Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 124: A Hero of Our Time
Thousands witnessed the last flight of the Archdemon over the ruins of Val Royeaux. Most could make out the tiny figures on the dragon's back. Those with spyglasses, like First Warden Wildauer and Hector Pentaghast, could see the red armor worn by the Warden on the dragon's neck, riding the creature like an ancient hero. They could see the glitter of the spears in the Wardens' hands. It was the most astonishing sight they had ever seen or ever would see.
A few Tevinter mages had remained posted on their lookout mound, disgruntled at being left behind. Now they were glad to be in a prime position to observe the Archdemon's demise. They even saw two of the Wardens tumble into the sea.
"Bad luck!" cried one of them, younger and more empathetic than the rest.
His friend shrugged. "Maybe they can swim, Julian."
"I hope so! Imagine riding a dragon, Vyraco!" babbled the young mage. "I hope they live to tell about it."
Those remaining at the top of the tower now had to find a way to get down again. Between them and their friends on the ground was a spiral staircase of iron and bronze held by darkspawn.
Tara had a sudden inspiration. She rushed after Alistair, yelling "Stand back!" and released a blue-white bolt of lightning.
It sizzled down the staircase, curving, curving in an elegant helix; electrocuting nearly all of the darkspawn there. Tainted bodies jerked and shuddered away. Some remained in place, dead bodies rigid, eyes bulging, smoke rising from the top of their heads.
"Good job!" Alistair shouted, impressed. He and Carver knocked dead darkspawn aside as they raced to the bottom. Not all were dead, though, and they fought back savagely. The smoke of the burnt darkspawn obscured the way. Blades slashed out of nowhere; arrows whistled past.
Zevran laughed fiercely as he drove a dagger into a hurlock. His laugh was cut off by an arrow in his throat. It went all the way through, the bloody barb coming out the back.
Tara shrieked at the sight. Zevran's eyes were wide and astonished, as he groped at the bright blood trickling from the wound. Abruptly, he sat down on a step, and managed to give Tara a shocked, ironic smile. Minjonet was just behind him and caught him as he toppled back.
"Créateur!" cried the Orlesian. "In the throat! That means death!"
"No, it doesn't!" Tara shouted back. She fumbled in her breastband for a small packet. and then shouted at Minjonet. "Break off the barb! I'll pull it out! Do it!"
Minjonet shook her head, but snapped off the barb. Tara yanked out the rest of the arrow, ignoring Zevran's horrible gurgle and the jet of blood that followed. Instead, she grabbed him by the jaw and forced all she had left of the Ashes of Andraste into his mouth.
"Swallow!" she yelled. Then she rifled ruthlessly through his clothes, until she found his own pouch. Only a little remained. "This, too!" she insisted.
The result was startling. All the fighters paused on the steps, disbelieving. At one moment, Zevran was choking to death on his own blood. In the next, the wound was closed, and Zevran was covered in blood, but quite healed.
"My Warden!" he gasped, awed and grateful. He seized her bloody, filthy hand, and pressed a fervent kiss to it.
"All right!" Tara shouted at her staring comrades. "It was all we had left of the Ashes of Andraste! Only the Grand Cleric has any, so nobody get hurt. Don't ask me any questions! Let's go!"
Oddly, the loss of the Ashes made her happy. She felt as as if a great burden had been lifted from her. She yodeled out a war cry, firing off spells at the last of the darkspawn.
They were almost to the ground when a shock wave shook the tower, making them stumble. Alistair got out the door first. They were just in time to see the huge churning fireball to the north. Under the stars, a dragon fell from the sky, spewing the last of its fire, and the fireball dissipated slowly into dark smoke, hiding the stars.
"Bronwyn!" Alistair shouted, echoed by Tara, almost simultaneously.
By this time all the darkspawn in the cathedral courtyard were dead. More lurked in the compound itself: in the Cathedral itself, in the sullied gardens, in the scriptorium, in the dormitories. They would be hunted down eventually. Nor were all the Broodmothers dead. There were more nests: in deep chambers under great mansions, in the dungeons of the Palace, and further down, down, in the Deep Roads, where many of the captives had been dragged.
But at that moment, no one had anything on their minds but rushing out to see what had happened.
A shaft of unearthly light speared up into the heavens. It expanded into a gigantic white blossom that lit up the night sky like daylight. The boom that followed shook the walls of Val Royeaux.
"Oh," Athis murmured, gazing in awe. "That's what they meant by a 'bright light.'"
"It's… pretty bright," Pentaghast croaked. "Forget the darkspawn for now. We've got to see this."
Loghain did not wait for the end. He was already pushing ahead like a one-man battering ram, the route to the Gate of the Moon vivid in his mind's-eye.
"Out the way! Out of the bloody way! You! Sten! Get the golems, and let's get out there!"
The dogs, not quite understanding what was happening, but comprehending fully that he was upset, ran at his side.
Sten grasped the urgency of the moment. "Golems! Form a wedge and force your way through."
The darkspawn melted before the golem's charge like butter, and fled to the north and south of the city, pressed on the other side by the Northern Wardens.
Further down the Avenue they came across a wyvern saddle, and in it, spilled onto his side, was Duke Prosper. Loghain could not be bothered with him, except to feel a spark of fierce relief that he was gone. Some Orlesians carried him to the side of the street and left him to be recovered later. The charge went on. They met the Nevarran Wardens, and a brief cheer rose, as they pushed through the gate and out onto the plain.
Morrigan thought she had planned for every possible contingency; yet at this moment — a moment that should have been one of triumph — she felt her schemes unraveling. She had believed that her ritual would benefit all her friends, and had prided herself on her cleverness. She had never expected Bronwyn to end up on the back of a dragon, flying high above the earth. Her friend would survive the death of the Archdemon: there was no way she could survive the subsequent fall. The Avvar fell off into the sea. A little later, Brosca slid away. Morrigan shrieked in frustration, flying ever faster to keep up.
If only she had confided in Bronwyn! If only she had told her that she could both kill the Archdemon and survive. With a little prudence, Bronwyn would understand that she should disable the dragon; force it to land. She could have then slay it and reap all the rewards. She might not like it, but surely, given time, she would see reason...
But Bronwyn did not know that she should force the dragon to land. Bronwyn expected to die either in the air or on the ground, and there was no way for Morrigan to inform her otherwise now. Anders would be angry: he would feel betrayed. Even though she trusted in her power over her lover, Morrigan did not relish the thought of the coming confrontation. For that matter, she was genuinely distressed that all these worthless Wardens had proved so ineffectual that Bronwyn must die to save the day.
That burst of emotion forced out a shrill "cree!" and she veered a little closer to the failing Archdemon, trying to think of some way to distract Bronwyn. That Riordan was still stabbing at the dragon, bracing himself against the wing joint as he tried to pierce the hide. Let him perish!
Thus, she was dangerously near when Bronwyn's spear found the Archdemon's brain. Flemeth had not prepared her for what followed.
Light burst from the Archdemon's wound, as if a curtain had been drawn aside in a dark room. The light was dazzling; overwhelming. The birds were blinded by it.
It was the last thing Bronwyn saw. The Archdemon convulsed, thrashing violently. In the resulting shockwave, Bronwyn was jolted forward, and the impact of the butt of her spear against her breastplate stopped her heart. The spear could not penetrate the dragon armor, and it bent away to the side, but the damage was done. Bronwyn was already dead and beyond pain by the time the Archdemon slammed into the earth. The creature's mass somewhat cushioned its riders' final impact. but more bones were broken. Bronwyn lay draped over the Archdemon's head, one arm extended, face turned a little to the side.
