Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 113: The Alliance Sets Forth
Just as the army was preparing to leave Jader, the first wave of refugees arrived. Some of them were deserters from the Imperial army, saying nothing about their experiences for fear of hanging. Some of them included eyewitnesses to the fall of Val Royeaux. These survivors had plenty to say. Leliana and Silas tasked themselves with hearing these stories and matching the information with what the Wardens had seen in the Fade. The tale they heard next was one of the worst.
The haggard woman was halting in her speech: sometimes searching for the right words of power and horror. Her gestures were broad and eccentric. It was not surprising that some considered her mad.
"I saw them. I saw them ripping up the children. The children... I saw their faces... ugly. They peeled the skin back and stuck the heads on sticks. I ran fast, holding the baby. I ran and ran, and then I heard them coming up from the noble quarter, so I ran back to the south toward the docks. They caught some of the people behind me, and such a squealing there was! I got into a doorway, and made the baby be quiet. The door was open, and so I climbed up to a window and jumped to the roof next door. I ran and ran over the roofs until I could see the ships. They threw me on a boat and I thought I was safe. And then I looked to see why the baby was so, so quiet, and I then I knew I'd held him too tight..."
She was penniless, of course. Penniless and starving. The Chantry was worried about the expense of providing for these poor people, some of whom had once been rich, and were dressed in rags of silk. Bronwyn was not very sympathetic to the Chantry's position.
"Let them bloody well sell a few of those gold vessels, and buy grain for the poor! I expect them to set up something to feed these people. How much would it cost to have cauldrons of soup or porridge, anyway? The Chantry's dripping in gold and jewels, so I don't want them to come poor-mouthing to the steward! There are the naval barracks, half empty by the docks. That will provide temporary housing for a great many people. Oh— and we're confiscating the townhouses of Madame de Frontenac and the Sieur de Lys. I'll give orders to house people there— and not just one to two noble families, either. I wish I had a good practical Fereldan noblewoman here to organize things. I think I'll write to Bann Alfstanna or see if old Seria MacCoo is hale enough to travel. She'd sort them out."
She sent a note to the Revered Mother, outlining her expectations, and then had to speak to the woman herself when the priest raced across the square, agog at the Queen's demands.
"We're at war, Revered Mother," Bronwyn said shortly. "We're at war with an enemy that will not permit the Chantry to be neutral. In fact, we know that they made a special target of the Grand Cathedral. I cannot believe that you cannot feed the poor for the duration of the emergency. Grain is stockpiled high in the granaries, and the Chantry's coffers — don't attempt to deny it—are overflowing. I want this done."
"But..." the priest flailed, trying to make the young woman understand. "There are so many of them! How can we take the time to assess them? How can we be sure which are deserving orthodox Andrasteans, and which are heretics and rascals? Some people with coin to buy food might cheat, and dress in rags to obtain that to which they have no right! Even some bad elements in the city— elves, apostates, and the like— might attempt to take advantage of the Chantry's generosity!"
"You're right. There's no time to "assess" them. So don't. Feed them! I'd rather a rascal had a full belly than innocent victims went starving! Just make them form a line and have some Templars on hand to keep order and keep bullies from pushing their way ahead of others. That's the best we can do for now."
The woman was gaping at her, horrified at the idea of putting sanctified grain in the maws of the scum of the earth. Bronwyn was unimpressed at the priest's obvious prejudice against elves. And some of those despised apostates had come knocking at Bronwyn's door— so to speak— willing to serve in the army or as Grey Wardens. Nonetheless, this was the Revered Mother of Jader, and there was no time to find someone more broad-minded to replace her. Bronwyn did not want to leave bad feeling behind her, and tried tact.
"A good deed is a good deed, even if bestowed on the unworthy. And there are so many in need. Some of them might have done wrong in their lives... who hasn't? But many are suffering innocents. Think of the good will ...the prestige the Chantry will gain by saving so many lives. Even among those rascals you speak of, there may be hearts to be softened by good works."
That was true enough, and the Revered Mother was somewhat mollified. Besides, quite a few healthy young orphans had come to the Chantry. In no time at all, they would be useful servants of the Maker.
The last, most unpleasant duty, was to choose which Wardens would be left behind.
Riordan had felt he needed all his Wardens, trusting to the depth of Orlesian recruiting and the immense resources of the Grey Warden fortress at Montsimmard. Bronwyn worried over the matter, and finally decided that a small band of Fereldan Wardens must be left behind at Jader. In the west, anything was possible. Someone must remain to recruit more in case of disaster. For that matter, someone must remain behind in case messages came from other Warden posts, or other Wardens arrived in Jader, which was not impossible. Two Wardens were still in Denerim: Idunn and Ketil. They were not enough to raise another army of Wardens in the wake of catastrophe.
First she met with her original team of Wardens: Anders, Tara, Leliana, Danith, Astrid, and Brosca. In this group she also included comparative latecomers like Jowan, Carver, Adaia, and Oghren. They were the core of the Fereldan Wardens, and she needed their input before making serious decisions about the order.
