Victory at Ostagar
(parts of this chapter are identical, or only slightly altered, from Chapter 124.)
Chapter 124 Alternative: Blood of the Dragon
The last flight of the Archdemon was low and slow, violet flames blooming from the dragon's bellowing maw. By the light of the fires in the city and the burning grass on the plain, people could see the little figures on the creature's back, even to the glitter of their spears. Those with spyglasses, like First Warden Wildauer and Hector Pentaghast, could see the red armor worn by the Warden on the dragon's neck.
A pair of 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. It wasn't far to fall."
As Bronwyn's spear penetrated the Archdemon's brain, a shaft of unearthly light speared up into the heavens. It expanded into a gigantic white blossom that illumined 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."
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.
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 low 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 to the Archdemon.
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 above the earth. Her friend would survive the death of the Archdemon: there was a strong possibility that she would not survive the subsequent fall. The Avvar tumbled 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. Riordan was still stabbing at the dragon, bracing himself against the wing joint as he tried to pierce the hide. He startled a little as the little hawk flashed by. His spear slid up, slicing neatly through a tendon. The Archdemon shrieked, its wing almost useless.
It could not flap to gain height; it could only soar. Obviously falling to the earth would be fatal, and reconstituting itself would be time-consuming and painful. The Archdemon tilted forward into a descent. It would land far from the Wardens, kill the two attackers, and trust to its ability to heal rapidly.
The tilt dislodged Riordan from his safe position. He lost his footing and dangled from the anchor strap, snarling curses. Bronwyn's stomach heaved again as the ground rushed up toward them. She swayed back as if a giant hand pushed at her whole body, and then as the flight leveled off, she was able to lean into her spear again. The butt of the weapon skittered off her breastplate to the left. She gripped it closer to the head, pushing hard. Dark dragonblood spurted out, and Bronwyn got a mouthful. It was heady, burning, hot and thrilling... intoxicating. She swallowed and thrust again, with a shout.
Dazzling light was a physical presence. She saw nothing else, and accepted that she was seeing her death.
Beautiful, she thought. At least it's beautiful.
The bellowing of the Archdemon vibrated up through her legs, shaking her body. The light enveloped her—
And then the shock wave struck.
Riordan slammed back against the dragon's body, but the strap held. The blow stunned him. Bronwyn was likewise unconscious, slumped to the side. The birds tumbled, helpless and blinded, until they thumped onto the ground. Morrigan landed harder, but at the short distance on loose, excavated earth had only bruises. Anders, further away, managed better, but still huddled in a little hollow for a moment, dazed.
The dragon skidded into the ground at a shallow angle, bounced ponderously, and then plowed on, leaving a huge scar on the Blighted ground far beyond the Wardens' lines, even beyond the ravine where the baggage train lay concealed. When it finally stopped. the dragon's tail twitched once, and then it lay still. Riordan was saved from the worst of it by the outstretched wing. Bronwyn was violently bruised when the stop threw her forward against the spiny vertebrae. Another jolt slammed her head against the dragon's skull, Not even the nasal piece could spare her a broken nose. The winged helmet saved her life, but rattled her brains. The last jolt knocked the helmet completely off her head, and it tumbled away, unregarded. She lay still, sprawled out over the Archdemon's head.
The first to understand that he was still alive, Anders gingerly shifted into human form, and rushed toward the vast bulk of the Archdemon. Hardly daring to hope, he scrambled up and pressed his fingers into Bronwyn's neck.
"Thank you, Maker! Thank you, Maker!" he babbled, and then remembered that the Maker had absolutely nothing to do with it. He had to get to Morrigan, but first he took a quick look at Bronwyn, who had sustained some bad damage from the impact, even protected by her dragon armor. She was obviously concussed. Unstrapping her would be tricky alone. Instead, he gathered his mana for a powerful healing spell, and hoped that would hold her for the time being. From the back of the Archdemon, he could see distant figures running out of the north gate. He hoped they were not darkspawn.
Sliding down on the other side, he found Riordan, badly injured. Another concussion, a dislocated shoulder, and quite serious contusions from what looked like being dragged over rough ground. Another spell for him, and then Anders only had eyes for Morrigan.
"Morrigan!"
The hawk answered with a faint "cree!" Anders stumbled over to her.
"It's not bad," he assured her quickly. "Really not bad. Nothing seems broken, but you'll have some colorful bruises. Don't try to shift back... not until I heal you again."