By a bizarre happenstance, Riordan survived, though badly injured, sprawled out unconscious on the vast wing. Anders ordinarily would have gone to him at once, but instead rushed to help Morrigan, who was critically injured.
The Archdemon's lashing tail had struck her a glancing blow, breaking a wing. The shockwave stunned her. Morrigan became groggily aware that she was plummeting to earth, and she fluttered desperately, crying out in pain. Her first impulse was to go to human form, and she had just enough sense left not to do it. Morrigan struck the earth at some distance from the Archdemon a few moments later. Anders was instantly at her side.
He had been shaken by the shockwave, too, but was farther away, and had managed to keep his head. Flying swiftly to her, he shifted back to human form and fell on his knees by the injured bird.
"Morrigan!"
He thought now that he had made a mistake with Niall, and would try another way with Morrigan. "I know it hurts, but let me set the wing first before you change. If you change with broken bones, you could do even more damage."
He busied himself, mending the bird's fragile bones, sick with guilt and unable to look at the awful calamity behind him. He cast a sleep spell on Morrigan, and when she seemed stable, he got hold of himself and turned to the wreck of the dragon. No one could have survived that. All of Morrigan's plots had been in vain.
He slipped off his tabard and set Morrigan carefully inside it, using it to carry her along with him. Closer to the dragon, he was startled to see faint movement. He walked a little faster, still careful with Morrigan's injuries. Already he could hear distant shouts, as the Wardens on the north side of the city came rushing from their fortifications and through the city gates to triumph over the defeated Archdemon.
He set Morrigan in the curve of a wing, and clambered up to see if anything could be done for Bronwyn, already guessing the truth. Feeling like a fool and a coward and a dupe, he gently felt for a pulse. He ground his teeth, and then tried again. Nothing. It was over. He turned away, and slipped down to see to Riordan.
What he discovered was the one good thing that happened that night.
The young Tevinter lookouts on the mound stared in disbelief at the white light blooming from the dragon. The shock wave knocked them down. They staggered up, still not daring to believe their eyes as the creature hurtled to earth. It hit the ground behind the Warden lines.
The younger, Julian, managed to speak first, grabbing up a torch. "Come on! Maybe we can help them!"
"Nobody could have survived that!"
"I'm going. Bring a torch, Vyraco. We'll need some light."
"But we were supposed to stay here... Oh, all right, but I'm telling the Commander that it was your idea."
Some nearby grass had briefly caught fire from the dragon's last breath, but it was so wet that the fire could not spread. It cast a little light on the scene for the young mages. They pelted toward the Archdemon's body, and then halted at the sight of Anders, working hard on Riordan. They held up their torches, trying to see into the shadows.
"It's a Warden!" Vyraco shouted. "He's alive!"
"Someone survived?" Julian burst out. "That's amazing!" Seeing that Anders was a mage made him much more comfortable addressing an obvious foreigner. "I am Julian Merulus, and this is my friend Vyraco. How can we help?"
"You're Healers?"
Vyraco shrugged. "He is. I can do a little."
"All right." He pointed at the comatose Riordan. "We've got broken ribs here, and a punctured lung. A broken leg, a dislocated shoulder, some serious contusions. I'm hoping his brain isn't scrambled. Take your pick. I'm Anders, by the way."
Julian looked up to the still figure draped over the dragon's head.
"What about...?"
"She killed the Archdemon. She's dead."
Vyracus stood in nervous, respectful silence, and then hastily held up the torch for his friend.
"I'm sorry," Julian said softly, going to work on Riordan's injuries. "I mean... someone had to kill the Archdemon, but I'm sorry anyway. She looks young. Was she your friend?"
"My Commander. Bronwyn, Queen of Ferelden."
That got a reaction. Julian's concentration slipped for a second, causing Anders to hiss in anger.
"Sorry. That's her?"
It struck Anders then that Bronwyn really was dead. Gone. Grief nearly strangled him, and his eyes burned. Morrigan had promised she'd live. She'd promised that all their friends would be safe. He blinked, and cleared his throat.
"Yes. That's her. Watch how you talk about her."
"I don't mean any disrespect," Julian assured him. "It's just...we heard some amazing things. Some Orlesian noble left a copy of a White Chantry document in Cumberland." He whispered to his friend, "That's Andraste's Champion."
Vyracus craned his neck for a better look. "I heard she found Andraste's Ashes. Why didn't she use them?"
Anders was ready to explode.
"Because the bloody Chantry made her use her Ashes to prove they really were the Ashes." He subsided, exhausted. "She healed a little girl. She didn't have any left for herself."
Vyracus whispered to Julian, "White Chantry idiocy." Then, embarrassed, he muttered, "Sorry," to Anders.
"You don't have to apologize to me. I hate the Chantry more than you can imagine. Bronwyn always stood up for mages. It's only because of her that mages have the freedom to serve in the army or run public clinics in Ferelden."
Julian focused on healing Riordan's fractured skull. Blue healing light glowed brilliantly in the darkness. Vyraco held the torches to help them work and noticed the bundle in the curve of the wing.
"Is that your hawk?" He asked Anders.
"Yes. Don't touch her. She was hurt in the blast."
The young Tevinter studied the hawk, politely not touching her, but clearly very puzzled and interested.
Julian gave his friend a look, which was not understood. He finally said to Anders, "When you're done here, you should get her—" he pointed at Bronwyn "— down from there before she gets stiff. I mean..." he hesitated at the burning look from the strange mage. "I mean, her people will want to see her... looking better. I can do it if you don't want to."
"Don't touch her, either. The King... her husband... isn't feeling very friendly toward Tevinters since he cleared out some slaver gangs in Denerim."
"We're not slavers!" Julian said, a little indignant.
Anders looked at him, bone-tired. "I think the Fereldan Wardens who recently had family abducted into slavery would not see much difference between the merchants who sell their goods and the customers who buy them. I don't want to talk about it. Concentrate on fixing Riordan."
He had to argue again when the First Warden and the Warden-Commanders of Nevarra, Rivain, and Tevinter arrived. Anders had unbuckled Bronwyn from the dragon by then and laid her out more or less decently on the dragon's wing to keep her from the wet ground. She was already nothing like the Bronwyn Cousland he had known. In the moonlight she looked smaller and younger, and her broken bones made her bend in odd ways. He shut her eyes and folded her hands over her waist, but no one would mistake her state for sleep. It was harder than with a living body, but Anders cast a few spells to make her look more like herself, if only to spare everyone else's feelings. Quietly, he cast a preservation spell too. It would a hundred times worse if the flies started buzzing around her.
Pentaghast had the good sense to send a runner to find King Loghain and break the news. The First Warden was very curious about Bronwyn, and touched her armor.
"It really is dragonbone," he murmured to an aide. When it appeared he might attempt to open her eyes to see how green they really were, Anders interposed himself.
"Sorry, First Warden. The preservation spells are in a delicate state."
It was an outright lie. The Tevinter Commander raised his brows and looked faintly amused. Anders sensed that he had no particular respect for the First Warden, either. Pentaghast ordered some of his men to strap some spears together for makeshift litters. The wounded and the dead must be carried away with dignity.