Not one of them wanted to be left out of the coming campaign. She sympathized with their feelings, but wanted sound leadership at her back.
"Leave some of the people who Joined in the south," Astrid urged. "Some are quite experienced now, and perfectly reliable."
"At least one of each race," Tara suggested.
"And a mage," Anders declared. "At least one of them has to be a mage. You want to keep drawing in those apostates, while the Chantry's got its pants down."
"Really!" Leliana protested.
Carver grinned, but then said, "Why not a lottery? Leave it to the Maker… or the Ancestors, or the Creators… or to Fate. A lottery for the mages and a lottery for each race of warriors. At least four. Put the best of them in charge."
"In Jader," Danith said slowly, "it would be wise for a human— and not a mage— to be called leader."
The other looked at her in amazement, but she held her ground. "Whoever is in command will have to deal with the leaders of this city: with the head priest and the steward… perhaps with others in power. They will be more likely to deal fairly with another human. It is the practical solution. And it should definitely not be a mage."
"Wisely spoken," Bronwyn said, pleasantly surprised at Danith's clear-eyed appraisal of their situation. "In the end, it might also depend on the relative abilities of those chosen. But I think a lottery is for the best, and the method least likely to cause hard feelings."
The lottery was held immediately. While there were no tears, there was no celebration either. Petra, for the mages; Catriona, for the humans; Askil, for the dwarves, and Ailill for the elves. The —winners?—losers?— resigned themselves to their fate, listened quietly to Bronwyn's briefing as to their duties, and agreed that they would be staying at the Grey Warden compound.
Petra, who already had a room there, put a very good face on her feelings. "It's very nice. We'll all be very comfortable there. It has excellent facilities for training and recruiting."
Bronwyn was thinking rapidly. She did not know Catriona very well, but Tara and Brosca thought well of her. Very likely, she would perform adequately as leader, though Loghain had mentioned that the archer had little use for the Chantry. That would have to be downplayed. She would have a private word with Catriona. The woman seemed downcast at the prospect of bidding farewell to her friends, but there were no tears or recriminations.
Askil was clearly not pleased, but Astrid, who had led him in the past few months, clapped a hand on his shoulder and said something in his ear. He nodded, took a deep breath, and seemed to accept his fate.
Ailill was not at all happy at the outcome. He had spent a long, unpleasant period underground in Orzammar and the Deep Roads, and had been looking forward to an adventure with his people. The Dalish crowded around him, whispering. To Bronwyn's surprise, Tara joined them. Ailill listened the them, bit his lip, and seemed in better spirits.
Bronwyn could not guess what was behind these stoic masks. If she had, she might have been offended, or disapproving, or even sympathetic. She also would have been reassured that all of them accepted their situation and even saw certain advantages in it.
Petra had resigned herself to a hideous experience in the course of which she would probably be horribly killed. She had no great opinion of her own combat skills. Going west did not sound glorious to her; it sounded like a death sentence for most. At worst there was the horror of capture rather than death. It would not do to show her relief, but in fact, she felt like one who had been pardoned at the foot of the gallows. She was an experienced teacher: she could spot talent, and would be glad to do her part in recruiting and training. All things considered, she felt she would be more effective here than she would in the west.
Askil regarded himself as Astrid's loyal retainer. She had quickly pointed out to him how well he could serve her here in Jader, so close to Orzammar. Here, he could keep his finger on the pulse of the dwarven kingdom. He could send her messages, and relay word from her to her friends. In fact, from Astrid's point of view, the choice was ideal for her purposes. Askil took a great deal of comfort from that. He, too, would recruit: the best possible candidates to support his Paragon.
Ailill, too, had taken comfort in his friend's words. There was so much he could do here to help his fellow elves. First of all, he could guard the eluvian. It would be quickly moved to the Wardens' Compound and put under barrier enchantments. Furthermore, more Dalish might well be arriving; travelers from distant clans. It was imperative that someone be here to make them welcome and to share certain facts with their Keepers. Then too, there was good he could do in the Alienage, and elves who could be won away from wage-slavery and squalor. It would also be a way to keep the fact of the Dalish role in the alliance visible to the shemlens.
Catriona's feelings were the most confused. She did not fear combat. She did not fear darkspawn. If taken, she had ways of ending herself quickly. That was a consideration, after all, even if taken by other humans. The things she feared in life were other than death: she feared being crippled and becoming a burden to her family; she feared leaving her brother and his children to misery and starvation. She had recently sent him a large amount of coin, but she knew how quickly a large family could swallow it up. Her brother was not well. If he died, his children— all under twelve — would be left to the mercy of neighbors and the Chantry, and Catriona had not confidence in either. She had been toying with the idea of contacting Jem and telling him to move to Soldier's Peak outright. If she was going to be here in Jader for some time, though, she might ask him to come here. She had asked about: it was not all that unusual for a Jader Warden to get employment for their relatives, and the Compound was short of help at the moment, with the departure of Riordan's Wardens and much of their support staff. The more she thought about it, the better she liked the idea, and the more she wondered if the Maker weren't finally giving her a huge leg up in life.
