneering at the admiring guards, she rapped smartly, and a wide-eyed maid opened the door.
"I have brought the Queen her tea," she declared, much as a champion might present the head of a sworn foe to her liege lady.
Loghain, hearing her voice, opened an inner door. He frowned at the sight of her, that being his default reaction to all sorts of unexpected events, but Morrigan was quite unimpressed, and merely raised her brows at him.
"It's all right," Bronwyn said, emerging from the bedchamber, clad only in a fragile nightdress. She took the painted cup from Morrigan's hands, and sniffed gingerly at the acrid steam.
"You should drink it at once," Morrigan demanded.
"Maker! Too hot!" Bronwyn laughed. "Good night, Morrigan. I do appreciate it. I'll gulp it down as quickly as I can. I daresay it won't be so awful that way."
Morrigan stalked away, eyes gleaming. her point gained. Bronwyn would have that tea every night. It was better for her, anyway: safer. The miscarriage was a distressing event that ought not to be repeated. Above all, there must not be more than one pregnant woman present when the Archdemon was slain.
Bronwyn brought the cup back to the bedchamber and set it on the bedside table. The maids were evicted from the room and the door shut firmly after them.
"What's that?" asked Loghain, grimacing at the smell emanating from the dainty cup, painted with butterflies.
"Morrigan is trying to take care of me," Bronwyn told him, with a laugh. "It's very kind of her. I don't want to hurt her feelings, but of course I'm not going to drink a contraceptive tea. It's quite improper for a Queen of Ferelden."
The dogs came over to sniff, too. Amber's nose twitched. Scout whuffed with distaste. It smelled like poison. It was poison. Human females drank it sometimes, though. Humans ate and drank all sorts of repulsive things.
Loghain thought a moment, wondering if it wasn't a good idea after all. The upcoming campaign promised to be rough. He opened his mouth, and then thought better of it. This was a woman's choice, and Bronwyn must make it for herself.
She opened the window, and carefully poured the contents down the sleek and shining greenstone wall.
"So much for that," she said. "And now, why don't we do some celebrating ourselves? Who knows when we'll next enjoy such a comfortable bed?"
Her dreams were streaked with crimson. Muffled shouts and screams surrounded her, punctuated by the whistle of arrows and the clash of swords. It was a night without stars, for the smoke of battle hid the Maker's heaven from the earth.
Darkspawn surrounded her, buffeted against her: noisome, reeking, carrying torches. Above her was a stone wall, bristling with weapons. A tall man whose blood sang of "Warden," shouted orders. A great cauldron tipped forward, and out of poured something dark, viscous, and vile. The boiling oil splashed the darkspawn in the lead, whose torches touched the oil off into an inferno. The darkspawn became torches themselves, burning, burning. Oil streamed back in blazing rivulets. Darkspawn slipped and fell into the oil. They thrashed, screeching, as their skin blistered and roasted. More arrows whistled past.
A burst of hot violet flame erupted out of the smoke. The Archdemon roared just over her head, flying low, loosing another blast of flame as it neared the wall. Some stones tumbled, but the wall was strong, and the Archdemon soared up, up, its belly exposed to the defenders there. Strange missiles hurtled toward the Archdemon, each with a pair of weights tumbling apart. They were nets; and one tangled onto the Archdemon outstretched left wing, fouling it.
The beast bellowed, faltering, fluttering. Its horned head snaked back and its teeth tore at the offending net, ripping it away. It lost altitutde. Slowed as it was, the archers at the top of the wall loosed a storm of fire arrows, dotting the Archdemon with spurts of flame. More nets were launched, and one of them struck the creature, the heavy weights slamming hard into its skull. More arrows volleyed. A lucky shot struck just under the right eyesocket, and the arrow lodged there. The Archdemon shrieked again, dazed, and then fought free. It wheeled away and plunged back into the darkness, leaving its minions to burn.
"Bronwyn!"
She moaned, and pushed away the coverlet, feeling smothered. Loghain was beside her, and his arms felt much better. Faint dark green light filtered through the bed curtains.