Morrigan was looking a lot better, and had awakened. Anders talked to her like any man would talk to a favorite pet, warning her that they were not alone.
"There you are, girl. You're going to be all right. Just lie still and don't make any sudden moves. You might startle my new Tevinter assistants."
Morrigan creed softly, to show she understood. Under his terrible grief and anger, Anders still loved her, and was not about to betray her to the curiosity of theses strangers.
Vyraco, who might regard elves and slaves as furniture, but was very tender-hearted toward animals of all kinds, took another look at her.
"So Fereldans like hawking too! I have a hawk at home, but I didn't bring her. I'm surprised your Commander let you."
Anders wondered how anyone could be this completely oblivious to the situation and to the feelings of others. His friend look a little embarrassed, or perhaps he thought Vyraco was being too forthcoming with a Fereldan barbarian. At least Julian was doing good work on Riordan.
"My hawk is really useful. She can deliver messages... and she understands anything you say to her."
"You must have trained her up a treat. Who's that coming?"
Anders sighed. "That's Loghain Mac Tir. This is his wife. I've got to go talk to him. You may want to stand back."
But Loghain had an iron grip on himself. He supposed he had always known how this would end. The world was peopled by fools and incompetents. Those few who were willing to sacrifice themselves for the common good were cheerfully allowed to do just that by the feckless, the lazy, the cowardly.
Loghain saw Anders working over a fallen warrior, and for a moment, against all reason, he felt a thrill of hope. That hope was crushed as he came closer and saw it was that bloody Orlesian, Riordan. Bronwyn was next to him, looking quite nice for a dead girl. He stopped, quite unable to say or do anything. There were groans and sobs around him, but they meant nothing to him. Then Scout dashed at Bronwyn, sniffed at her, and lifted his head in a howl so terrible, so utterly forlorn that Loghain lost control.
"Stop him! Stop him! Shut him up, you mages, or I swear I'll kill him here and now!"
Instantly, Jowan cast a sleep spell on the dog.
"It's done!"
The unbearable howling was cut off, and Scout slumped onto the dead, blighted grass.
Sten turned to a golem. "Carry him back to their headquarters. Carefully. He is a true warrior, and worthy of respect."
Loghain remained rooted to the earth, trembling a little. Tara dared to approach him.
"Let's take Bronwyn back, too," she urged. "We'll see to her there."
Loghain nodded, as if thinking of other things. Then he frowned as too many strangers crowded close, wanting the honor of carrying the litter of the Slayer of the Archdemon.
"Let me carry her!" Jowan offered. He stumbled forward, and knelt before Loghain. "I'll change... and you can strap the litter to me. Everybody can see her, but nobody will be able to touch her. Please, Lord King. Let me do this."
Loghain looked at him a long moment, and then gestured to the side. The Fereldan Wardens backed away. Tara gave Jowan a nod and a strained smile. The transition from man to wyvern made the entire crowd draw back in awe.
And so Bronwyn was lifted to the wyvern's back, and the litter made fast. And Loghain stalked back to the city, Bronwyn on her strange and magical bier behind him.
"Stay!" the First Warden said to Anders, who had taken Morrigan up again in his tabard. "We have much to discuss! Ferelden will need a new Warden-Commander."
Adaia stepped forward, her little elven face battle-hard. "Tomorrow. We'll talk tomorrow. You'll want to finish looting the Archdemon, I expect. We need time to sleep... and grieve."
"And so do we," said Pentaghast, his voice gentle. "I shall see that our Fereldan brothers and sisters are given their due."
Adaia hoped he would, but was more interested in being with her friends at the moment.
While the Wardens of Tevinter and Weisshaupt swarmed over the Archdemon, draining the precious blood from the corpse, Riordan was carefully carried from the field by his Orlesian comrades, under the watchful care of the young Tevinter mages. Julian proved to be an expert Healer, and clearly thought nothing too good for a Warden who had ridden on the back of an Archdemon. Riordan was still unconscious, but Anders had made a good start on him. Julian was hopeful for a complete recovery, and told Anders so, when he sought him out later.
"He'll need a lot of sleep. When he wakes," the boy sighed, "he'll learn that's it's all over. Was he a good friend of your Bronwyn?"
Anders paused, about to tell the Tevinter sharply that she had hardly been "his" Bronwyn; but then he thought he understood. National heroine. Andraste's Champion.
I suppose she's now officially "our" Bronwyn.
"Yes. He was. Sort of a mentor, I suppose. She always thought well of him. Anyway, he was up there, fighting beside her, and that counts for something."
The boy drew closer. "But you weren't on the dragon, were you? I didn't see you there. How did you get to them so quickly?"
Anders shook his head. "I really can't say..."
The boy lowered his voice. "Was it teleportation?" he whispered. "Have you mastered teleportation in the far south? We have heard that the ancient elves had devices that allowed them to travel over great distances, but the lore is lost."
"I don't know anything about teleportation," Anders said sharply. He was about to say more about Tevinters in general, when there were heavy footsteps coming nearer, and Shale appeared, carrying Astrid's body.
A crowd gathered, with more and more dwarves, and the events in the Cathedral became known. The nest under the Cathedral was destroyed, but Paragon Astrid and her party had perished. Others had been caught in the collapse. Shale had not been hurt, of course, and was able to clear some of the rubble and retrieve the Paragon, whom Shale had greatly respected.
The dwarves were quite devastated by the fate of Astrid. Much of the interest in the Archdemon and the dead Queen were diverted to other, more specifically dwarven interests. The Paragon must obviously be given to the Stone in Orzammar. The Archdemon had been slain. and thus the Blight was over and with it any obligations the dwarves had to the Grey Wardens. They must return to Orzammar as soon as the condition of their wounded permitted. Piotin Aeducan was about to seek out Loghain and tell him so, and then hesitated. Perhaps the next morning would be more... tactful.
Early the next morning, the Fereldan Wardens received a message that their senior leadership was to report to the First Warden as soon as possible.
Everyone was exhausted, of course. While there were still darkspawn in the city, they had been driven from the Place Reville, the Palace, the market, the Cathedral Compound, and the two major gate areas. The Avenue of the Sun was fairly secure, as long as one traveled with armed companions. Minimal guards kept occasional forays at bay. The darkspawn were leaderless and nearly imbecilic: that did not mean they were not dangerous.
And some of the Rivainni Wardens claimed to have seen another wyvern—a live one — in addition to the mangled corpse near the Gate of the Moon. This was attributed to darkness and strong drink, but it was entirely possible that there were still ogres lurking in the shadows.
The summons resulted in a brief, unhappy meeting at the house at the Place Reville. Those already up sent one of the new Wardens around the house to wake up the late sleepers. Alistair knew he must meet with the First Warden, and had unpleasant expectations.
"I won't let them make me Warden-Commander. It's just not on. Bronwyn made me an Arl, and I'll always be a Warden. Just not Warden-Commander."
"If not you, then who?" Leliana asked, feeling very tired. Silas, she had learned, had perished with Astrid. The Archdemon was gone from their dreams, which was a gift of the Maker, but her heart was broken with so much loss. "Astrid is gone, Brosca is gone, Danith is gone. Cullen is gone. And Bronwyn…" She took a deep breath, and swallowed hard. "So few of us are left from that Joining in the little hunting lodge in the mountains. And you are senior."