The Kinloch Hold Circle contingent arrived at Jader, last of all the allies, and discovered it had nearly missed the war. The army was forming up to march out, and a harried marshal found a place for them in the long column. There was only time to rest the animals and swallow a meal before they would be leaving.
Many of the mages had never seen a city — or did not remember seeing a city— and those who had certainly had never seen a city like Jader. They were lucky in the weather the day they arrived, and could walk beside their supply wagons, eagerly taking in the sights.
Most of the Templars had never been out of Ferelden, and were open in their admiration as well, noting down places they would like to visit at more length someday.
And no one would ever see it more splendid than it was today, as the army of the alliance against the Blight prepared to go to war. A rainbow of heraldry burst forth on shields, banners, and pennants; every color, every creature, every symbol was represented. Orlesian heraldry was far more complex than Ferelden: where a noble Fereldan house might be symbolized by a bear or a bull or a raven, Orlesians had made an art and a science of heraldry; the complex symbols telling the story of their families' bloodlines for generations.
Shields were divided by fesses, by pales, by saltires, and crosses, and chevrons. They were partied by bends, and those of bastards were marked with the bend sinister. Shields were marshaled or quartered, all painted with all the traditional tinctures: gules, sable, purpure, argent, azure, and or. Chevaliers bore elaborate crests on their helmets. Distant members of the same clan differenced their arms with individual cadences: crescents, mullets, marlets, annulets, and roses. It made a brave display. Fereldans studied these works of art with admiration and envy.
Greagoir had visited Val Royeaux years before, traveling by ship from Amaranthine. Irving had seen Cumberland. Both were greater cities than Jader, but Jader was really quite beautiful and distinctive and well worth a look. A pity they would not have chance to explore the city.
They were received courteously by the King and Queen, but the conversation was not a long one, for everyone was incredibly busy. Both the Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter were taken aback when the Queen thanked them for anticipating her needs, and announced she was conscripting ten mages and two Templars.
"Not instantly, of course," she said, smiling. "But in the next day or so. Think about whom you think would do best."
Greagoir swallowed a remark that after what happened to Cullen he had no desire to give a Templar to the Grey Wardens ever again. Irving's smile was a bit forced. They bowed away from the frenzy surrounding the command group, accepted the place they were assigned in the order of march, and hoped that the Queen would forget about them.
There were disputes over precedence among the Orlesians: fists were shaken and insults were exchanged. Bann Cauthrien, riding down the column, shouted at the fools to get into line.
"Find a place! Get in anywhere you bloody well can! This isn't a tournament! Don't you know we're at war?"
The disputants were silenced, but vowed revenge on each other at some future date. Or at least that they would slip into line ahead of their rivals at the next stop.
At long last, it was time to go. The Revered Mother stood on the steps of the Chantry and held up her hand in benediction:
"Maker watch over and bless all people and creatures engaged in this noble enterprise: humans, elves, and dwarves alike; may He bless the horses that carry them and the oxen that pull the wagons. May he bless the brave dogs who fight loyally beside their masters—"
Scout was pleased at this, and flicked a glance up at Bronwyn, panting happily.
"Bless the King and Queen, and give them the wisdom and courage to lead us to victory. Bless the nobles with daring and prudence alike, and the officers with initiative and good sense. Bless all our soldiers with the spirit of endurance and loyalty, and keep them from harm. In the name of the Maker and His Prophet Andraste, so let it be."
She knew how to project her voice, and so many people crammed into Emerald Square heard her. Blessings were echoed and repeated, a deep reverent ocean of sound.
Bronwyn unslung the gold-fitted dragon horn, the trophy from her fight for the Ashes, and lifted it to her lips. She sounded it; and the music filled the square and rang through the streets. As the notes died away, army buglers took the cue to ring out the order to march.
Side by side, Bronwyn and Loghain rode through the square and into the Golden Road, their horses trampling early flowers and pine branches flung there by their subjects. Their dogs were beside them, wearing heavy studded collars, happy to be going on a long, long walk. Behind them were Wardens, golems, knights, men-at-arms, a few volunteer companies of militia, including a determined little band of Jader elves, armed only with knives and carrying simple red banners. The earth trembled underfoot.
They were watched by the entire population of Jader, high and low. The Wardens remaining saluted them from the palace steps. A little higher on the steps, the princesses, gloriously dressed, bade farewell to the King and Queen, to Duke Prosper, to Arl Alistair, to Arls Corbus and Wulffe, to dear Warden Leliana, and all the others they had met in the course of their strange adventures.
"It will be dull without them," said Eglantine, waving her handkerchief.
