Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 125: Recessional
"Your Graces! My lords, ladies, and gentlemen! On this first day of Eluviesta, the thirty-sixth year of the Dragon Age, the three hundred and ninety-fourth from the founding of the kingdom, by command of Their Majesties, King Fergus and Queen Anora, I declare this Landsmeet in session!"
A rustle of expectation, as the king rose to make his speech from the throne. This was King Fergus' second Landsmeet as king, and he appeared to have settled into the role as if born to it. In his scabbard was the fabled sword Nemetos, and both he and his queen wore splendid dwarven-made crowns, the gift of King Bhelen of Orzammar. Relations between Ferelden and the dwarven kingdom were warm, though Bhelen retained a human diplomat to carry messages back and forth. The Blight had given most dwarves all the surface experience they could possibly desire. Nor were many dwarves emigrating to the surface, now that Bhelen's reforms had given opportunity to the casteless.
Carver Hawke, Warden-Commander of Ferelden, took his place among the notables, attended by his second, Catriona Puckley, and his senior mage, Jowan. Magister and Lily sat, tails wagging a little, on their best behavior.
Because of the Wardens' noble service during the Blight, and in memory of Queen Bronwyn, the Crown had granted the Warden-Commander a vote in the Landsmeet. This was contingent on the Warden-Commander being Fereldan-born-and bred, and also on the appointment being approved by the Crown. The appointment was supported by the grant of land around Soldier's Peak: a considerable stretch of the Coast Mountains. It was in no way as rich as the city of Amaranthine, ruled by Adam Hawke, but the Warden-Commander had other holdings, and a prestige that placed him above all other Fereldan banns in order of precedence.
Carver smoothed his grey silk tabard, elegantly embroidered in blue and silver, and tried not to look nervous. Landsmeets were no new thing to him, though this was his first as Warden-Commander. He always made a point of standing off by himself, not aligning himself with his brother. It bothered Mother, but Carver was his own man, and the Wardens had their own agenda. Fergus was well launched into his speech: his voice resonant, his appearance handsome and vigorous, his manner authoritative yet genial.
"—and the friendly maritime rivalry among the cities of the Waking Sea —"
Carver smirked. "Friendly rivalry" was for the benefit of the foreign dignitaries. Plenty of rivalry, with precious little to do with friendship. Adam was ruthless in promoting Amaranthine shipping, but had the sense to be moderate when it came to his fellow Fereldans. He was conducting what amounted to a private war with Ostwick, and relations with Viscount Marlein Selbrech of Kirkwall were decidedly frosty. Not that Adam was particularly worried, until the Kirkwallers could keep the same dynasty in control for two generations running. After the Marcher Wardens had paid their visit to Kirkwall, everything had changed. No Templar was likely to be showing his face there until the end of the age.
"—the secure succession, and the imminent birth of another prince or princess for the kingdom!"
Jowan nudged him, looking at Queen Anora. Poor woman... she really should have kept to her apartments. She was expecting the third royal child within five years —and expecting it any day, for that matter. No one would scorn her as barren now, but she looked as if she had paid a price for it. Ferelden's succession was indeed secure, with the births of Prince Caradoc and his younger brother Bryce. Carver's mother told her family that this time the Queen was hoping for a daughter, whom she would name after her own mother, Celia. Others might whisper hopes for the children to be given the great names of the nation's heroes, but Anora thought either Bronwyn or Loghain too heavy a burden of expectation to place upon a child, and Fergus, after consideration, reluctantly agreed with her.
Carver's stepbrothers, Arl Corbus and Bann Lothar, glanced his way and gave him affable smiles. They were growing up into fine young men and competent nobles, if a bit wild.
"—new opportunities for those seeking honest employment—"
Corbus' lands were the closest to the elven homeland, and he had done fairly well keeping the peace. Many resented the sight of elves traveling on the West Road, passing through South Reach and disappearing into the Brecilian Forest. There was some disgruntlement at the diminishing supply of cheap elven labor—and pretty elven whores. Carver glanced over at a group of whispering banns with some distaste. What did they expect? The Highever and Amaranthine Alienages had been completely emptied. Many in the Denerim Alienage had also fallen victim to the slavers. Now the place appeared to be nearly abandoned. The population of the Gwaren Alienage, too, had been halved, and there was a steady trickle from that city, going north... but not to Denerim. Carver had heard of ships from lands north of the Waking Sea, carrying elves to Ferelden. These put in at none of the large ports, but dropped the elves off along the Amaranthine coast, nearest to the elven homeland.
For elves were leaving human lands, never to be seen again. Foremost among them had been Tara, Warden-Commander of Ferelden. Loghain had given her his support, but in the end it was simply not enough to cope with the adamantine wall of prejudice and disdain. With Loghain gone, Tara had resigned her office to Carver. An elf mage was someone that many outside the Wardens could not accept. The First Warden had warned her, and however stupid and cowardly he had been about everything else, in this he had been entirely correct. How many times had she come back to Soldier's Peak from Denerim fuming with repressed rage? The nobles of Denerim—at least those who had not gone to war — knew only one way to relate to her: they spoke to her and treated her as a favorite lady's maid. Even the Queen had ... well, recriminations were useless.
Zevran had done his best to defuse her anger, but Zevran was gone with her. He had not wanted to become a Warden, but on the march back to the Orne he had become infected, and accepted his fate with good grace. Carver smiled, remembering Zevran's words at his Joining:
"Some bodily fluids even I would prefer not to touch, but it seems I have little choice. I shall follow in distinguished— and charming— footsteps."
Tara and Zevran had paid a farewell visit to Orzammar, taking Shale and the other golems with them, to see Astrid and Brosca's little nephew and niece. Then they had departed. All the Dalish Wardens had likewise retreated into the elven homeland: Darach, Nuala, and Steren had preceded Tara, ostensibly on a mission. The newer Dalish recruits had gone a little later. A few city elves remained at Soldier's Peak.
Then, of course, there was the continuing issue of Adaia and Siofranni, who were still technically on the Warden payroll, but who had hared off to sea, and who answered to no authority but themselves. Tara had noted them down as going to "consult with our Tevinter brothers and sisters," but Carver did not think that was the terminology he would have chosen to describe raiding Tevinter slave ships. Fergus, of course, had no problem granting letters of marque for the purpose. He had a soft spot for Captain Adaia Tabris. The ships discharged their elven passengers further south on the coast, and Adaia sold the empty ships in Denerim.
"—maintaining our national principles of freedom and protection under the laws for all—"
Admiral Isabela had stepped into the power vacuum left by the decimation of the Felicisima Armada. The Tevinters had at first taken advantage of the lack of pirates in the northern Amaranthine to expand their trade. Isabela and her fleet had happened on one of their ships by accident. After that, they sought them out deliberately. Not only could they feel virtuous about freeing slaves, but Tevinter slave ships always carried huge amounts of gold.