"I won't do it," Alistair insisted, pale but stubborn. "I've got Jader to take care of. I'd even stay on as Senior Warden in Jader, but I can't be Warden-Commander. Emrys, either, for that matter. He's got to be a bann. Look here: who's senior?"
"And who gets on with the King?" Aveline put in, very reasonably. "Whoever is Warden-Commander needs to be able to work with him."
"King Loghain likes Tara," said Adaia softly, holding hands with Siofranni. "He listened to her yesterday. I think Tara would be best."
Tara and Zevran walked in at that moment. Zevran was a shadow of his usual debonair self. He was doing his best to put up a brave front, but the effort was showing. Tara was tense and miserable. If Morrigan was going to lure Anders into a crazy, evil, blood magic ritual, she could have had the decency to see that it actually worked. For all her promises. Bronwyn was dead, along with all too many of their friends.
"I'd be best for what?" she asked.
"We're summoned to talk to the First Warden," said Alistair. "We've been discussing who we should put forward for Warden-Commander. I won't accept the job. You'd be great."
Zevran managed a wry grin and an elaborate bow. He filled bowls of a rather horrible-looking porridge for Tara and himself and brought them to the table.
Tara rolled her eyes. "I can just see that nomination going over well. Especially with the Tevinters."
Carver Hawke stopped eating long enough to put his chin on his fist, thinking. "Who cares what the Tevinters think? We'll probably never see any of these people again."
Tara shook her head. "People at home wouldn't like a mage in charge… 'ruling' over anything, you know. And Fereldans will like giving an elf a hard time. If Alistair won't do it, what about you, Leliana? You've been a Warden as long as I have."
Leliana did not even see that as a possibility. "Loghain does not like me. He never has. That will not change, now that his wife is dead in the land of his enemies, saving their lives."
That was all perfectly true, but the fact was that Leliana was considering staying in Orlais. She liked Riordan. Even more, she liked the Empress and her sisters and Prince Florestan. The happy time she had spent refurbishing Soldier's Peak seemed to have happened to someone else in another life. Now that Bronwyn was gone, she could never love Ferelden again. It was time to start over.
"Well," Tara said, "there's Anders…"
Carver snorted, and then muttered a good morning to Jowan as the mage slipped into the room. "Tara, only you would nominate Anders to be in charge of anything. Besides, Morrigan might not approve."
Alistair agreed. "Morrigan doesn't approve of much. She liked Bronwyn, though. At least she was able to be with Bronwyn at the end."
They were silent for a some time, eating, and finally Tara said, "Well, what about you, Carver? You're more senior than the Ostagar Wardens."
Aveline objected. "I think the Warden-Commander of Ferelden should be at least twenty years old!"
Carver shot back, "It just so happens, milady Aveline, that I am twenty. Just," he added in a low voice. He was tempted. Being Warden-Commander of Ferelden was something. It was greater than being a mere 'Bann Adam' any day. "But I still think Tara would be better. She even has experience as a Senior Warden leading a unit."
"I think Tara would be best, too," Jowan murmured.
"All right," Tara said, thinking hard. "How about this? We'll go, and we'll give my name and Carver's name, and see who'll they'll go for."
"And if they try to give us a foreigner," Quinn spoke up from a corner, "We'll tell 'em that the King won't have it!" He had been very quiet since the deaths of Niall and Maeve.
There were some murmurs from the others in the room. Most were too tired and sad from the losses to trouble themselves. Darach had not spoken they had returned last night, and Nuala and Steren were doing their best to look after him. The surviving dwarves had become very withdrawn since hearing of Astrid's death. And the loss of Bronwyn had the whole party feeling weaker.
"Who's going to go, then?" Tara demanded. "Alistair, you've got to go, so don't hide behind your bowl. Everybody who was a Warden before the big Ostagar Joining should go. That means somebody needs to get Anders… and so it's you, Leliana, and Anders. Then Adaia, Carver, Jowan, and me."
Quinn said, "Anders is whipped…"
Alistair added, "…in more ways than one!"
Everyone chuckled, but Quinn was not done. "…he was up until all hours taking care of Morrigan and the rest of the wounded."
"I know," Tara said kindly, "but this is really important, and he wouldn't like not to be consulted. Siofranni, go up there and roust him. While we're gone, I've got work for the rest of you."
There were groans, but people already seemed in better spirits, having a purpose again.
"Steren, take a patrol out and scout the perimeter of the Place Reville. Look for hidden darkspawn. Aveline: take a patrol to the Gate of the Sun, and make sure the way out of here is clear. I need a mage… you, Peder. I remember you from the Circle. After what we've been through, some of the soldiers must have got themselves Blight sickness. Look for signs. Try to enforce some cleanliness and safety standards. It's likely we'll be welcoming a lot of new Wardens pretty soon. We need to be ready. Don't alarm people, but talk to the other healers."
Alistair said quietly. "And we'll be having the funerals today."
"Right. They'll have the pyres for the soldiers and the Wardens here in the Place Reville. Bronwyn's pyre will be at sunset on the north side of the walls near the Archdemon. Here's a thought for today: nobody gets killed but darkspawn."
Loghain managed a few hours of sick, restless sleep, and awakened to the first full day that Bronwyn was dead. He would have to get up and see her laid out on her bier, knowing that she would never fight or talk or laugh again. She would never lose her temper or toss a goblet of wine his way. She would never kiss him again. Everything that was Bronwyn was gone, only the Maker knew where.
He had lost women he loved before, but this loss had its own special poignancy. She was, he was certain, the last woman who would even be in love with him. For the first time in his life, he felt...old. Barren years of duty stretched out before him, lonely and uninviting.
Then he was informed that Piotin Aeducan wished to speak to him. No matter what the heartbreak, it seemed that there was always work to be done.
"I'll be there directly," said Loghain.
The Wardens' Council declared that Riordan, as soon as he recovered, would be the new Warden-Commander of Orlais. No one questioned it; no rival claimant was proposed. His deeds spoke for themselves.
In contrast, Tara's nomination for Fereldan commander was received by First Warden Wildauer with a signal lack of enthusiasm. With the exception of Tevinter, where a mage always ruled the Wardens, it was considered more tactful for the position to be filled by a notable warrior who would be better able to mix with the nation's elite. Being an elf did not much help the situation either: the Tevinters would not support an elf, and wondered why Anders, handsome and capable, and whom many of them had met, was not putting himself forward.
"I'm a Healer, not a leader," he said. "I like being a Warden, but I don't want to deal with nobles and try to think of strategy. Tara's a lot better at that. That's why Bronwyn made her a Senior Warden and gave her an independent command."
For that matter, nearly everyone had been immensely impressed by Jowan's transformation, and thought that such a powerful — human — mage would not be a better choice.
"I've made serious errors of judgement in the past," Jowan said. "Tara has saved me from them more times than I can count. She has my complete support. And she can shape-shift into a wyvern, too, for that matter."
Alistair was clearly senior, but he absolutely refused. Perhaps if someone he personally admired, like Riordan, had been there to urge him; or if Loghain had commanded him, it would have been different. but these strangers meant nothing to him, and he did not care about their good opinion. Leliana told them frankly that she was not Fereldan enough to be acceptable. No one even considered Adaia for a moment. The little elf smirked coldly. She wondered if any of the Tevinters here had bought friends of hers on the slave market.