"Very dull," agreed Eponine. "Who knows when we shall see them again?"
Celandine said nothing, not thinking that living in the beautiful palace of Jader was a dull thing at all. There were pleasant people to talk to, and new books to read. There would be company to dine with, and the palace gardens were large and lovely. She was rather afraid of Duke Prosper, and could wait perfectly well for him to return. The Queen had found a lady to act as their chaperone: a noblewoman of Jader whose younger brother had high hopes of royal generosity if he served well in the campaign. Lady Felice was pleasant enough, and knew all the gossip and some new embroidery stitches.
The army picked up more units as it passed the barracks. More yet joined outside the city, where some of the local lords had encamped with their levies, and where the Dalish awaited them. There too, was the big cage on wheels, which gave the entire procession an carnival air; the big cage that carried the wyvern Leopold. The Revered Mother had not mentioned him by name, but under the general grouping of "creatures," he could be said to be traveling under the Maker's blessing.
"She didn't bless the mages," Anders snarked.
"She blessed all the humans and elves," said Carver. "Therefore, she blessed the mages, since they are human or elf. She didn't bless all bearers of greatswords, either. Or all archers."
"It would have been nice if she had," Nevin muttered.
Their first stop, of course, would be Chateau—no, Castle Solidor. It was little over a half-day's journey, but it gave them to chance to shake out problems in their marching order and find problems with teams, with wheels, with loads, with proximity to rivals and enemies, with supply wagon distribution.
The new Wardens marched with their comrades, but were sheltered in between the veterans. Astrid, Tara, and Danith had assigned a mentor to all the recruits, partly to orient them, but mostly to keep an eye on them and make sure they did not get into fights with other units, or run away.
Silas Corthwaite had decided to stay with the Warden party. He had passed on his messages as instructed, and did not want to be left out of what was certain to the be the greatest struggle in many ages. Every sword was needed: even his own. He could see no justification whatever is keeping safe in Denerim. If anything, he wanted to go back and see if there was anything left to salvage, any survivors to rescue. And it was good to be traveling with Leliana again. He had almost forgotten what a wonderful companion she was.
Fenris, too, wanted to be a part of this. He had never been part of anything greater than himself, really; never before had comrades or friends. He felt almost like an elven knight of old, well-armed, well-armored, astride his own horse, going to face the greatest evil of the age. Even the mages seemed ennobled by the order they served. These were good people, under good leaders, and that was a new and splendid thing in Fenris' experience. Carver had dropped a few hints that the only hope of someone infected with darkspawn Taint was to become a Grey Warden. Infection was fairly likely, once they came to grips with the monsters. If that was what it took, Fenris had no fear of it. In fact, perhaps it would be for the best. Danarius could never claim a Grey Warden.
Where was Danarius? Probably hiding in Minrathous, as far from the Blight as possible. Fenris knew enough about his former master to understand that he was essentially a coward, hiding behind his magic, hiding behind his position, hiding behind his slaves and the weight and power of custom and political institutions. However rare and valuable Fenris was, Danarius would rate his life as far more valuable, and would do nothing to risk it.
"If I did decide to be a Warden…" he murmured.
Carver's head swiveled in his direction, and the young man's face lit in a smile.
"Then you'd be making a very good choice. Talk to Bronwyn. I'm sure she'd be glad if you did."
"I could hardly approach the Queen—"
"Of course you could. I'll come with you, if you like. We'll be having a Joining soon for the new people. Or maybe you could have a private Joining first. Think it over." He turned in his saddle, and whispered loudly to Jowan.
"Fenris is thinking about Joining!"
"You should," Jowan said seriously. "You really should. You'll never have an opportunity to do something more important."
Fenris mulled that over, as Solidor grew closer. Would he make this commitment? It was a serious, life-long one. Perhaps nobles like the Queen and Alistair could find a way to slip the leash, but clearly, for everyone else, once a Warden, always a Warden.
Brosca was enjoying the trip, sitting next to Torvald in one of the Wardens' supply wagons. This was the one with all sorts of dangerous bombs, grenades, and poisons in it, so it was important to keep it well guarded.
"I think a second set of gears would make all the difference, only smaller ones. I can machine them and try a new prototype—"
Torvald was babbling happily about the Airbows, and how he was working on them and learning all about them. Brosca let him babble, happy that he was happy.
He was a nice guy. Brosca had not met many before, especially in her Orzammar days. Orzammar didn't breed "nice."
Other than in the Wardens. Most of the Wardens actually were nice guys. Maybe it was Bronwyn's influence. She was nice herself, and expected everybody to be the same. It smoothed life's rough edges away, sort of. The ones who weren't nice, like that Walther, had had their comeuppance, right enough.
And Brosca had been honest with Torvald. She had told him upfront about her Warden sweetheart who died. As time had passed, Brosca's conviction that she and Cullen had been a couple had hardened into unquestionable past history. They would still have been together, if the dragon hadn't got him. She had a keepsake, and a sweet memory of kissing him, and he was enshrined in her heart as The One.