Perhaps Adaia had not meant to be a pirate...er...privateer. Originally, she and Siofranni had gone north to find and rescue Fereldan elves. Fenris, who knew Tevinter, had tried to make the girls understand the scope of that undertaking, but they lacked the frame of reference to grasp it. The slave market of Minrathous alone was nearly the size of the entire city of Denerim. They also— at first — had not understood the use to which the Tevinters would put the older captives. Those were not desirable as slaves, but were perfectly satisfactory fuel for Blood Magic, and apparently there was an insatiable market for such. The elderly... even the middle-aged... would have been bought and used up within a very short time frame. Adaia's efforts had not located more than a few dozen Fereldan elves.
If she could not rescue, then she would have revenge. Besides, waiting for the Tevinters at the nexus of the Amaranthine Ocean and the Waking Sea was far wiser than risking one's life further north. Fenris was still with them: he thought their quest worthy and noble, even if ultimately doomed.
"— and by prudence to avoid embroiling ourselves in foreign disputes —"
Ferelden was probably the most peaceful nation in Thedas at the moment, if only because news came to them slowly.
While the Rivainni Wardens were off fighting the Blight, their stronghold had been raided by the Qunari. Since it was held only by a small force, it had been sacked and the Warden garrison slaughtered. Before its fall, the Warden in command had destroyed all records and secret documents, and filled the place with traps. Quite a few Qunari died in their turn. When the Rivainnis returned, there was real fury. Had anyone known about this earlier, Sten would never have been permitted to return to Par Vollen with what was left of the Tome of Koslun. There had been retaliation by a temporary alliance of Rivainni, Antivan, and Tevinter Wardens. The Qunari no longer held Kont-Arr, their one foothold on mainland Thedas. Those professing the Qun— of whatever race — had been exiled from Rivain. The conflict only simmered now, but no true peace had been made. Perhaps Sten might do some good, talking to the Qunari leadership. Carver would prefer not to have to take his Wardens north. A full-blown Warden-Qunari war was not a pleasant prospect, and did nothing to further the Wardens' mission against the darkspawn.
"—Our splendid improvements to roads, bridges, and harbors, made possible by King Loghain's skillful diplomacy—"
Carver smirked. Fergus was careful of Anora's feelings. Some nobles had described it as "Loghain's low, greedy peasant cunning." The improvements were perfectly real, and had been paid for by what amounted to the sale of the Imperial Princess Eponine.
Empress Celandine had been wed to Prince Florestan, and they were now ruling a much-reduced Orlais from its temporary capital of Val Foret. Though they had lost Jader and the north, the Empire was still incredibly rich, and a new city was being built at the mouth of the Orne, the land cleared and cleansed by the Orlesian Grey Wardens. Val Orne had been carefully planned, and quite a lot of the great monuments of Val Royeaux were being salvaged to adorn it. Even after the rigorous looting by the rest of the Wardens, there were things they simply could not carry off, or even find.
Eglantine, as previously arranged, was married to Alistair in a solemn ceremony at Jader Chantry. From all anyone could gather, it was quite a happy marriage. Alistair had always wanted someone to love. That left the Imperial Princess Eponine. What had happened to her, in Carver's opinion, was not one of Fereldan's finest hours, but he understood why Loghain had done what he had.
An heir to the Orlesian throne had a value to any ambitious court. The Orlesian succession was fragile. Empress Celandine had born a child last year, but before that, Eponine had been the heiress-presumptive. Loghain had brought the girl back with him to Denerim, and had essentially auctioned her off to the highest bidder. Or, more correctly, to the highest bidder who was not Nevarran.
For Loghain had considered the growing power of the Nevarrans, and had no desire to give them more. A weakened but stable Orlais was a far safer neighbor. In the end Antiva had purchased an Orlesian Imperial Princess for an immense sum, which Loghain ploughed back into Fereldan lands and into Denerim itself. Eponine was thus the single most valuable article of loot taken in the war. Carver, of course, had absolutely no idea what the girl herself had thought about it.
"—for the honor and prosperity of the kingdom!"
Fergus was done talking, and there were cheers. Carver smiled and applauded dutifully. He had been listening with half an ear, and had caught the other major points. The Queen's university was expanding, filled with displaced Orlesian scholars; Tevinter ships were still not permitted to drop anchor in Fereldan ports; the Orlesians and Nevarrans had more or less settled on a border; Ferelden was not going to tolerate the war between the mages and Templars spreading into its territory. So far, that was raging hottest in the inland Marches: Starkhaven, Tantervale, and Hasmal: cities that had been least involved in the Blight. Lately, however, there was trouble at the Circle in Cumberland, and word of battles in the distant cities of Andoral's Reach and Perendale. The mages who had risked their lives for Thedas were not inclined to submit to imprisonment any longer. A great many mages had fled to Tevinter; others had come to Fereldan, where they were openly countenanced, though carefully regulated.
Here in Ferelden, mages were legally running clinics and serving in the army or city guards. Records were kept, and approved mages had their badges. They seemed to be blending into city life fairly seamlessly. Out in the countryside, however, one heard the occasional story of mages being mobbed, or a suspected mage child being stoned to death by frightened peasants, but the Templars still operated to protect them, even though somewhat differently than before.
Some of the Templars were acting independently of the Chantry now, their new headquarters established fairly quickly in Cumberland. The Chantry itself was still dragging out negotiations, unable to settle even on where to hold its conclave to elect a new Divine. Grand Cleric Muirin, aged greatly of late, was in effect free from all outside influences. Fereldan's Templars still recognized her authority. Aged Templars were cared for in the hospice established in the old cathedral dormitory.
Nobles were now being recognized. Nathaniel Howe and Rothgar Wulffe announced the birth of sons; Alistair and Eglantine had a new daughter.
It all went on and on. Demands to "do something" about the elves rose up from the Bannorn.
"Do what?" Bann Varel asked, rather testily. "You complain we have too few elves. How can the Crown—or anyone else—do anything about that? Well, maybe we could stop killing them, I suppose..."
His sarcasm was not appreciated. Fergus stepped in to cool the parties off. Later, after settling a bitter dowry dispute, the first day of the Landsmeet ended, and everyone was invited to the ball that night, which would begin at sundown. The King gently took the Queen's hand, and they walked from the Chamber, as the nobles bowed and curtseyed.