Pentaghast had met both Jowan and Carver. He thought Carver a very nice young man, with a great deal of potential, but considered him far too young. Visconti and Sainsby had seen them all fight, and had good things to say about Carver's prowess, but they agreed that he needed some experience in command, and perhaps another ten years, before he was ready to undertake such a demanding position.
"Your King may disapprove," the First Warden warned Tara.
Alistair disagreed. "Loghain likes Tara. He always has. He's not prejudiced against mages or elves. He thinks she's competent, and he doesn't think that about most people. And she was Bronwyn's friend. He'll be fine with it."
They returned to their headquarters to find the pyres nearly ready, and with one thing to be glad about.
"Ostap's back!" Quinn shouted. "He's alive!"
The Avvar was in good shape, but in borrowed clothes, since his leathers were being carefully dried.
"I did not have far to fall, and I swim well. I found the woman captain's ship and they took me aboard." Gravely, he added. "I have heard that Bronwyn chose glory before length of days, as in the tales of old."
"She did," said Alistair, remembering Bustrum's story with a shiver.
Tara asked, "Did you see Brosca? Did she make it, too?"
The Avvar shook his head, his face drawn with grief. "She was a great warrior, but she could not swim."
Dead trees and ruined houses had contributed to the pyres in Place Reville. Duke Prosper was laid on one, his identity unknown, wearing only his smallclothes, for looters had divested him of his magnificent armor, his plumed helmet, his wyvern-hide boots, his jewels, and even his silk handkerchiefs.
The Wardens had their own pyre, and Fereldans and Orlesians alike were laid on it. Quinn wept openly, as he laid Niall and Maeve side by side. More tears were shed for other comrades: for Cathair and Sigrun, for Bustrum and Clovis, for Nevin and Oghren and all the rest. They would all be burned here, all alike, whether human, elf, or dwarf, for there was no way to carry them either to a green wood or return them to the Stone in proper fashion.
Astrid, indeed, was going home to Orzammar. Her body had been preserved by spells, and was now in the half-empty explosives wagon, wrapped first in looted silk and then in canvas. She would have a great state funeral, no doubt. The dwarves and the Legion of the dead were ready to go, but agreed among themselves to attend Queen Bronwyn's funeral out of respect. After that, nothing would persuade them to remain on the surface.
Some had slept through the past several hours, and were awakening to a new world.
"Riordan!" said Jowan. "How do you feel?"
The Orlesian blinked and realized that he was still alive. It was somewhat... disappointing.
"Better than I have any reason to expect. The Archdemon?"
"Dead."
Reluctantly, Riordan forced himself to ask, "Bronwyn?"
"Dead. You only survived because Anders was there and could tend to you immediately. You were pretty banged up. You should be fine, but you need a lot of rest—"
Minjonet appeared at his side. "We thought we'd lost you!"
"It would seem not. What's happening?"
"The darkspawn are scattering. Everyone was too exhausted to pursue them last night. The pyres will be lit for the Orlesian and Fereldan dead here in Place Reville. The Queen's funeral is at sundown."
"I must be there!"
Minjonet looked at Jowan to forbid it, but Jowan sympathized with Riordan.
"We'll see that you're up to it. I'll have someone get you something to eat, while Minjonet gives you the news."
Jowan stepped out of the room, and Riordan was aware of bottomless, raging hunger. It seemed base and inappropriate. He, so close to his Calling, had survived, and Bronwyn, so young and with so much to live for, was gone. It was not something he ever said aloud, but Riordan had suspected for many years that the Maker had a cruel sense of humor.
"What else has happened?"
Minjonet pulled up a nearby stool and sat down at his bedside. "Well, it appears that Tara Surana will be the new Fereldan Commander, and you are the new Warden-Commander of Orlais. It's official. The First Warden said..."
Another awakening took place after the Warden' Council. Once Anders had managed to get Morrigan back to the comparative safety of the Wardens' headquarters, he had found a small room — hardly more than a closet with a window — for his private use, and there Morrigan managed to transform and spend many hours in a healing sleep. Anders locked her in and left her during the meeting, but as soon as he returned, it was time to face her.
On awakening that morning, he had checked her signs, of course, and was relieved to see that the bones were knitting well. Between his magic and her own, she should heal rapidly and be on her feet by the following day. He left her and returned to find her awake and nearly hysterical. Her magic had told her at once that something had gone disastrously wrong.
"I have miscarried!" she shrilled, her face twisted in an ugly rictus of fury and disappointment.
"How can you know?" he asked. "It's too early—"
"I know!"
Something to do with the ritual, then. Anders looked at her anxiously. At this stage, at least it would not have harmed her physically.
"Morrigan, sweetheart," he said, stroking her face. "You were hurt really badly. I got to you first thing, but there was nothing I could do. We can always have another child—"
She clutched her temples in world-crushing despair. "You fool!"
Words were said for the dead in Place Reville, and by noon the pyres were aflame. Bronwyn was laid out in her armor in a make-shift bier in front of Loghain's headquarters. Her helmet, her weapons, and her dragon horn were displayed on a stand. Leliana had spent some time on her face and hair. Aeron played his lute quietly nearby. Loghain stood at the head of the bier, his eyes fixed on Bronwyn's still face, committing every feature to memory.
The army, the Wardens, the dwarves, the Dalish, the mages, even the Orlesian chevaliers lined up to pass by in farewell. For some, this was the first opportunity they had ever had to see her close to.
Merrill whispered to Lanaya, "Doesn't Brownyn look pretty? It's such a shame. I always liked her..."
Scout crouched next to Bronwyn's bier, whimpering and shivering. There was no comforting him: he snapped at those who approached him, and even growled at Loghain. Only his fellow mabari were welcome.
The First Warden ordered one of his staff, a gifted artist, to draw Bronwyn. After taking some sketches now, he would paint a portrait of her as she appeared in life, to be hung in a place of honor at Weisshaupt Fortress. Discreetly, the artist consulted Leliana about the exact shade of green to use for her eyes. Loghain was irritated, but others courteously approached him with the request to represent the scene.
"Why not?" he growled. "You might as well get it right."
There was a stir in the crowd, and a group or Orlesians approached, led by Prince Florestan. He carried a long object wrapped in cloth-of-gold. With some trepidation, the Prince bowed to Loghain.
"Your Majesty," he said, his scarred face grave. "Nothing can express the gratitude of Thedas for this sacrifice. And yet, I wish to offer a token of my own regard. I pray you accept it. It was never ours, anyway."
He opened the wrappings, and revealed something remarkable.
Loghain, not much interested, frowned. "A sword!"
"It is Nemetos, the Sword of Calenhad, taken from King Venedin of Ferelden in Blessed 8:24. I knew where it was kept in the Palace, and thought it a great dishonor to hoard it away from its rightful owner. Let it be a symbol of peace between us." With another bow, he offered the sword, hilt first.
Loghain considered punching the silly fellow's face. What did he care for the ancient sword of the Theirins, when Bronwyn lay dead? Cauthrien did not dare touch him, but he felt her steadying presence beside him, and mastered his first impulse. He took the sword and held it high, judging its balance. Maric had had a fine sword, too, but Loghain had never considered using it.
"The Sword of Calenhad," he murmured. "Too heavy for Loghain. Let the blood of Calenhad watch over it, until she is given to the fire."