"I'm awake."
"A bad dream?"
"A good one, actually. I think someone took the Archdemon down a notch. Wardens were fighting it and chased it off. A city or a fortress somewhere. I didn't recognize anyone."
He lay back, and pulled her close, her head resting on his shoulder.
"If the Archdemon were killed, would you know it?"
"Absolutely."
He thought about that for awhile. The Nevarrans almost certainly had reached the Orlesian border. The Wardens Bronwyn had seen were either Orlesian or Nevarran. Good luck to them in killing the beast. For a moment, he almost proposed leaving them to do it, but knew Bronwyn would never agree. She had no confidence in her fellow Wardens at all.
And then, there was the sheer adventure of it. Tomorrow they would set forth, into the land of the ancient enemy, this time making them dance to a Fereldan tune. Being a puppetmaster was a great deal more satisfying than being a puppet himself.
Thanks to my reviewers:Nemrut, imperial queen, Death Knight's Crowbar, sizuka2, Girl-chama, Chiara Crawford, Kyren, Blinded in a bolthole, Promenius, Juliafied, Massgamer45, Psyche Sinclair, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, Ie-maru, KnightOfHolyLight, JackOfBladesX, Tirion I, The Flying Hobbo, DjinniGenie, Mike3207, Robbie the Phoenix, Rexiselic, So you want to be an Author, darksky01, Lyssa Terald, D-Ro2593, Isala Uthenera, Jenna53, Ravus, Kalom, Phygmalion, MsBarrows, AD Lewis, Konous the grey, RB23G, Costin, dragonmactire, Guest, Angurvddel, herebedragons66, and jnybot.
Re your questions about the eluvian and where it leads: Not all elves were killed or enslaved at the fall of Arlathan. Some escaped by ship, leaving the eluvian and some clues. Since Thedas can't cover even a quarter of the planet, there must be other continents. The elves went to one of those, to the east of the Amaranthine Ocean, and have developed an advanced culture, resisting any threat to their coastline. Humans are regarded as humans regard darkspawn: as polluting threats to life as the elves know it. Perhaps a few storm-tossed human sailors or Qunari explorers made landfall there, but they didn't live long. That doesn't mean that it's a perfect solution: the Thedosian elves might have real difficulty adapting to life there on a permanent basis.
The greater celandine is a member of the poppy family and has four yellow petals. The lesser celandine is a member of the buttercup family. I think it's much prettier. That's right, Princess Buttercup.
Here is the complete text of the rhyme Celandine remembered:
C'était l'histoire du Sire de Framboisy,
Avait pris femme, la plus belle du pays,
La prit trop jeune, bientôt s'en repentit.
Partit en guerre, afin qu'elle murît.
Revint de guerre après cinq ans et d'mi.
N'trouva personne de la cave au chenil.
App'la la belle trois jours et quatre nuits.
Un grand silence, hélas, lui répondit.
Le pauvre Sire courut dans tout Paris.
Trouva la dame, dans un bal à Clichy,
Corbleu, princesse, que faites-vous ici ?
Voyez, je danse, avecque mes amis
Dans son carosse la r'mène à Framboisy
Il l'empoisonne avec du vert-de-gris.
Et sur sa fosse il sema du persil.
De cette histoire, la morale, la voici :
À jeune femme il faut jeune mari.
In English:
Here is the tale of the Lord of Framboisy,
Who had taken as wife the most beautiful girl in the country.
Took her too young, quickly regretted it
Went to war so that she could mature.
Returned from war after five and a half years,
Found nobody from cellar to kennel.
Called the fair lady for three days and four nights,
A great silence, alas, answered him.
The poor Lord ran all over Paris,
Found the lady at a ball in Clichy.
Egad, princess, what are you doing here?
See, I'm dancing, with my friends,
In his coach, brings her back to Framboisy.
He poisons her with verdigris.
And on her tomb he sowed parsley,
Here is the moral to this tale:
A young woman needs a young husband.