The crowd relaxed, and a band of minstrels, up in a corner, began playing. It was one of the Queen's innovations. Zoe Pheronis, the Royal minstrel, led the group. Carver recognized her apprentice Amethyne among the human players. She was becoming quite a pretty girl, and wore her hair in such a way that one did not notice at first that she was an elf. Carver vaguely remembered that Tara had once approached the girl about something, and Amethyne had been uninterested and unfriendly, telling Tara that she was a "minstrel, not an elf!" Perhaps that was she was still in Denerim. The Queen's minstrels had lodgings in the Palace. Amethyne probably had not set foot in the Alienage in years.
"Commander?" Catriona asked. "Are we going back to the Compound?"
He should, probably, for there were stacks of paperwork. However, this was the first day of the Landsmeet.
"What do you say we go out for a drink first?"
"Not me," Catriona protested. "I can't just throw on a velvet doublet and be devastating. If I really have to go to this swish-and-tits affair, I need some serious help. I'll see you two awful pillocks later." She stalked away, musing dolefully on corsets and hairpins. Carver grinned after her.
"Jowan?"
"Drinks? Absolutely. Nobody's going to find me devastating, anyway."
They were not the only ones who wanted to kill the next few hours in a tankard of ale. It was a long walk to the Market District and the Gnawed Noble, but Carver had not been to Denerim in months, and felt like reacquainting himself with the city.
Oh, Maker, here was Mother.
"Carver, darling! Are you coming to the estate? Emma is wild to see you. Hello, Warden Jowan."
Jowan bowed. "Arlessa Leandra."
She kissed Carver, of course, and he let her. She was still living at Bryland House. Corbus wouldn't hear of his stepmother and half-sister leaving; but Mother told him that she would stay until he was properly married, and then step aside for his wife. That would not be particularly soon. Corbus was only eighteen, newly released from his guardianship, and enjoying life as the most eligible young man in Ferelden at the moment.
Mother looked harried, but that was only to be expected when a woman her age was dealing with two teenaged boys and a four year old daughter. She had nearly died in childbirth — would have died without Bethany's care. Instead, she had a treasured memento of her all-too brief time with Leonas Bryland. Lady Emma Bryland would likely have her share of adventures, and she was growing up as essentially an only child, since even Lothar was eleven years older than she. So far — and all the family was quietly holding its collective breath — the girl had shown no signs of magic. She did, however, like to make her dolls fight with swords.
"Not just now, Mother. I need to go to the Market and pick up some presents first. I'll come by before sundown and see Emma then, before I go back to dress for the ball."
"Oh, very well. But you're dining with us tomorrow. No excuses!"
"Er... will Habren be there?" He glanced around the Landsmeet Chamber, hoping against hope.
"Of course," sighed Leandra. "Where else could she stay? Don't begrudge her a few days at the Landsmeet, Carver. She hasn't many opportunities to mix in society."
"And I wonder why that is."
"Carver."
He gave her a kiss, and escaped. Jowan was smiling quietly. Carver elbowed him, and then saw a friend. Magister did too, and went over to sniff courteously at Scrapper.
"Alistair! Want to go out for drinks?"
"Always."
"Are you growing a beard?"
"Hey!" Alistair protested. "Don't you wound my manly vanity! Eglantine thinks it makes me look powerful."
"Your arlessa isn't here?" Carver had not seen her on the floor of the Landsmeet.
Alistair made a face. "It's a long, long trip, and with the new baby... no. I miss her, but she needed the rest."
Also, Carver thought cynically, he had heard that Arlessa Eglantine did not think much of Denerim, and did not like bending the knee to Anora, who was not Eglantine's equal by birth. She had not been to Denerim since the coronation.
The men and their dogs walked on, out into the fair spring day. Adam and Arl Nathaniel were just behind them, and Carver, Alistair, and Jowan paused to let the men catch up. Hunter gave a pleased yip at the sight of other dogs he knew. While they exchanged the usual pleasantries, Carver thought about this Landsmeet, and about Queen Anora, who had said absolutely nothing in course of the day's proceedings.
The Queen was popular with the commoners, but had never really made many friends among the noblewomen. She seemed to like his mother, and Leandra spent quite a bit of time with the Queen, but the younger generation had never quite warmed up to her... even Arlessa Callista, who was pleasant to everyone. Some, like Arlessa Kaitlyn, Anora intimidated; some, like Charade, thought Anora was a heartless opportunist who was all too satisfied that Queen Bronwyn had never come home; some like Arlessa Eglantine, found her insufferably arrogant. Carver had always got on perfectly well with the Queen himself. Most men did. Maybe she was so accustomed to dealing with her father and her two husbands that she had no understanding of other women. It had seemed to Carver that Bronwyn had got on with her well enough, but looking back, it was hard to tell. He had been young and naive then, and Bronwyn and Anora were both diplomats by nature, who had loved the same man in their own different ways.
Now, of course, Queen Anora was a mother. She had trounced those rumors about a curse of barrenness with admirable dispatch, but was so involved with her pregnancies and her lyings-in and her child-rearing, that she had little time for politics. When one spoke of the Crown, one spoke of King Fergus, not King Fergus and Queen Anora. Anora was popular with the commoners, but Fergus was popular with everyone.
The three noblemen talked about their children; pretending to scorn soft-headed sentimentality, but clearly proud of their families. Carver had not seen Berenice in the Landsmeet Chamber, and wondered if Adam had left her in Amaranthine. When there was a moment to get a word in, he asked about her.
"Berenice? Of course she's here. She and Callista are busily adorning themselves. Berenice had a bad bout of morning sickness today, but she should be fine for the ball, which is what she cares about. Be a good fellow and dance with her, won't you?"
"Of course."
Carver hoped that none of Adam's children would have magic, either. Sometimes he worried. Adam had led such a charmed life. He had been so lucky: knighted by a king on the last day of the king's life; in the perfect spot to catch a teyrn's eye; a rich bannorn vacant at just the right time; fancied by a pretty foreigner with a dowry; placed so no one would make him go west to the Blight Lands. Some day, Carver believed that all this phenomenal good luck must be paid for, one way or another. He just hoped the bill was not presented to Adam's children.
"Have you seen Bethany yet?" Adam asked.
"No. I just got into town last night. How is she? Is she coming to the ball tonight?"
"Probably not. She doesn't care much for such events anymore, you know. I haven't been here long either, and she gets home late and leaves early, so we've hardly had a chance to talk. Mother says she'll be at dinner tomorrow."
"I'll get her a present, too. I wonder what she'd like?"
"Something that smells nice, I daresay, after dealing with the festering sores of unwashed paupers. No, I didn't get her that myself. There was a shipment of Hercinian linen that was impounded for harbor fees. Bethany's clinic always needs linen."
Nathaniel spoke up. "Your sister is a wonderful woman. A pity she won't be joining us."