The pommel was laid under Bronwyn's folded hands. It was a handsome sword, Loghain thought. The Orlesians had taken good care of their prize. It meant absolutely nothing to him personally, but all the same, he would take it home and have it displayed in a place of honor at the Landsmeet. If Fergus Cousland wished to bear it someday, that would be his own doing. No one else would hold that sword hilt but Bronwyn while Loghain lived.
To the north of the vast, already stinking corpse of the Archdemon was a broad, flat area that was deemed adequate for the Queen's funeral. The Wardens worked with a will. There was plenty of dead and Blighted wood to use for the purpose: at sundown, Bronwyn Cousland of Ferelden would be sent off in style. The pyre would burn, and in the early hours of the morning, her ashes would be collected and all who were not Wardens would depart.
Some sympathetic Orlesian Wardens had searched the remains of the Grand Cathedral and had found jars of sacred incense. It was added to the pyre to overcome the usual depressing smells. Many Orlesians believed that Bronwyn should be regarded as something of an Orlesian heroine. She certainly had not been bound by the small-minded prejudices of many of her countrymen. Boniface Clery was one of them. He had spoken to both Tara and Riordan, and it was agreed that he would be reassigned to the Orlesian Wardens. It was for the best. Tara did not like the idea of punishing people by forcing them to be a Warden in a foreign land, and she did not think Boniface would ever be happy in Ferelden. She did the same with some of the Wardens they had picked up along their march. Others wished to remain with the Fereldans, especially the mages and the elves.
At sundown they gathered, thousands in their ranks, and watched the solemn procession to the pyre. Many admired the soldierly fortitude of King Loghain; others thought him incredibly hard-hearted. With him were Arls Alistair and Wulffe, Bann Cauthrien and Emrys, his captains, the commanders of the dwarven forces, the Keepers of the Dalish, and, of course, the Wardens. Amber was with Loghain, and Magister and Lily with their own humans. Scout had become so difficult that Loghain knew better than to try to take him to the funeral. He was chained up, bewildered, furious, and barking, back at their headquarters.
The Qunari were there, however. Sten's stern demeanour was to be expected; but there was sadness, there, too. It was not the Qunari custom to treat the dead with ceremony. Once life was gone, the shell was something to be disposed of with due regard to public health and hygiene. Nonetheless, Sten thought this a remarkable occasion, worthy of consideration and meditation. If these bas needed elaborate trappings to focus their minds, so be it. He would have much to say about Bronwyn Cousland when he returned to Par Vollen. First, of course, he must find the Tome of Koslun.
With great care, Bronwyn had been prepared for the pyre. Leliana and Tara wanted to spare him, but Loghain insisted on helping. They had removed her armor, washed her carefully, and since any linen would have to be filched from some dead Orlesian's bedchamber, Loghain had dressed her in the rumpled red gown in her pack. She would be a Red Queen to the end. Jowan, in wyvern form, once again carried her on his back. Alistair and Wulffe lifted the litter away and bore it up to the pyre between them.
The army had no priest. Those few with Loghain's army had been left behind beyond the Orne. The northern Wardens did not wish to quarrel with the Chantry on campaign. and none had come with them. Truth to tell, there were two priests among the Tevinter Wardens, but Elagabalus did not mention the men, quite correctly understanding that the offer would be neither appropriate nor appreciated. Nonetheless, the two priests stood back in the crowd and whispered their own prayers for one whom more and more were coming to believe had indeed been Andraste's Champion.
That was the word among the Wardens, anyway, and they would all take it with them to their homelands.
"—wasn't Andraste from Ferelden, like Bronwyn? Didn't Bronwyn have a voice that persuaded all to join her? Didn't she perish to bring hope to the world? Didn't she have the power of healing?"
Old Knight-Commander Greagoir was the closest thing they had to a proper cleric. He had fought hard in the battle, and was feeling all his years and more today. He recited a bit of the Chant of Light that Loghain wanted, since this had been the text at the funeral of the Wardens after Ostagar.
"'Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.
Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.'"
The listeners were riveted. The mention of champions resonated with a growing legend. Greagoir went on:
"'Though all before me is shadow,
Yet shall the Maker be my guide.
I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond.
For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light
And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.'"
He stepped back, making way for Loghain.
Cauthrien and Wulffe had tried to make Loghain see reason, but he was determined to give this speech himself. He was in armor, and sheathed on his back was Bronwyn's personal sword, The Keening Blade. It suited him somehow, as if it were whispering secrets. It was a way of being close to Bronwyn, even now. Tara had talked him into a cup of wine and some bread sopped in it before coming, and he felt the better for it. He had plenty to say to these people.
"This pyre is for Bronwyn Cousland, Queen of Ferelden, who was worth the lot of you put together!"
Loghain stared out at the crowd, daring them to disagree, daring them to challenge him.
"Almost a year ago, Bronwyn Cousland gave a stirring speech for the Wardens slain in the first great battle of the Blight, fought at the ancient fortress of Ostagar. Some of you were there with me. You won't have forgotten it. No one who heard her ever will."
His eyes sought out fellow Fereldans: Arl Wulffe, the red-eyed Alistair, the faithful Cauthrien.
"She knew then what the world was facing, and she never flinched, she never shirked, and she never stopped until she ended it. She did it without much help from the Grey Wardens outside of Ferelden or from the rest of Thedas, for that matter."
An uneasy murmur. Loghain's face set in a mabari-like snarl.
"Do you think she failed to notice the assassination attempts? The insults? The dismissals of her as a 'barbarian?' The leadership of the Chantry calling her a 'heretic' and doing everything they bloody well could to try to make her fail? Well, I'm here to tell you she didn't miss a thing. She knew how little you thought of her. She knew how much people wanted her dead. Anyone else would have done just enough to drive the darkspawn out of Ferelden — which she had largely achieved by the end of last year — and let the rest of Thedas rot. I would have: I admit it freely. I don't see that Ferelden owed anybody anything."
He was angry. He was angry, and contemptuous, and utterly bereft.
"I suppose I should play your games and be diplomatic and tell you how wonderful you've all been, but I'm a barbarian too, and not a bloody liar. Not one of you could be troubled to lift a finger when Ferelden was fighting for its life. No, that's not fair — there was one: Riordan of Jader over there. Bronwyn thought a lot of him. He came to her in secret and gave her counsel when everyone else had their heads up their arses. In fact, Bronwyn got a letter from a very important Warden telling her to leave Ferelden to its fate and go to Orlais! You can imagine what she said about that. No, come to think of it, you probably can't, since she was a well-spoken noble, whatever you lot choose to think about Fereldans."
He frowned, and then paused for a moment.
"Bronwyn was a Cousland. I don't know how much that means to most of you. Maybe the Marchers understand. Maybe even the Orlesians. The Couslands were teyrns — that means 'prince' in the Common tongue — they were teyrns in the north of Ferelden long before we had a king. They have a saying: 'A Cousland Always Does His Duty.' That's why she wouldn't stop as long as the Archdemon lived. She knew... she knew... that killing it was what mattered. She knew it was so important that she united all the peoples of Thedas together to fight it: humans, elves, dwarves, mages and Templars... yes, even you Qunari. She became Queen of Ferelden so she could direct the kingdom's full force toward her quest to end the Blight. In the end, that quest took her life.