But of course, life went on, and there was no reason not to enjoy the company of a nice guy. A nice, dwarven guy. And Torvald really respected her because she was a Warden. That was new and refreshing. Not many people had ever respected her. Respect was a heady brew.
Adaia was in the back of the wagon with Siofranni, their legs dangling over the end. It was a fine day for a journey, and fun to see the rest of the host behind them, the shem knights eating their dust.
"I hope we can settle the Archdemon soon," she croaked to Siofranni, squeezing her hand. "I've got scores to settle before we can take off for… you know where. We're going to be rich by the time this is over... rich enough to buy a ship if we like instead of hiring one. I don't want to leave anybody in an Alienage ever again. I don't want to ever live in an Alienage myself. I know I owe Bronwyn, but once the Archdemon is dead and the Blight's over, I reckon we're square."
Siofranni agreed. "I thought it was beautiful, the place beyond the eluvian. I love civilization. I love baths and real soap. I like to wear silk dresses at dinner. I'm proud to be Dalish, yes, but everything is just so hard all the time."
"I like civilization, too, when I'm on top," Adaia said wryly. "On the bottom of the heap, not so much. As far as I'm concerned, the Tevinters can learn to cook their own food and wash their own clothes. They can learn to use their magic for that. I want to get our people out, and safe. Then we're leaving. We'll get on our ship and sail down the coast, away from the shemlen cities. We'll pass on through to our new home and leave all this behind without a regret."
"As long as I can have a bath—"
"—With real soap," Adaia finished for her, laughing. "Those elves looked pretty clean to me!"
It was good to march beside the aravels, good to be near the hall, good to be surrounded by elvhen kin. Danith strode along, glad to be out of the green city. It was better here, marching on the road, breathing the scent of fresh young leaves, in the company of her friends. The Dalish Wardens were a clan to themselves, close as brothers and sisters by blood, which they were… in a way.
What would come of this war with the darkspawn? Four times the darkspawn had risen, and each time the Grey Wardens had defeated them and beaten them back into the Deep Roads. Danith felt in her heart that it would be so once more. There was nothing the Archdemon could attack them with that they could not defeat.
But how long would it take? Other Blights had lasted for decades, slipping over the limits of one age and spilling into another. Many had died, many had been Tainted, and much must had been lost.
The Dales had been lost, for example, over a bitter quarrel over strategy and alliance during the Second Blight. The shemlens had nursed a grudge because the elves had not come to their aid when demanded, and had retaliated by the destruction of the lands given to the elves by the word of the Prophet Andraste.
And now Bronwyn had come, like a second Andraste, offering the elves a home once more. How long would that last? Certainly as long as Bronwyn lived—as long as Loghain lived, too—but then the old quarrels would rise, and the humans would want all the Brecilian Forest for themselves. It would surprise them, would it not, if they came to make war and found the land empty and deserted? That was the ending Danith hoped for. And yet...
What she had seen beyond the eluvian was beautiful and rich, but it was not Dalish. If she wished to be Dalish she must remain in Thedas. She saw little to suggest that the Dalish customs and traditions would be welcome or even understood. Those elegant, civilized people… what did they know of Vir Tanadahl, of the hard, clean life of the forest? It would seem to them alien, barbaric… or simply quaint.
What could she hope for herself? She was a Warden, bound to the Tainted underbelly of Thedas. Would the Taint sing to her in her sleep in that land far away? Or would it be muted, diminished, even silent? Could she learn to adapt to a new world, among those strangers with elven faces?
Nuala was looking at her, concerned. Danith managed a smile for her and marched on.
"Falkor, move those engineers into the wagons with the ballistae," Astrid ordered. "Just a few with every one of the wagons. If something happens, I want them to be able to get them down and assembled fast."
"Yes, Paragon."
Life was good. Astrid was building up her personal force of dwarf Wardens and binding the dwarven army closer to her with every day. Let Bhelen play politics from the safety of the Assembly. If her plans worked out, he and the deshyrs would be irrelevant in the wider scheme of things. Then, too, Astrid was determined that Orzammar would have a permanent force of Wardens of its own. It was absurd that there was no Warden base in dwarven lands.
She flexed her elbow, adjusting the harness of her golden hand. It was a constant reminder of all that Bhelen's scheming had cost her: family, friends, the throne itself. Her hand could not be replaced, but when the Blight was over and won, not even the crown would be beyond her reach. It would be some... compensation.
She glanced to the side and saw Alistair chatting with Emrys. Praise the Ancestors that she had avoided that entanglement! She had been lonely; she had been at loose ends. Believing that she had a future only in the Grey Wardens, she had been ready to make the best of it, by connecting herself to the powers within it.
What an escape! For both of them, really. Alistair was doing quite well for himself—despite himself— as a human noble. He was betrothed to the insipid little Orlesian, who would simper and smile, and tell him how wonderful he was. Just what he needed. What he did not need was a relationship with a dwarf, however well-born.