Adam shrugged. "She's quite lost interest in anything so frivolous as dancing. She might as well be a Chantry sister. Probably would be, if she weren't a mage."
Carver did not agree, but also did not want to argue about Bethany in front of others. If she had not been born a mage, there was no telling what Bethany would have done. Now and then he tried to talk her into Joining the Wardens, but she was very... happy... with her life, and with her friends and colleagues. She had bought the houses on either side of her own, and expanded the clinic. King Loghain had paid to have the buildings faced with stone, the upper story enlarged, and the roof tiled with slate to reduce the risk of fire. It was an impressive establishment now.
"We'll only be steps away. I'll look in on her."
"Sounds good," Jowan agreed casually. He'd always had a certain.. fondness...for Bethany.
Denerim looked prosperous. Ferelden was, of course, one of the great winners of the Blight. One could make the claim that Nevarra had gained far more, since it had absorbed all of Orlais north of the Blight Lands, but Fereldan had not done badly, either. Shipping duties and taxes from Jader were enough in themselves to make the Crown rich. Denerim had grown considerably, and the city was spilling past its walls.
A carriage rumbled past them. Those inside — Bann Alfstanna and her husband Lord Rhys, old Bann Fredegunda, Lady Keyne Mac Coo, Bann Stronar and Lady Ailidh, called out greetings. They were off to the Market, apparently, to make some last-minute purchases before tonight's festivities. A little later, Corbus, Lothar, and their friend Ser Bevin rode past, joking and rough-housing.
"Are you going to the Gnawed Noble?" Lothar yelled. "Too bad! We'll be there before you! I daresay we won't leave you a drop of ale!"
The boys galloped off, laughing.
"Insufferable young asses," muttered Nathaniel.
Alistair only chuckled. "It's not like we're old men ourselves!" His expression changed. "Though that makes me feel like one..."
The street opened out into the market here, and the view, framed by the buildings on either side, was of the statue that was now a major landmark. Queen Bronwyn and Scout were immortalized in bronze , watching over the comings and goings before them. Scout's nose shone bright as gold: it was considered lucky to rub it. As usual, flowers of varying freshness had been left on the plinth. There had been considerable debate about the statue, since many thought Queen Bronwyn should stand outside the Landsmeet. However, Calenhad was already there, and Loghain had preferred the Market, remarking that Bronwyn would find it less dull. He was the one who had insisted that Scout be included on the monument: the Nevarran craftsman had been puzzled at first, but then thought it lively and inventive.
"Poor old Scout," Alistair muttered.
A moment of silence. Bronwyn's mabari had never recovered from the loss of his human. He had lived on another year and a half, slouching after Loghain, and had even sired two litters on Amber before he simply did not wake up one morning. Loghain had him buried in the palace gardens, in front of Bronwyn's urn. with an engraved stone to mark the spot. Carver reckoned that once Scout was gone, Loghain had nothing left to stay for. Not even his grandsons could hold him.
"Well, now I definitely need a drink," Carver said. "That statue is bloody depressing."
"I thought you needed to buy presents," Adam pointed out.
"Drink first. Definitely."
Edwina's couches were as soft as ever, and they sank into them blissfully, off in the far, dark, private corner near the bar. The barmaids brought them ale and snacks, along with some crunchy treats for the dogs. Corbus, Bevin, and Lothar were by the door, laughing uproariously. They had joined another party of nobles.
"Things aren't so bad," Nathaniel said, apropos of nothing. "Things aren't so bad, here in Ferelden. The Templars haven't tried to annull all the mages, the mages aren't rioting in the streets, and nobody's trying to assassinate the royal family, like they did in Starkhaven and tried to in Antiva. We don't have to deal with a slave rebellion like the one in Vyrantium—"
"Ew." Adam grimaced, remembering the gruesome stories that had come out of Tevinter. Savage atrocities on both sides, and a merciless repression at the end. The only good thing to come of it was that some Tevinters had become convinced that owning slaves was more trouble than it was worth.
"— and no darkspawn," Nathaniel concluded. He glanced over at Carver. "I hope."
"Not on the surface, anyway," Carver agreed.
Alistair snorted. "No, not on the surface." For Nathaniel and Adam's benefit, he added, "Ferelden's in pretty good shape, even below. All that underground travel during the Blight really worked wonders. There are still pockets and odd tunnels, here and there. It's a lot worse elsewhere. I heard from Leliana awhile back. The Orlesians were going to do some serious hunting for Broodmother nests out in the Western Approach. Riordan's pretty determined. No word since, but I expect them to be down there for a long time."
Maybe forever, he thought, but did not say aloud.
Carver grunted at the news. "If Leliana's in the Deep Roads, at least she won't be writing books that make me look like an idiot."
Some chuckles, the loudest, most irritating from Adam, of course. Leliana had written two immensely popular books about the Blight: neither of them the detailed military history some had hoped for. One was a book intended for children that had claimed a wider readership: Bronwyn, Girl Warden of Ferelden. Charmingly illustrated with woodcuts, it presented Bronwyn as a protector of the people, a friend of children and the oppressed, a pious and heroic warrior in the service of Andraste and the Maker. The final illustration, of Bronwyn and Scout looking out at a glorious sunrise together, was modeled after the touching statue in the Denerim Market. It was just the book for those who liked to think of Queen Bronwyn as an pure-hearted avatar of Andraste, returned to save her people from the darkspawn. Carver thought the book portrayed a milk-and-water Bronwyn; a ladies' tea party sort of Bronwyn; a Chantry-sister Bronwyn. He hated seeing it in the hands of impressionable girls like Faline and Jancey Kendalls.
Leliana's other book, Tales of the Blight Companions, irritated him even more. It was certainly an interesting, readable book, containing all the stories Bronwyn and her friends had told each other. Leliana had not been present for all of them, but she had ferreted them out from the survivors. It also contained some material putting the stories in context, and Carver was mortified to discover that Leliana had included the oblivious stupidity with which he had told Bronwyn the all-too-appropriate story of "The Boy Who Found Fear at Last." Yes, he had been young, but the readers did not know that. It was mortifying, and everyone in Ferelden appeared to have a copy.
Another round came, and this loosened their tongues a little more. Alistair spoke first.
"I wonder where Loghain is right now."
Carver shook his head. "I wonder if he's even alive."
Jowan said nothing. Loghain was gone, taking Jowan's deepest, darkest secret with him. No one now would ever know that Jowan had poisoned Arl Eamon on Loghain's orders.
"He's alive," Nathaniel said, his grey eyes fierce in the dim light. "He had his sword and his mabari with him. I'd back him against anyone."