The discomfort of knitting tissues caused her to cry out again, but she immediately looked better, and then lay trembling. Very carefully, Anders picked her up and carried her over to the Archdemon's half-opened wing. He laid her down gently, and cast a third healing spell. Then he turned to the others.
Riordan was easier to get to. Ander unbuckled the Orlesian and eased him back, scowling over the broken bones.
A horrible thought came to him: the Wardens would expect a Warden to die killing the Archdemon. If no one was dead, there would be curiosity and recriminations and even the suspicion that the Archdemon was not, in fact dead.
Anders could make that problem go away if Riordan did not survive. A simple spell, undoing his healing, would kill the Orlesian quickly and painlessly.
But he could not do it. Anders had killed in battle, but he had never murdered in cold blood. Mostly especially, he had never considered murdering a faithful friend who had been nothing but generous and helpful himself. If it had been another other Orlesian, or a Templar, Anders might have been tempted to simplify matters, but he could not bring himself to kill Riordan. Ashamed of himself for even considering it, he worked on healing the man's broken ribs.
The two young Tevinters on the scene confirmed that he would, first, do no harm.
"Some of them might be alive!" shouted Vyraco. "Hurry!"
The lifted torches gave better light than the half-hidden moon. Anders glanced up to see the two lights bobbing closer.
"Morrigan!" he whispered. "Fly away if you can. They're bound to ask questions. Find Loghain and tell him Bronwyn's alive!"
She felt much better and stronger, and took flight at once, winging swiftly away to the south. She was sore, but not in disabling pain, and her heart was singing in triumph. Only a few moments later, the young Tevinters, stumbling over the rough ground, caught sight of Anders.
"I can't believe anyone survived that!" Julian burst out. "That's amazing!"
Anders called to them. "Are you Healers? I could use some help here."
Pleased that the foreigner was a mage, one said, "I am Julian Merulus, and this is my friend Vyraco. I'm a Healer. Vyraco will have to hold the torches."
"Actually," Anders said, sizing up Vyraco's greater strength. "He can help me get her —" he pointed to Bronwyn still tangled in her straps "—down from there."
"She's slew the Archdemon?" Vyraco asked. "She's dead?"
"Not yet," Anders said grimly.
"But how —"
"We'll figure it out later! For now let's just help her! I'm Anders, by the way."
Dragon scale did not burn, obviously. Vyraco laid his torch on the Archdemon's side and clambered up after Anders.
It was tricky, trying to unravel the intertwined leather belts. Anders finally drew a knife and cut through them. Then they eased Bronwyn away, sliding her left leg over the dragon's limp neck. Julian peered up at them. Bronwyn's face was dark with blood. It masked her features; she scarcely looked human.
"Is her skull cracked?"
"Could be," Anders said. "Some of the blood is from a broken nose, and some from a scalp wound." He laid her down beside Riordan, and felt the skull bones carefully. With a murmured spell, he fixed the broken nose. Then he rubbed his fingers together, feeling the wrongness of the blood's texture.
"Not all this is hers," he said. "Get me something to clean her with."
Bronwyn, still unconscious, heaved a series of coughs.
"She's got blood in her mouth," said Anders, turning her head. He gestured to Julian. "Put your torch up there and help me heal her."
"Are you sure she killed the Archdemon?" asked Vyraco. "The man is alive too."
Anders answered impatiently. "The bloody Archdemon looks pretty dead to me, and no other Archdemons have made an appearance. It exploded just like it's supposed to. Bronwyn's tougher than anyone I know. A spear in the brain is more like to kill a dragon than an injured wing!"
"That's her?" Julian asked, handing Anders some linen torn from his underrobe. "The Dragonslayer?"
"Yes. Queen Bronwyn, Warden-Commander of Ferelden. She's killed a lot of dragons. It could be that she's better at it than other people."
"She's swallowed a lot of Archdemon blood," Julian said nervously. "Who knows what could do to her?"
Anders snorted. "Along with the darkspawn blood she's drunk and the Ashes of Andraste in her system? 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."
"That's it!" Vyraco hissed. "She had Andraste's Ashes! That's how she did it!"
Anders suppressed a grin, remembering a quarrel he had once overheard between two drunks in a tavern.
"If the Archdemon and Andraste got in a fight, who d'you think would win?"
"The Archdemon, I reckon…"
"Ha! But Andraste can call on the MAKER!"