Conversely, if she had burdened herself with a human husband, the chances of being declared a Paragon might have been seriously compromised. Mixed marriages were unacceptable in Orzammar. And imagine the scandal had she produced a human child! Of course that was unlikely, with Morrigan going about, dispensing contraceptive tea like a noble giving alms.
Astrid laughed to herself, and speculated on an acceptable consort, once she herself was Queen of Orzammar. She noticed— but chose to loftily ignore— Oghren's jaundiced reactions to her schemes. He was very loyal to Bronwyn and was not part of Astrid's personal coterie. If that was his choice, so be it. She hoped he liked the surface.
"You ride well," Zevran complimented Tara, with measured praise. "There was a time, cara mia, that you were... shall we say 'not so good,' but you have learned. You ride well, and appear to great advantage on horseback."
Tara smiled at him, enjoying the day. Zevran appeared to great advantage at the moment himself. The loot they had won had allowed them to buy the very best in gear and accoutrements. Handsome armor that fit; soft leggings and the finest boots. People sometimes looked twice at them, thinking them short humans at first by their expensive garb. And no one, not knowing them well, could tell that Tara was a mage. She promised herself that she would never wear robes again.
Robes were strange and ugly garb. She thought that even most Tevinter robes she had seen in books were fairly ugly. Bizarre, too. Obviously, there were traditional elements, and then there were details that were meant to provide some sort of protection, like the odd metal plaques placed over women's abdomens. That dated from a time when magic was held to damage the unborn. If that was so, why did only female mages wear them?
Actually, most robes were archaic versions of noble clothing of different places and periods, ossified by custom and Circle bureaucracy into official wear. Some were enchanted, true, but mostly they were inconvenient and uncomfortable—all designed to mark a mage and make it difficult to run away. Almost any other garb was better. As a Warden, she could afford the best.
She had never had so much as now; now when they were about to hazard all.
"Zevran," she began, and hesitated.
"What is it, my dear one?"
"Do you ever consider just... chucking it all and running off?"
"Always, but only with you."
"Sometimes I do. I just want this to be over. I wouldn't really run away, but I'd like to. Have you thought about what it would be like to live in a place where being an elf is normal? Where everybody is an elf?"
Zevran's golden face contracted in thought. "I have. You must understand, bella, that I have a more cautious view of most people's motives than you. This place we have seen... yes, it is beautiful... yes, we were greeted in friendship. But where there are no humans or dwarves, elves will find things among themselves to divide them. People are like that. The blue-eyed will despise those whose eyes are brown. The brunettes might look down upon the blonds. Those with certain talents will be lauded; those without will form the underclass."
"They don't say it was like that in ancient Arlathan. They say it was perfect there."
Zevran's smile was a study in skepticism. "So they say. But who knows? Perhaps it was a paradise indeed for the great lords of the elven realm. If I may ask, however — who cooked the meals? Who grew the crops? Who gathered the fuel or cared for their beasts? I find it impossible to believe that there were no gradations in class or status. To do so would be contrary to all that I have observed. Everywhere, at every time, there are hewers of wood and drawers of water. These hewers and drawers might be slaves in one place, or contented free workers in another; but nowhere are all equal, because all are not equal in ability, in looks, in cleverness, in..." he shrugged, "mere luck. We know very little about those strangers. What little we know is good, and better than what we know about Thedas. I simply point out that there are always dark sides to everything. Even the sun cannot shine upon us constantly."
Tara considered that. "Sometimes I wonder what we will do there. Surely we'll have to do something useful."
"With your great command of magic, you will always be useful. Also decorative."
"Decorative, yourself!" She laughed. "It'll be... different."
"Indeed. I wonder how I shall come to be considered useful. My only skills lie in killing people in various ways, and in making myself agreeable."
"Those are pretty impressive skills. Especially the second."
Loghain swore that if one more swaggering young Orlesian tried to flirt with Bronwyn, he would call the impudent pup out, hack him apart, and toss his bits to the dogs. He had seen Fereldan noblemen swagger and strut for the benefit of ladies, but he had never in his life seen such goings-on as among these half-women.
You would think this was a party, for the chevaliers were dressed in silk tabards over their armor, their eyes painted, their tresses curled. Squires carried their ridiculous beplumed and beribboned helmets, crested with dragons, with lions, with bereskarns, with sea monsters. They reeked of perfume, and batted their unnaturally long lashes at the Queen, turning this way and that so the sun would reflect off their armor just so. Preening pillocks. He was sending them in as the vanguard. Let them flirt with the darkspawn.