"Well, he certainly traveled light," Adam said, a little more casually. He had never felt much personal loyalty to Loghain. Adam was the Couslands' man, and was well pleased that his friend Fergus sat on the throne. "But where did he go? That's the real question. It's one thing to abdicate. It's another to vanish like that. There was a rumor that he'd had a message of some sort. Someone from the north who passed on some intelligence. What would make a king walk away from his throne?"
No one wanted to say out loud the most popular theory — the one whispered in cheap taverns and throughout the freeholds of the Bannorn.
King Maric is alive. Loghain Mac Tir has gone to rescue him.
Alistair blew out a breath. He could think of few things that would make a bigger mess in Ferelden than the return of King Maric. Granted, he sometimes wondered what it would be like to meet his father... to show him his city of Jader and his beautiful princess and their darling little girls... but it really and truly would be a mess.
There was another theory: the one that was supported tacitly by the Crown. King Loghain had abdicated and gone on a pilgrimage to the Urn of the Sacred Ashes, there to take vows as a holy brother. Alistair had trouble seeing it, but Cauthrien wasn't confirming or denying it, and she was Bann of Haven. People visited the great temple there, but none of it quite matched Bronwyn's descriptions. The Chantry refused to allow pilgrims access to the Ashes in their big elaborate urn in the temple, and there had been some unrest because of it. No one had seen Loghain there, but they wouldn't, of course, if he had gone there to seek peace and contemplation. Alistair considered quizzing Cauthrien again, or maybe her husband, Lord Darrow, who knew Alistair from their time in Ostagar together
"Well, who knows?" Adam replied to himself, lightening the mood. "A little mystery make the world a more interesting place. Another round, I think."
"And more cheese," Alistair added. "Especially the smoked Amaranthine. It's my favorite. It always makes me think of Bronwyn."
"Cheese makes you think of Queen Bronwyn?" Adam laughed, a little incredulously.
Alistair was unfazed. "Smoked Amaranthine," he said loftily. "And Rainesfere Blue. The night of the victory at Ostagar... when Duncan fell... " his smile faltered. "We were both in awful shape after the Tower of Ishal, and she dragged me off to the Highever tent. Poor old Wynne came to heal us. The servants brought us food and wine, and those were the cheeses. It was the best meal I'd ever had... apples and little crisp oatcakes and glorious cheese. Bronwyn mentioned it to me... that last day. We had time to wolf down some food and I brought her a plate of what we could find. Among the odds and ends was a wedge of Haute-Cantal."
Adam smiled, not unkindly. "Again he remembers the cheese."
"Well, it was my last conversation with her, and her last meal, so the details are pretty much permanently stuck in my mind."
"I remember the cheese," Carver said, considering. "And the pickled herring."
"I remember the disgusting porridge we had the next morning," Jowan said. "We were all so miserable, it seemed perfect." He made a face at the bottom of his mug. "At least we ate. I don't think Loghain did, until Tara nagged him, just before the funeral."
"Tomorrow's the fifth anniversary," Jowan said softly. "We all loved her so much. Maybe that's why Loghain couldn't stand any more Landsmeets and their feasts and balls. The last time he saw her alive, she was flying away from him."
Adam said, "Fergus has to put up with it."
"The King wasn't there, and I'm glad," Jowan replied. "It was bad enough for him without seeing what happened."
"Better to have seen her a last time," Nathaniel disagreed quietly. "I wish I had been there."
"I understand how you feel," said Adam, "but too many were infected with the Blight sickness as it was, and it was a sad and weary march home for them."
"Too right," grunted Alistair. "We did love her, like Jowan says. Well..." he reddened, and waved his hands in excuse. "... at once point I was actually in love with her. Stupid, stupid... but I was. I gave her a rose. She was really nice about it, but of course I never had a chance."
"I had a chance," Nathaniel said slowly. "I was this close—" he gestured with his fingers "—to a betrothal, when my father lost his temper with me and sent me to the Free Marches."
"Don't look at me," Jowan said, blushing. "I loved her, but not that way. I would as soon thought of Andraste that way. Besides, I was in love with someone else when I met her."
"Tara?"
"No." Jowan shook his head. "I don't like to talk about it, but not Tara. Tara was always a sister to me. I miss her."
"I was nineteen," said Carver. "I was in love with a lot of women: Bronwyn, Leliana, Adaia... yes, I really am out of my mind... Danith, Maeve. Anyone but a mage. That would be like being in love with my sister."
"Not Aveline?" Jowan teased. Aveline and Carver clashed frequently. She was currently a Senior Warden and in command of the little Ostagar post, far, far away.
Carver scowled. "No."
"You should find someone," Adam advised. "Both of you. Marriage is wonderful."
The married men dutifully echoed the sentiment. They even seemed sincere.
"It's a pretty serious responsibility, though," Alistair said, hesitating over his worls. "Teagan wants me to contract for a marriage between his son and my little Moira! She's only three! I told him they're too young, and they might not even like each other!"
Nathaniel and Adam shared a glance. This was interesting. Did Alistair not understand that Teagan might be trying to position his child as a rival candidate for the throne? Moira Fitzmaric's bloodlines made her a very desirable bride. On the other hand, maybe Alistair — or Eglantine — understood exactly what was going on, and he was deflecting the intrigue with a mask of naivete.
"I'm not in any rush." Carver shrugged. "The Blight Companions gave me high standards." He finished his ale, tired of the conversation. "I've got to get some presents before the shops close down. Later, then."
"I'll come with you," said Jowan. "I want to say hello to Bethany."
They passed a table where Banns Ceorlic, Babcock, Repton, and Goelim had their heads together, talking in angry low voices. Carver caught a few words.
"—high time someone taught those knife-ears a lesson! We could go right into that 'homeland' of theirs and fetch out some of them. Who'd be the wiser?"
"—And end up feathered liked a duck? No, thank you. Besides—sssshh!"
Carver gave them a look, and Babcock stared back. The others did not meet his eyes.
Jowan said softly. "They're all talk."
They walked on, out into the clean spring sunshine.
With the Landsmeet, all the vendors were out in force, displaying their best goods. Pretty girls sashayed through the Market, waving long sticks draped with colorful ribbons for sale. Carts offered minced pies and dumplings. A pair of jugglers performed for the crowd, while a ragged child held out a battered tin plate for coin. Beggars pleaded for alms. One man sat under the eaves of a chandler's shop, displaying the stumps of his legs and the sign "Wounded in the War." Carver did not recognize him, but it was possible he was not lying. He dropped a silver into the man's upturned hat. There were potion sellers, and toy sellers, and book sellers, and sellers of singing birds and fine embroidery.
There were people here to buy the wares, too, and not all were Fereldan. One saw Nevarrans, Orlesians, Antivans, Marchers from every city, and the dark skin of Rivain. Foreign faces, but not many elves or dwarves, and no Qunari at all, unsurprisingly.