Thrilled at this possible rationale, Anders tried to sound casual. "That could be. The Ashes have saved her before. She's still badly hurt. You… Julian? I need you to work on Riordan there: punctured lung, dislocated shoulder, concussion… take your pick."
"The Dragonslayer—"
"I'll take care of Bronwyn. You look after Riordan."
He had to argue again as more Wardens crowded up, peering at his patients, poking at the Archdemon, cheering and embracing one another. As senior officers arrived, the mob scene quieted somewhat. The young Tevinters pointed out their own commander. Vyraco handed his torch to another Warden to hold and went to speak to Elagabalus.
"The Archdemon is dead, Commander, but the slayer is alive," He lowered his voice to a thrilling whisper. "It's Andraste's Champion. The Fereldan Healer isn't saying too much, but it's clear he thinks she's been saved by a dose of the Ashes of Andraste!"
Thunderstruck and fascinated, Elagabalus pushed past the happy crowd to get a good look. He recognized one of his own junior people, Julian, who was assisting another Warden. Laid out on the Archdemon's wing were a pair of wounded Wardens. One was a young women, the other was a man in middle-age.
"Who's he?" he demanded.
"Riordan of Orlais," Anders replied, not looking up.
Elagablus did not wish to interfere with a Healer, but reached out delicately with his own magic to confirm that the Archdemon was utterly and completely dead, and the humans present were not. An intriguing — if worrying —situation. Had the Archdemon's soul been destroyed, or would they presently see another, living Archdemon rising up, taking shape from a possessed darkspawn? If it were going to happen, surely it would have happened by now, based on all he had read...
More Wardens arrived. Here was Pentaghast, a little ahead of the others. Excited Wardens were rushing to him with the news. Ah, there was the First Warden. Such a conundrum. What ought they to do? Were they sure they young Fereldan woman was the slayer? He himself had seen others falling from the Archdemon. Could one have struck a last, lethal blow, and then the dying Archdemon had coasted in, crashing to its death? That was not an impossible scenario. Credit should be given where it was due, not offered as a tribute to glamor. Elagabalus forsaw some measured, reasoned debate. Everyone would have to be thoroughly examined.
By the time the First Warden was gazing at the scene, the air was full of gossip about "Andraste's Champion!" and "Saved by the Sacred Ashes!" and "A miracle!" Even the Rivainnis, who were not all Andrasteans, had eagerly joined in the rumors.
"Andraste's Ashes saved her?" the First Warden demanded. "Is that even possible?"
Julian whispered to his own commander, "And she swallowed some Archdemon blood. We all know what dragon's blood can do."
Elagabalus did know. He had been involved in some research delving into the various uses of dragon's blood. It was an immensely powerful restorative. Combined with the Ashes, it could well have caused unforeseen phenomena.
Pentaghast climbed up on the dragon, examining its wounds.
"Who was up here?" he asked.
To Anders' exasperation, Wardens were climbing all over the corpse, doing a postmortem to determine the exact cause of death.
"Watch out!" he snapped. "Don't trample the wounded, you dozy idiots! Can't this wait for first light?"
"Alas, no," the First Warden said, deigning to speak to the Fereldan mage. "The blood must be retrieved and the facts established as quickly as possibly. If we are in danger from a resurrection of the Archdemon —"
"It's dead!"
" — or from some new danger, that must be ascertained immediately."
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.
As the clouds scudded away, the moonlight shown bright on the plain north of the city. Clearly, this had been the site of a great pitched battle. Some grass was burning sullenly near a vast sprawling bulk: the Archdemon.
"There!" shouted Sten.
A flutter of wings, and white breastfeathers flashed past Loghain. In an instant Morrigan stood before him, rubbing her right arm in discomfort. Loghain saw her, slender and pale in the moonlight, and was unmoved by her beauty. He took a heavy step toward her, racked by questions he did not want to frame.
She spoke first, saving him from that.
"Bronwyn lives."
It was the best, the kindest, the quickest way to tell him. She gave him a moment to catch his breath and command himself, and above the gasps of relief and cries of joy, she went on.
"Bronwyn lives, and Riordan lives, and the Archdemon is dead. The First Warden, I dare say, is somewhat puzzled, and everyone is asking questions. Bronwyn is unconscious, but Anders is with her. Perhaps you should join them, lest the First Warden and the Tevinter mages take her apart to see what she is made of."
"Jowan!" snarled Loghain. "I need a wyvern!"