Val Chevin was dying. Hector Pentaghast acknowledged it, even though he was glad that the Wardens' holding action had enabled much of the population to escape. They had been ferried away by sea, since the docks were still under their control. The poor souls would be conveyed to any place that would take them in. It was inevitable that Cumberland would shut its gates to the refugees when the press of them became unbearable. The ships would then go further along the coast: most north to Kirkwall, to Ostwick, perhaps to the thinly populated islands of the Archipelago; a few would go south, dropping off the survivors at Jader and at various places along the Fereldan coast. No one would want to go on the south-bound ships except for the ones destined for Jader, fearing vengeful, savage Fereldans. Pentaghast had found the Fereldans he had met perfect pleasant and civilized, if some of them were a bit young and unsophisticated. No doubt the Orlesians knew that Fereldans had little reason to love them after the long years of brutal occupation.
The darkspawn did not seem particularly interested in taking the city. However, they were leaching life from the fields and fouling the rivers. The big refugee camp to the north had pulled up stakes and headed off further north to Arlesans. Pentaghast had advised Revered Mother Dorothea to take them even further, perhaps toward Hunter Fell. He did not envy her the hardships ahead.
Inside the city, the wells still provided clean water, but anyone drinking or washing from the Chevin was almost certainly doomed to Blight disease. Pentaghast had conscripted many of the sick adults, but it was not a feasible solution for the very old and the very young. Oddly enough, he had tried the Joining on a Blighted young pregnant woman, and she had lived, with no detectable harm to the unborn child. Assigned to light duty in the kitchens, she was doing her part.
He had sent out scouts. Some had come back to report; others had been swallowed by the unknown. The darkspawn had diffused over a wide area. They had not reached Montfort, but no one had been able to get through to see if Val Foret still stood. He had sent a small ship south to the mouth of the river Orne, to see if anyone could manage the half-day's march between the river and Val Foret. Another of the ships he had sent would go to Highever, to send a message to the Fereldans about his movements. Even if the Fereldans hated Orlais, they must know that time was of the essence.
The Archdemon, for some reason, had not returned. If it did, and it burned the docks, it would no longer be possible to supply Val Chevin by sea. And yet, this delay...this stalemate was entirely in the Archdemon'sfavor. Pentaghast needed more men. He needed more Wardens. Where were they?
To be fair, they could only travel so fast, and so even had they left immediately, they would still be days away. Weisshaupt was the closest on the Imperial Highway, and it was from the Wardens of the Anderfels that Pentaghast hoped for relief.
Reinhard Wildauer, First Warden of Thedas, was beyond exasperated. "Another brawl?"
"I'm afraid so, First Warden. And it's going to get worse. The Templars are furious."
Wildauer was already worn out by the time he reached Cumberland. Simply mediating the growing, burning hostility between his own Wardens of the Anderfels and the Tevinter contingent was taking entirely too much time and energy. And that was not to mention the hostility that the Tevinters were provoking in the cities along the Imperial Highway.
The Tevinters boasted a huge proportion of mages: very powerful, aggressive mages, who had not been humbled by years of living in a Circle or being on the run from the Templars. Some of the Tevinter mage Wardens were members of prominent families, and very well-connected, indeed. Some were apostates, escaped from the lands of the White Chantry and recruited into the privileged status of Tevinter Grey Warden mage. These were especially vocal, arrogant, and deplorably self-satisfied. Their attitude was infecting the Circle mages who were traveling with his own Wardens. It was infecting the Anderfel mages Wardens themselves.
And so many mages, strutting openly in the streets of Gallisa, of Theordis, of Parrhae, and now in Cumberland itself was deemed an affront to the Chantry. Everywhere, one saw the Templars attempting to challenge mages on the street, only to be told by the mages that they were Grey Wardens and not under Chantry authority. Sometimes that worked. Sometimes the Templars pointed out the complete lack of Warden insignia. For that matter, quite a few mages claiming to be Wardens were not. If they tried that, and a Warden was present, the First Warden had ordered that they be taken into custody by the Wardens—by any means necessary — and forcibly conscripted. If they wanted to play at being Wardens, then by the Maker, they would be Wardens. He had picked up quite a few apostates in this fashion.
Some had run away; some had not, glad of a meal and the Wardens' protection.
Then there was the problem of the Tevinter baggage train. Many of the servitors were slaves, and some had fled into the anonymity of Nevarran cities. The Tevinters had protested furiously. The Nevarrans were put in an unpleasant position, but few Watchmen would arrest a slave. The Tevinters mostly relied on bounty hunters, and those always spelled trouble.
Quarrels, back-biting and all, the Wardens had been made welcome in the Prince's city of Cumberland, and told something of what the Nevarran Wardens were facing. A pair of Wardens had ridden in hard, evading the darkspawn, all the way from Val Chevin to give a report, and to ask for more support from the Nevarran royal army. The Prince invited the First Warden to the meeting. The two Wardens, a man and a woman named Borthus and Athis, made a good impression on all the notables.
"No one's really got past the darkspawn screening Val Foret and lived to tell about it. We don't know if the city has fallen or not. We don't even know if they've been attacked. For all we know, the Archdemon might have led the horde south, west, or east. In the old days, we could have ridden griffons high above and seen the movements from the air. For now, we're fighting blind."