A shrewish voice caught Carver's ear, and he winced, slipping behind a vendor's sunshade.
"Nine sovereigns for this? It's not even embroidered! Is this magic silk? Did Andraste wear it? I'll give you five!"
"It's Habren!" he whispered to Jowan. "Wait 'til she goes past!"
Jowan smirked, but indulged him. The dogs pricked up their ears and stared at a person they remembered they disliked.
The merchant refused to come down sufficiently, and Habren flounced away, her face red and angry. She was not enjoying her reduced circumstances, and to be fair, they were not entirely her fault. Had her baby lived, the boy's claim to the Arling of Denerim would likely have prevailed. But he had not, and Habren's hopes of ruling the capital through her child had died with him. She spent most of the year at her little manor south of Denerim, and was bored and lonely. Mother said the place was full of cats, and that Habren's handsome steward was shockingly familiar with her. Charade had confided to Carver that he shouldn't be surprised if Habren appeared to gain weight, stayed secluded in the country for a few months, and then adopted an unknown infant as a "ward" some time fairly soon. Habren was a bitter, disappointed woman, which did not make her company at family dinners any more agreeable than before. Worse still, if she saw Carver here in the Market, she would brazenly demand coin from him, and revile him if he refused.
Once his stepsister was out of sight, Carver hurried to buy his gifts. A young woman with an Orlesian accent offered scented soaps and oils. She was quite pretty, and Carver was glad to bargain for her wares. He hoped Bethany liked Andraste's Grace. Somebody he knew did. Was it Bethany... or Leliana? Oh, well. It was nice, anyway. The dogs sneezed.
A woodcarver had all sorts of jointed wooden animals for sale. There was a charming little mabari there, just Magister's color. Surely an aspiring battlemaiden like Emma would want a mabari? He looked again, and then chose a black one instead. Scout was gone, but still popular.
Jowan surveyed the crowd. "More foreigners here than there used to be."
"I suppose the Landsmeet brings them. That and the Cathedral."
Not the old Cathedral, of course, though that was still in use. The clinic nearby was bustling, filled with drunken brawlers with broken heads, fussy children with sore throats, and injured laborers. Carver did not recognize the Templar on duty, though he knew Sister Ursula, sitting behind her table to greet their visitors.
"Warden-Commander!" She smiled. "And Warden Jowan. I hope you are well. I'll tell Bethany you're here. Why don't you take a seat in the office? She's a bit busy..." The good sister bustled off, and the two men edged past the benches, with their dogs at their heels. Those waiting for treatment gaped at them and whispered to their neighbors —at least those not moaning and clutching their heads.
The office was a nice little room with a cheerful fire. It had been a bedchamber originally, but Bethany had needed a place for storing books and records and for mixing potions and poultices. Voices came closer. Carver looked up, hearing Bethany outside the door.
"—Otto, I don't know what they'll say about that, but we can— Carver!"
She was as pretty as ever, though she was wearing her hair up and out of her way in a severe coiled plait.
"And Jowan. I'm so glad to see you. We've been incredibly busy."
Ser Otto was just behind her. He murmured something too low to hear, and Bethany leaned toward him, nodding. The Templar gave her a smile as he turned away. Carver scowled. He knew that kind of smile. Before he could start interrogating her, or making remarks about chaste "Chantry marriages," she saw the little parcel in his hands.
"Is that for me? That's lovely! Thank you so much! What's that?"
"It's for Emma," he mumbled, wrong-footed. "It's a dog."
Magister looked up at him quizzically. The object certainly was not a real dog.
"I'm sure she'll love it. She's so adorable. Look, I'm sorry, but we're horribly busy today. Finn's visiting his parents, and Keili is nervous about delivering babies. I'll see you at dinner tomorrow. So nice to see you, Jowan." Another kiss, a pat on Magister's head, and Carver found himself hustled away.
He stalked through the door, blowing out an angry breath.
"Carver, wait!" cried Jowan, trying to get past a shouting merchant family, whose grandmother was complaining shrilly of her 'rheumatics.' Exasperated, Jowan shot a healing spell at the surprised woman, and hurried after Carver.
Carver stopped, and glared back at the clinic. "That Ser Otto is too friendly with her."
"You mean you think she's too friendly with him."
"Same thing."
"You know it's not. You can't tell Bethany how to live her life. Not even your mother can do that. Come on. Why don't we head back to the Compound?"
Carver sulked, too annoyed to notice Jowan's own disappointment, as they went the short way, through the Alienage. The gates were always open now. The main thoroughfare was paved with cobblestones and far better kept than it had been in former days. The reasons for that were not much to anyone's credit.
The depopulated Alienage was being eyed with fierce greed by speculators. Of course, young Arlessa Faline had the largest holdings there, and the King, her guardian, managed her property with scrupulous, conservative care. Faline was due to reach her majority this year, and no one was quite sure what she would decide about the Alienage. Most of the remaining elves lived in the tall, sturdy building commissioned by Queen Bronwyn, and that was a Crown property. Fergus had declared that as long as there were elves in Denerim, that building would shelter them. The other real estate in the Alienage could conceivably command immense rents, due to the demand for housing. No one had quite yet found the nerve to demand the dissolution of the Alienage. Carver suspected that was coming.
The location, there in the heart of the city, was prime: with access to the Market, King's Way, and Cathedral Street. Faline could make a fortune if she tore down the derelict buildings and replaced them with fine townhouses. The rents she could command would pay back her investment—and more — within only a few years. So urged the Queen, who saw little reason to be sentimental. The very same sort of redevelopment had been done in Highever, and the former Alienage—now Cousland Square— brought in enormous sums for the teyrnir. Anora might not have the energy for much, but this interested her. She was preparing for the day, by gradually making the Alienage less of an eyesore, paving the street, putting in the sewer feeder line that Bronwyn had wanted, and completing Bronwyn's plans for the building that replaced the rattletrap orphanage. It was quite a nice building, too, with an inner courtyard of its own, hence the name, "Queen Bronwyn's Court." If the day came that there were no more elves in Denerim, it would still do nicely: providing handsome, comfortable flats for those of more moderate means. The inner courtyard could then be planted with flowers, instead of cabbages.
A few faces peered out of doorways and windows, but very few indeed. Carver and Jowan walked on, and the dogs trotted beside them, pausing to pay their respects to the vhenadahl tree. It was considered important to keep that splendid tree alive, not so much out of respect for the elves, but because Queen Anora had decided that Denerim needed more greenery. Outside the walls, a triangle of Crown land had been set aside as the beginnings of a public garden. Nevarrans and Antivans and Orlesians had them, so Queen Anora had wanted one, too.