"I'm taking her home tomorrow. It's time she had a rest. You Wardens will have your work cut out for you here, cleaning up the Broodmother nests and the darkspawn bands. You call it the Thaw, she told me. It's all yours, though I'll tell you that Bronwyn thought you should be doing more to strike at the heart of the darkspawn down there in the Deep Roads. I'm told by Warden-Commander Tara that the Fereldan Wardens plan to do just that. We owe it our dwarven allies, after all, who lost their own Paragon fighting the Blight."
It was a token of respect to them, and was appreciated. Loghain was actually still very angry at Astrid for the heedlessness that had killed so many others. Perhaps she had killed a Warden who otherwise might have killed the Archdemon instead of Bronwyn. He would never know.
"I'm not one for quoting the Chant of Light, but there was a verse that Bronwyn used when she gave her funeral speech after the Battle of Ostagar:
"Let the blade pass through the flesh,
Let my blood touch the ground,
Let my cries touch their hearts.
Let mine be the last sacrifice."
The devout found this moving. Leliana's tears flowed freely.
Loghain huffed a bitter laugh.
"But she won't be the last sacrifice, will she? Two more Old Gods sleep deep down under the surface, awaiting the day the darkspawn find them. There's always another Blight, another dragon to be slain, a plague of werewolves, or an invasion over the border. Every generation faces its own challenges. Bronwyn was the hero of our time, the hero we needed at the moment, and once again the world —unworthy as it is — has been saved. So it's time to bid her goodbye, and try to deserve her. I think there are some Highever lads among us today, and perhaps they'll help me see her off in the old style."
He took the torch from Arl Wulffe, and lifted it high.
"Highever Hail to Queen Bronwyn! Hail!"
"Hail!" the soldiers roared. Alistair joined in, remembering that day at Ostagar, which now seemed long ago.
"Hail!"
"Hail!" Tara and the Fereldan Wardens took up the response.
"Hail!"
"Hail!" Thousands of voice roared it out, and left an echoing silence.
Loghain touched the torch to the pyre, which blazed up quickly, illuminating the onlookers with a lurid glow. He stood away from it, watching, not inviting anyone to speak to him. Amber sat close to him, concerned for her human.
It was a fine, big pyre, and with the help of the mages' spells, Bronwyn burned bright and hot before she crumbled into the blazing logs. The wind quickened, and the sparks danced up to Heaven. What drink they had was shared out, and so ended the Fifth Blight.
True to his word, Pentaghast saw that the Fereldans received their fair share of the spoils of the Archdemon. Kegs of preserved blood and bundles of hide and bone were loaded onto Isabela's ships. A small amount was kept by Tara, for use on the march to Ferelden.
She, Riordan, and Pentaghast talked quietly together, while the pyre burned. Sainsby Visconti, and the Rivainnis were having their own passionate discussion about what they intended to do about Kirkwall and the Felicisima Armada. Under the cover of that conversation, the other three made plans.
Pentaghast was remaining here for the foreseeable future, as was Riordan. Both Orlais and Nevarra had the greatest stake in clearing the remains of the horde from the Blight Lands. There were obviously other nests here in the city, and the Wardens would use poison and bombs to prudently destroy them.
"The operative word," Riordan remarked, "being 'prudently.'"
Then too, though no one spoke of it aloud, there was the magnificent loot of Val Royeaux. The city would be Tainted probably until the next age, and only Wardens would be able to sift through the rubble in safety.
"We will be expected to pay some percentage to the Empress," said Riordan, "but the Wardens will keep a great deal."
"Bronwyn promised Sten he could have the Tome of Koslun, if he could find it," Tara reminded them.
"He is welcome to it," said Pentaghast, with a shrug. "It seems fair. The Qunari fight well."
"And eventually," Riordan said, "We will probably learn that first hand. For now, however, let them go in peace."
"Loghain's leaving tomorrow as early as possible," Tara said. "I'm going with him. We'll clear out the darkspawn to the Orne. The Dalish will be with us. They all need Wardens for the ones who turn out Blighted. Besides, we've got to get back home eventually. There are still darkspawn in the south and west of Ferelden. There's something you need to know, though, before we leave, and you can pass it on to the First Warden and the others: one of our Wardens came up with an improved Joining potion. I know that Bronwyn wanted to share it as soon as our more pressing problems were resolved."
"An improved potion?" Riordan asked. "What does it do?"
"More people survive the Joining, for one thing. We've tried it, and we've had a lot fewer deaths. Now's the time to use it, with all the soldiers exposed to the Taint."
The two men glanced at each other, intrigued and hopeful.
"And it may…" Tara hesitated, not sure how much was the potion, and how much Avernus' powerful Blood magic. "It may prevent the Calling, or delay it. It works on people who have already Joined too, because we all took it with no ill effects. I'll write down the formula for your mages."
"That sounds…" Pentaghast gestured his wonder. "like a brilliant idea."
The Antivans, Orlesians, Nevarrans, Rivainnis, and Marchers were quite elated at the news. The Wardens of Weisshaupt and Tevinters did not seem all that impressed. Instantly, Pentaghast suspected that they had already had some such improvement, and had not troubled to inform the rest of the order. First Wardens typically stepped down on their thirtieth year of service, but no one had ever heard of a First Warden going to Orzammar for his Calling. He had assumed that they had another entrance to the Deep Roads further north, but perhaps there was another, more infuriating explanation.
He came back from those brief conversations very unsettled, and then asked Tara more about the invention of this potion. The pretty elf mage took a deep breath, and then began to recount the adventures of a very old and terrible Warden by the name of Avernus.
The farewells were made that night. Some were quiet and tender; some were violent and raucous. In the Place Reville, at the Palace, and in the Imperial Market desperate, ferocious looting raged from cellars to garrets. Soldiers begged Wardens to go with them while they pillaged, promising them an extra share to make sure the riches they took were safe. Had it been any place other than Val Royeaux, Loghain would have given strict orders to respect property and keep discipline. But Loghain stayed with Bronwyn's pyre until the last fiery glow was extinguished, and did not care what his men did here. In his opinion, they deserved all the plunder their packs could hold. More coin circulating meant greater prosperity at home. For that matter, Cauthrien's men had found some remarkable treasures in the devastated Grand Cathedral. Loghain wasn't giving a copper to the bloody Orlesians. His own share would go to build the cathedral Bronwyn wanted for Denerim. Our Lady of the Sacred Ashes sounded like a good name to him.
Tara approached Loghain carefully. The man was swaying on his feet, and she was concerned for him.
"The fire's nearly out, Your Majesty," she told him. "Instead of letting it cool tomorrow, why don't I use a freezing spell right now, so you can collect the ashes? Then you could get some sleep."
Wulffe was worn out himself, and grateful for the suggestion. "That's kindly thought of, Warden. Loghain, listen to the girl. It's a sound plan."
"Do it," Loghain croaked out.
They had no proper urn, but a tin arrow chest would serve. Tara led the mages in casting the spells, and very quickly, the white ashes were cool enough to sort through. Loghain wanted to do it all himself, but knew he was being ridiculous, and let his friends help him. It was painful, as this duty was always painful, but it was an important part of accepting the death of a loved one.
Before dawn, the dwarves had packed up and gone, taking their wagon and their Paragon with them.