"We live in the world as it is, and we must work with what we have," Wildauer said stiffly. He hated to be reminded of griffons. Any mention of them made him feel mildly defensive. The creatures were dead and gone, and it was not his fault, but that of a long-dead predecessor, who had cut costs with foolish economy. Or perhaps it was a disease spread by the Qunari. There were various theories, all now of academic interest only. Whatever had happened was all blood under the bridge now. Grey Warden scouts must see the world as ordinary mortals these days: from the ground.
"Is there any word from the Fereldans?" Borthus asked outright. The First Warden was puzzled, but Prince Tylus could make that clear.
"We have heard that Commander Bronwyn — now Queen Bronwyn — means to lead her coalition of dwarves, Dalish, and Fereldans west into Orlais in pursuit of the horde. Very dutiful of her. The country, of course, is leaderless and in turmoil. We understand that a number of high Orlesian nobles have joined under her banner, including Duke Prosper de Montfort. We don't know where Queen Bronwyn is at the moment, but at least she means to provide us with a second front."
Wildauer snorted his dismissal of that crazy barbarian girl, but the Prince of Cumberland gave his due to his new Fereldan allies.
"Very good of her," he said feelingly. "If someone doesn't stop or distract the darkspawn, we could have them in Cumberland before Summerday!"
The Alliance stood at the Frostback Gates at Solidor, and for a moment, everyone took a deep breath before undertaking the march to challenge the Archdemon.
With the mountains at their backs, the green fields of Orlais spread out before them, rolling and lush in springtime garb. In the distance lay the Halamshiral Hills, and further on, under the vault of heaven, lay their destiny.
Bronwyn saw the look on Loghain's face, and found it impossible not to tease him.
"It's only Orlais. You're not invading the Black City!"
He snorted, a gloomy sort of laugh. "There's not much to choose between them, for that matter!" He gazed at the fair country before him, and said, "I never thought I would set foot in Orlais, unless it was as a captive being taken to torture and execution. Only you could persuade to step over this border."
Now she laughed in her turn, and quoted a children's geography, learned by rote under old Aldous' tutelage. "'The Orlesians are a gay and polite people, fond of dancing and light wines.'"
"And with the addition of masks, daggers in the back, poison in the cup, ridiculous clothes, and intolerable arrogance, you have a fairly good picture of our new allies. Maker help us."
Thanks to my reviewers: Imperial queen, Girl-chama, PoptartProdigy, sizuka2, JTheClivz, KnightOfHolyLight, Chiara Crawford, MsBarrows, Blinded in a bolthole, DjinniGenie, Rexiselic, Kyren, wassersaeufer, anon, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, Ie-maru, Garm88, Tirion I,Fenrir666, Nemrut, timunderwood9, Mike3207, Robbie The Phoenix, Chandagnac, JackOfBladesX, Phygmalion, AD Lewis, Jenna53, darksky01, jnybot, mille libri, dragonmactir, Mage, MemoriesoftheForgottenGuardian, Brenediction, Guest, New Zealand 5, Lyssa Terald, and Josie Lange.
The quote: 'The Orlesians are a gay and polite people, fond of dancing and light wines,' is a paraphrase from Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, by Kate Douglas Wiggin, which if you have not read, you should not scorn. It's actually a very good novel for young girls. I'm fond of 19th and early 20th century children's literature. The quote is of course about the French. Here is the rest of the passage:
"I asked the teacher what light wines were, and he thought it was something like new cider, or maybe ginger pop. I can see Paris as plain as day by just shutting my eyes. The beautiful ladies are always gayly dancing around with pink sunshades and bead purses, and the grand gentlemen are politely dancing and drinking ginger pop. But you can see Milltown most every day with your eyes wide open," Rebecca said wistfully.
"Milltown ain't no great, neither," replied Mr. Cobb, with the air of having visited all the cities of the earth and found them as naught.
To an unsigned guest reviewer who said: "It was mentioned last time that Habren was Dowager Arlessa because she neverconsummated her marriage with Urien. That couldn't be considered the case this time-her marriage with Kane was consummated. Anora will need to come up with a good reason why she's Dowager and not Arlessa."
My answer: Nope. Doesn't work that way. Habren was lucky even to be considered a Dowager Arlessa from her first marriage, since the marriage with Urien was unconsummated. She is unquestionably a Dowager Arlessa now, but her marriage to Kane give her no right to inherit the Arling. None. When King George VI died, his wife Queen Elizabeth did not inherit the throne. His daughter Elizabeth did. If the Duke of X dies, his Duchess does not inherit the privileges of his title. His heir does. That is why, in canon, Loghain's claim that Anora is the rightful queen is absolutely laughable. Being married to someone does not give you inheritance rights to a title, unless specific provisions for that are made, as in granting the Crown Matrimonial.