At the south end of the Alienage, the cobblestoned path crossed King's Way, and flowed into Cathedral Street. In fact, Loghain had straightened the old lane so you could look straight down it to the front of the new cathedral, Our Lady of the Sacred Ashes. It was not as big as the destroyed Grand Cathedral, but it was very beautiful in its own way, with a tall bell tower, windows of colored glass, and a staircase leading up to the arched double doors. There were quite a few people on the staircase. Where they there for Andraste? Or Bronwyn?
Perhaps they were there for the Ashes. People were beginning to make their way to Haven, but right here in Denerim was an authenticated pinch of Andraste's Ashes, sealed in a gold reliquary, watched over by the young priest who had been saved by Bronwyn years before. Sister Demelza was the assistant curator of relics, under the supervision of Mother Justine. The young woman had written a book about her miraculous cure by Queen Bronwyn, and was much sought out by pilgrims. Both book sales and offerings had brought a great deal of wealth to the Fereldan Chantry.
If he had time, Carver promised himself a visit. The cathedral was always worth a look. The statue of Andraste was as big as the one in Kirkwall, and gilded, and bore a strong resemblance to a young woman Carver had once known quite well, especially in the upturned eyes that all the world remembered. It was really a better likeness than the statue in the Market, though not as colorful as the portraits in the Palace or the Compound. Sometimes it was nice to see her again...
Later. He really must change, and he really must give Emma her present. Children loved presents. That reminded him...
"Don't let me forget to get something for Pepin while we're here. And Gwydion."
Jowan liked getting things for the children at Soldier's Peak, too.
"Pepin would like a new quiver. Something with a lot of color. Maybe one of the beaded Avvar ones. Gwydion's so little that anything would please him, though maybe we should go to the Wonders of Thedas..."
"Just don't get him a staff just yet, all right?"
Jowan chuckled. "You're right. He's too young for that. Maybe a golem doll."
He was fond of Gwydion, though Anders was very protective of his son, and would not allow him to be alone with Jowan. His thoughts found voice.
"He's such a fine little lad. I've never understood how Morrigan could just go off and leave him."
"Morrigan!" Carver spat the name. "Who knows what happened to her? Maybe a bigger hawk ate her. One can but hope."
Morrigan's shape-shifting had caused no end of upheaval in Thedas. Once mages discovered that the ability was no myth, the Fereldans were harassed by other Wardens, demanding to learn the art. They were warned that it was perilous magic. One of their mages at the battle had never returned. Morrigan had told them that she had no doubt become beguiled by her animal form and had forgotten she was an elf. Human mages were unimpressed. What was too powerful for an elf should be a small matter for a human mage. Tara had taught her own people as best she could, for Morrigan was more difficult and refractory than ever since the end of the Blight, and loath to share secrets. Jowan and Anders taught the Wardens who came to them. Jowan suspected that Anders taught other mages as well: the apostates that occasionally made their way to Soldier's Peak, and then left, uninterested in Joining the Wardens or registering for legal service to the kingdom. Sometimes those aspiring shape-shifters did indeed have odd, fatal accidents. Sometimes, they changed, and were unable to change back.
There had been a time when Morrigan seemed to be trying to make a go of it with Anders. She had been deeply depressed after the last battle, and Carver and others had attitributed it to Bronwyn's death. Morrigan had seemed fonder of her than of other people, and clearly her loss had hit the witch very hard. She and Anders had settled down in the quiet and comfort of Soldier's Peak, learning much from Avernus, and working on the new grand scheme for the Wardens with some diligence. At the end of the first year, Morrigan was with child and in due course gave birth to a beautiful little boy she named Gwydion, after a legendary shape-shifting hero of long ago.
Once the child was weaned, Morrigan grew restless, and began leaving for days at a time, running through the mountain forests as a wolf, flying through the skies as a hawk. Her absences grew longer and longer, until one day it was clear that she was gone for good. Anders had searched for her, fearing that she was lying wounded and helpless somewhere, but in the end he had come home to take care of his son. The boy already showed signs of being a powerful mage. Avernus had devised elaborate plans for the boy's education. It was such a pleasure for Jowan to know that the child would never be locked away in a Circle and threatened with death or Tranquility.
"By the time we get back to the Keep," Jowan said, changing the subject, "Malea should have laid her latest clutch of eggs."
Carver glanced about him reflexively. No one could possibly know what they were talking about. An eavesdropper would no doubt think they were talking about a chicken, or a pet goose. They were not.
It was still better to be cautious. "Don't talk about it here," Carver ordered. "In fact, don't talk about it until we're at the Compound, in the study, and all the servants are downstairs asleep."
"People will find out someday." Jowan insisted.
"I know. It's important to keep it secret until we've got it right and nobody dares interfere. Anyway, we'll be back for the hatching. That's what matters."
Jowan smiled, and then they walked on in silence, thinking about their grand scheme; the one that would put the Wardens back in the sky where they belonged. Tara, who had witnessed Bronwyn's death by dragon, had reservations about it, but Avernus was obsessed with it, fascinated by the story of Bronwyn's first ride on a dragon down in the Architect's secret caverns. They had investigated, and found that some of the dragons had survived. If darkspawn could raise dragons, Grey Wardens certainly could.
Carver thought it a brilliant idea. It was the death of the Archdemon, not the flight itself, that had killed Bronwyn, after all. He had been there on another occasion to see her successfully ride a dragon and live.
Wyverns were useful in combat, but they were neither as big as mature dragons, nor did they fly as well. They had really not done all that well against the Archdemon in combat, though they might be of some use in the Deep Roads. However, a High Dragon against a High Dragon? Or a flight of them? That should do some damage.
Breeding tame dragons was not easy, but much of the work had been done for them already by the Architect's minions over the past several decades. The Architect had enthralled some of the beasts — the ones who had the greatest predisposition to be domesticated. The fierce, the wayward, he had killed. Avernus read the notebooks and did likewise. Most of the little dragonlings were still pretty aggressive, but each generation was better socialized, and now they were imprinting on humans to some extent. Based on the Architect's experiments with rats, there was a threshold at the eighth generation at which point all the resulting offspring would be tame. It took ten years for a dragon to be mature enough to reproduce. A very intelligent and amenable dragon named Malea was of the seventh generation. Her eggs would be the first clutch of the eighth. High in the Coast Mountains, not far from Soldier's Peak, was a large cavern, warmed by a hot spring. Malea was established there, cared for by Ostap and some new recruits. Ostap had a healthy respect for dragons, but no superstitious dread of them. He had ridden one himself, however briefly, and lived to tell the tale. It would still be years before the dragons were large enough to carry a rider. Then...