Not just one wyvern, but three paced swiftly across the plains to the body of the Archdemon. Tara, Jowan, and Morrigan ran along at a gait smoother than ice, bringing as many as they could carry to confront the northern Wardens. The dogs ran barking in their wake, and the golems, astonishingly swift for beings of stone and metal, thundered behind. Nevarrans and Andermen backed away in alarm. Tevinters and Rivainnis wondered aloud. At first they had feared they were dragon thralls, but these were clearly wyverns, and on the back of the foremost was a big warrior in silverite plate who was no Warden.
"King Loghain!" Anders called. "She's here! She's going to be all right!"
"Riordan's there, too?" called Minjonet.
"He is. He's still out, but the bones will mend."
Loghain was utterly indifferent to the Orlesian. He slid from the wyvern's back, ignoring the ocean of awe rippling through the crowd, and went to Bronwyn at once. A Tevinter obligingly held up a torch so he could see her. Scout darted forward, frantic, and sniffed at his Bronwyn, whining. He licked at her face, which was still smeared with Archdemon blood.
"She's going to be all right, old boy," Anders said soothingly, whether to Loghain or Scout, it was unclear. "She got jolted around pretty badly, and she cracked her face against the Archdemon's skull, but there's nothing that can't be fixed."
Loghain crouched down by Bronwyn, eyes fixed on her. Some of the blood had been cleared away, and her nose was set, but shadowy bruises darkened her brow and cheekbones. Stripping off a gauntlet, Loghain traced a finger along her jaw, wanting to feel the warmth of life to reassure himself.
"Of course..." the First warden said into the turbulent, excited crowd. "Of course we are relieved at the survival of our sister and brother, but many questions remain."
The whispers of "Andraste's Champion!" and "The Sacred Ashes!" rose again. Anders slipped over between Tara and Jowan and whispered a warning.
"They think that the Ashes saved her. It could be true. She handled, smelled, and ingested some, after all. She also swallowed almost a pint of Archdemon blood. That might have something to do with it, too."
Tara, in wyvern form, refrained from crunching Anders in her jaws, but it was difficult. Did the idiot not anticipate how suspicious Bronwyn's survival would be? Half of them might even think that the Archdemon was not really dead.
Loghain could think of nothing but getting Bronwyn out of the night air and away from the Archdemon.
"That may be!" he replied. "But my queen requires care. The beast is dead, and the darkspawn put to flight. My people are exhausted and must rest. We shall return to our quarters in the city now, and perhaps in the morning we can find answers to your questions."
Stooping, he gathered Bronwyn up in his arms, and laid her on Jowan's back, settling her carefully between the spine ridges.
"Bear her carefully," he commanded. Zevran tugged on Adaia, and they slipped down from Tara's back, making a place for Riordan. Once the wounded were situated, they headed slowly back toward the city. Loghain walked beside Bronwyn, his hand on her, keeping her balanced. The jubilant Wardens returned to Val Royeaux in the strangest parade ever seen by the Gate of the Moon.
The First Warden was quite put out. "But..."
"Perhaps tomorrow is for the best," Hector Pentaghast said, speaking a little louder. "Perhaps Queen Bronwyn and our brother Riordan will be able to join us then." He bowed to the departing Fereldan Wardens.
"Gather the blood first," Elagabalus ordered his mages. "We can process everything else later. The blood is essential and much be as fresh as possible."
There was much to be done. Teams hauled the barrels and kegs to the dead Archdemon, while other Wardens examined the dragon, finishing their analysis of events. While they were talking, a quite horrible idea occurred to Elagabalus. He nearly shouted it out, but in the current circumstances, that would lead to a pitched battle. There was another way.
Elgabalus caught Julian by the sleeve and hissed a command. "Be subtle. Go after the Fereldans and give them every assistance. Examine the Queen carefully. You must find out if she is with child. If so, she must miscarry. Do you understand?"
Even in the night, he could see the boy's eyes open wide and white. "Could that—?"
"It could. She might well be unaware of it herself. Do not ask her! I hope I am wrong, but if I am not, that child cannot be permitted to live. It is for the Queen's own safety. Go."
The other commanders remained for a time— even Visconti and Sainsby— making introductions and discussing the battle and the fall of the Archdemon.
"It is dead, isn't it?" asked Sainsby. "It hasn't risen again, and surely there wouldn't be such a display for a mere transfer."