Merrill told Tara that the Dalish would travel with the Fereldan Wardens and the army. It was a sensible decision. Though the Keepers had urged their people to be careful, there were those who had contracted the Blight sickness, and no doubt others would show signs, given time. If they did, they would simply Join the Wardens, and continue the journey back to Ferelden.
For there was no use in going anywhere else. The elves were safest with their Fereldan friends. While they had been met with condescending politeness by the First Warden, there was no indication that a new friendship had been forged between men and elves in general. Some of the Orlesian Wardens had been grateful, but it was unlikely that would be the general consensus in the Empire. It was wisest and safest to remain with the army until they reached the Fereldan border, which was now west of Jader. Then the Dalish would go their way: to their new lands in the kingdom. Some, at least, would go farther.
Irving and Greagoir, baffled by their own survival, gathered their people. Going home seemed utterly anticlimactic, but they could think of nothing else to do.
Thus the Fereldans and their allies broke camp, stuffing their packs with Orlesian plunder and putting the Blight Lands behind them.
The First Warden watched these preparations from a distance, quite relieved.
"A difficult man, that Loghain," he remarked to Elagabalus. "Quite capable, though."
"Impressive. The Fereldans were impressive throughout the Blight," Elagabalus remarked. "Perhaps our understanding of the country was outdated."
"I would be the first to admit that I underestimated the Girl Warden. A pity I never met her," he said, with palpable insincerity.
Elagabalus was not afraid of Wildauer, and replied with a skeptical smirk
"Oh, very well. It's true," the First Warden admitted. "She was a very inconvenient young woman, but she did the job in the end. I'll grant her that. Loghain has insisted on taking her ashes back to Ferelden, instead of surrendering them to us. We shall have to be satisfied with a suitable monument to her."
He was actually quite annoyed about the ashes. As soon as Loghain was gone, the relic-hunters had come out in force, wanting to collect a pinch of Andraste's Champion for themselves. The First Warden had spoiled their fun by posting a guard and having his people collect a reasonable amount of the wood ash that remained. Some of the girl might be mixed in. Who could tell? Ashes were ashes. No doubt, other Ashes of the Champion would trickle into the markets of northern Thedas eventually, In due course, Wildauer would see that his own siftings were interred in the splendid tomb for the Slayer of the Archdemon that he had commissioned as soon as the Blight began.
Three soldiers had already come to the Warden headquarters, admitting even to themselves that they were Tainted. One of them was a Sergeant named Tanna, who was considered the finest camp baker in the Fereldan army. She was actually not at all unhappy at the prospect of being a Warden. The others were at least resigned.
Tara found being in charge helpful. She had something to focus on; something that helped her ignore the great gaping holes in her heart. Loghain seemed fine with her being the Warden-Commander. No one seemed put out. That would probably change, she acknowledged, once they were back in the Ferelden. For now, there was no problem.
That did not mean that she was happy with all her people. She knew that Morrigan had been injured, but Riordan had been hurt as badly, and still had come to Bronwyn's funeral. Morrigan had not. Tara thought that fairly outrageous. And now Morrigan was late mustering for the departure.
"Anders, where's Morrigan?" she asked. "Is she coming or not?"
"Go easy on her, Tara," Anders pleaded. "She's suffered a loss."
"Does that make her special?"
Tara instantly remembered Bronwyn speaking those words, and the immediacy and finality of death made her choke. Yes, Bronwyn had spoken those words, but she could not remember where or when.
Anders was angry in his turn. "She lost the baby, if you must know. I can't tell, but she can. Something to do with the ritual. She's heartbroken."
Tara left the harsh words on the tip of her tongue unsaid. She even kept the smile from her lips. This was wonderful news. The Old God Urthemiel was well and truly gone from the world. She must tell Zevran right away.
"I'm sorry you've lost your child. It's very sad," she forced herself to say.
Your child, she thought, whose true soul you were willing to drive out to make room for a monstrous being that might have well have proved worse than the Blight. Morrigan did not want to be Flemeth's vessel, but she was perfectly willing for her child to be a vessel for some creature that she hoped would share its power. Oh well, she was likely under geas. That's over.
"Yes... well..." Anders said, his flash of anger soothed. "I told we could have other children. She's not ready to find that comforting. She'll be along."
Morrigan joined them soon, in fact, carrying a bag of odds and ends they had found about the mansion. Tara thought she looked unwell: her skin sallow, her eyes dull, seeming much older — even past thirty. It occurred to Tara that Morrigan might well be older than she had always thought. Magic — and Morrigan's was currently at a low ebb, apparently — could mask age to a surprising degree.
Tara whispered the reassuring news to Zevran, who gravely nodded, discreet in his satisfaction. It would not be necessary to poison the witch, after all. Others were not so restrained. Leliana shot Morrigan a very hostile look, and Alistair pointedly ignored her. They had noticed her absence from the funeral.
Prince Florestan and his chevaliers were leaving. too. Riordan had urged the Prince to leave as soon as possible, wanting him to reduce his chance of contracting the Taint. The prince would go to Val Foret, and then travel around Lake Celestine to Montsimmard to spread the news of the end of the Blight. Then he would ride to the border to escort the Empress back home. A brief conference with Loghain gave him some assurance that there would be no difficulty about Celandine. The Fereldan, however, pointed out that Princess Eglantine would be remaining in Jader, where she was to marry the new arl. Florestan saw no point in contesting that, as the arrangement had been made by the late Duke Prosper. About Eponine, Loghain said nothing. Florestan guessed that she would be used as a pawn of some sort. Orlais was not strong enough to force this issue, and Loghain's temper was understandably uncertain.
Within the hour, the King of Ferelden stalked back out through the Gate of the Sun, his face like stone. Behind him marched his nobles and his captains, the army, the elves, the mages, and the Fereldan Grey Wardens. The sun rose higher as they left the walls of Val Royeaux behind them. Loghain did not look back at them. Others did.
"It's going to be a good day," Aeron remarked to Emrys. "Bright, but not too hot. Good traveling weather."
In time, there were some of the usual remarks, the insults, the quips. The Blight was over, and life went on, as it always does. Teams of soldiers hauled the ballistae along, their carriages loaded with treasure.
Not all of the treasure was loot. Strapped to one of the carriages was a sword covered in cloth of gold, a suit of red dragonbone armor, and a metal chest containing the last of Bronwyn Cousland. Behind it trailed a big mabari with a weary gait, head down and tail between his legs, the image of inconsolable grief.
Thanks to my reviewers: RakeeshJ4, KnightOfHolyLight, Ie-maru, Mazanti, Tirion I, Rexiselic, Isala Uthenera, Anon, Melysande, Chandagnac, , JackOfBladesX, Nemrut, Chiara Crawford, Mike3207, VM mercenary, sizuka2, MsBarrows, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, Phygmalion, Tiolobitere, Candle in the Night, INeedAHaircut, ReploidAvenger, Kyren, Fenrir666, Death Knight's Crowbar, Robbie the Phoenix, darksky01, Girl-chama, RohanVos, MemoriesoftheForgottenGuardian, Lucy's Echos, The Warrior of the Light, Nitpick, Jenna53, Adventfather, BlackScyther, AD Lewis, jnybot, Guile, Guest, animeman12, dragonmactire, amanda weber, Zikarn Krais, darthas, Suna Chunin, FloridaMagpie, PhantomX0990, and Tsu Doh Nimh.
This is ending number one. It will be followed by an epilogue. The alternate ending will be posted afterward.