Carver glimpsed Bryland House, and walked a little faster. He would have just enough time to see Mother and Emma, and then he would need to hurry to wash and dress. At the front gate, Jowan paused only briefly.
"I'll see you at the Compound."
"Come on in for a moment. I won't be long."
"No. This is family. Let's go, Lily." The mage gave him a wry smile and walked on, up the King's Way toward the Palace. Lily looked back at them, and then followed.
Carver wanted to tell Jowan to wait; that he was family, too; that he regarded him as just as much his brother as Adam— and a more likable, trustworthy brother, at that. But Jowan was already striding away, head down, and Carver preferred not to make a ridiculous scene in front of his mother's house.
So, instead, he presented himself at the brass-studded front door, and was admitted by the servant on duty. Without warning, a miniature warrior burst from the cover of an potted plant and hurled herself at his legs. Magister jumped, barking, fond of the little human. She knew how to play.
"Carver! I got you! I got you!"
He picked up his little sister, swinging her into his arms.
"You did. And what's this?" He rapped his knuckles on the pot over her head.
"Ow! My helmet, silly. But it doesn't have wings. I want a helmet with wings!" She pushed the pot off, and it fell to the floor with a clang.
Emma was a very pretty little girl, even allowing for brotherly partiality. She was an attractive mix of the best of the Amells and the Brylands, which was pretty attractive material to begin with. Her dark hair curled softly, like Bethany's, and she had her halfsister Habren's large grey eyes, starred with long black lashes. They were rather like Bronwyn's eyes, in fact, except for the color, but Bronwyn had been born with grey eyes. Carver had not known her then. Emma was just as closely related to Bronwyn as Habren was, and it had been agreed that the two cousins somewhat resembled each other. Well, so people said. Carver had never seen much resemblance, because he had never seen Bronwyn expressing petty spite, and he had never seen Habren expressing much of anything else.
"Who were you fighting today, mighty battlemaiden Emma?"
"Ogres," Emma said, with frank honesty, pointing at the potted plant. "I hate ogres."
"So do I. I brought you a present."
"Show me, please!"
"Let's sit down."
He found a bench and sat, shifting Emma's weight onto his lap, and sliding his bag from his shoulder. Emma reached out to pet the mabari.
"Nice Magister," she crooned. "Good boy. I like you even better than Hunter!"
Magister agreed. He had always suspected that both he and his human were superior to Hunter and his. They were Wardens, after all. The human pup was perceptive.
"I got you this," said Carver, showing her the little mabari.
"That's Scout!" Emma declared. She frowned adorably, remembering another black mabari she knew. "Or is it Lily?"
"It's yours. You can name your mabari whatever you like."
"Thank you, Carver," she said, well drilled in manners. "I wish he was real."
"Until you imprint a puppy of your own, this will have to do," he declared. Even as indulgent as Mother and the boys were, they knew Emma was far too young to train a mabari.
"All right. He has black hair. I'll call him... Loghain!"
Carver felt himself laughing and turning red at once, unable to make himself explain why she ought not to name a toy dog after the Hero of River Dane and King of Ferelden. Loghain himself would probably have been amused. He had been present at Emma's naming, and had even once held her in his arms, but she would not remember him, obviously.
"My dog Loghain." Emma murmured contentedly, "We'll have adventures together when I'm a Girl Warden."
It was possible, Carver supposed. He hoped for the best for his little sister. She could choose worse than to model herself after Bronwyn Cousland, that bright falling star.
Loghain had warned them that every generation faces its own challenges. All they could hope was that in every generation heroes would rise to meet them.
"Emma... let me tell you a story about a girl who made friends with a dragon..."
The End
(—until the second ending is posted next week)
Thanks to my reviewers: Tsu Doh Nimh, Girl-chama, DjinniGenie, Phygmalion, Reynes, Kyren, Nightbrainzz, Juliafied, Chiara Crawfor, Casey W, Anon, Rexiselic, Lucy's Echos, sizuka2, Nemrut, Embertoinferno, AD Lewis, Judy, KnightOfHolyLight, Chandagnac, Wedger, Mike3207, Mazanti, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, Mystricka, omolo, timunderwood9, Karsci, The Warrior of the Light, BandGeekNinja, ReploidAvenger, cementCANOE, Tangyman, Ie-maru, Tirion I, MemoriesoftheForgottenGuardian, Robbie the Phoenix, Herebedragons66, Melysande, JackOfBladesX, Suna Chunin, MurphysLaw89, VM mercenary, Mage, Marianne Bennet, MsBarrows, RedtheBattler, Kimbo91, imperial queen, Jenna53, Guest, mille libri, Cande in the Night, jnybot, lemonjay, dragonmactir, ThorShared, NorthernWarden, animeman12, FloridaMagpie, Fenrir666, Soseolga, Zute, Tselmegnavchaa, gdb, PhantomX0990, Josie Lange, DodgeSavage Truck of Bronze, and karinfan123.
Thus ends my story — except for the second ending, coming up next week. Once I'm done, I must go through the whole thing. I have typos to fix, dropped words to add, and subplots that went nowhere to delete. As always, I appreciate your feedback.
Some of you have asked when Aveline was not considered for the post of Warden-Commander. I didn't think it would be believable for all the old hands to stand back for her. Tara and Carver have seniority, and they were both much closer to Bronwyn, which would count for a lot. Carver also has very influential relatives, and that, in an feudal society, would be seen as a plus. Aveline's father was an Orlesian chevalier, which would not help her. Finally, we know from DA2 that Aveline and Carver really don't get on. I don't think that would change. The difference here, is that instead of Aveline getting a leg up into the Kirkwall guard, and then blackballing Carver, it's Carver who has the leg up. He's not about to stand back for a woman he doesn't particularly like. (And based on the success, conduct, and efficiency of the Kirkwall City Guard, I'm simply not impressed with Aveline as a leader)
All right. Many of you will want to know exactly what happened to Loghain, so I'll tell you. This adventure happens much earlier than Alistair's similar adventure in the comics, so Maric is still in the Antivan prison. Loghain breaks him out—of course—and tells Maric what's been going on. Maric absolutely refuses to return and be king, and Loghain certainly doesn't want to be king anymore either, so the two old friends find a cabin in the woods and go fishing. Morrigan actually comes upon them on one occasion and they have a long conversation about her scheming.
Tara threw Flemeth's amulet into a lava flow. Flemeth, of course, has other horcruxes, but nobody's going to find one and use it for quite some time.
As to the dragon-breeding experiment, I have taken the idea from a famous experiment conducted in Siberia with foxes. By the eighth generation, they're as tame as dogs. Dragons are much smarter and more useful, of course.