Visconti was worried. "But the slayer lives. It's true that she won some Ashes. I even spoke to a woman who was with her, but I thought..." His thought faded into silence. He might have misunderstood Warden Leliana about the amount and disposition of the Ashes, and did not wish to muddy the waters.
Pentaghast looked at the short, sharp spears that had been retrieved from the corpse. Quite fine work, as were the spring-loaded anchors that had kept them secure.
"The death can almost certainly be attributed to Queen Bronwyn, as she was found next to the spear in its brain. No doubt all the Wardens who participated in the attack have some share in the kill— and Riordan's efforts clearly disabled it and brought it down — but the actual cause of death must be the head wound. Technically, then, we must consider Queen Bronwyn the slayer of the Archdemon. Of course, we must hear the survivors' stories at length."
"And listen for what they do not tell us," muttered the First Warden's aide. His chief glanced at him and nodded.
"Maybe it was one of the Wardens who fell..." Sainsby theorized. " We saw that two fell from the creatures back into the sea. Maybe one of them threw the spear and the landing drove it in further."
"But if they were already dead, the Archdemon's soul would not go to them," objected Pentaghast.
"They might not have been dead," Sainsby replied. "They might have been swimming. Falling into the ocean isn't an inevitable death sentence, after all. Maybe one or both of them survived."
"This is all very unclear," Visconti complained, shaking his head. "But who knows? Perhaps past events were also confused, and we know only the cleaned-up story that our predecessors committed to parchment."
"But the theory is sound," the First Warden disagreed. "It is the only thing that makes sense."
Elagabalus held up his hand, thinking hard.
"The theory is based on a very small number of events. Perhaps a different individual, with different abilities or very great strength of will, might successfully resist the onslaught of the Archdemon's soul, consigning it to the Beyond. We should not be too hide-bound, or close our minds to special circumstances. It is true that Queen Bronwyn has been exposed to an unusual number of magical substances. It is obviously true that she possesses great strength of will. There could be yet another explanation, however."
"And that is?" First Warden Wildauer demanded, confused and exasperated, wishing none of this had happened in his lifetime.
"Queen Bronwyn is a young woman... and a wife. If she were to be with child..."
"Maker's Breath!" shouted Pentaghast, horrified.
"I only suggest it as a possibilty," Elagabalus continued, " and I have sent an excellent Healer to ascertain whether or not it is so."
Visconti could hardly manage to voice his question. "Are you suggesting that an Archdemon could be growing inside her? That is..." He was unable to find words.
"Not an Archdemon, necessarily," Elagabalus. "The Old God Urthemiel instead, perhaps. The fact that Bronwyn is herself a Warden complicates the issue. Were she not a Warden, but the spouse of one, it is clear that the child would be cleansed of the Taint. Since the mother herself is Tainted, that is not so clear-cut."
"I need a drink," Sainsby said frankly. "And a meal. And some sleep. I'm going back to the Warden headquarters in the city. Enzo, are you coming?"
"Yes... yes..." said the Antivan, still sick with horror. "But ought we not to warn her?"
"She is unconscious and wounded," said Pentaghast. "After such a shock, it is likely that she would lose any child she carried. Why torture her with something that is only a supposition? Have the Healer determine her condition. Ten to one we are worrying about nothing. Female Wardens do not conceive easily."
"That's true," sighed the First Warden, "though it still leaves us with unanswered questions."
"We are not likely to find the answers tonight," said Sainsby. "The morning is wiser than the evening."
"Then let us meet here tomorrow morning," said the First Warden. Meetings and conferences were things he understood well. And he was too tired to think, himself.
While the Wardens of Tevinter and Weisshaupt swarmed over the Archdemon, draining the precious blood from the corpse and stripping away hide and scales, Julian hurried after the Fereldans.
"Let me help you," he begged Anders. "I can't sleep without knowing if they're all right."
Anders understood what it was like to worry about a patient, and gave the boy a brief smile, clapping him on the shoulder.
"Is it all right with your commander?"
"He said I could please myself," lied the boy. "We have plenty of Healers with us... but this is history!"
"All right. We took over a big mansion in the Place Reville. You can join us there. We'll want to clear more space for Riordan. I don't know about Bronwyn. Loghain might want her brought to his own headquarters. In fact, nothing more likely. Riordan mostly needs sleep at this point."
"I'm worried about the Queen's concussion," the boy said. "If there's blood on the brain—"
"Fine, you can assist me," Anders agreed, sympathetic toward anyone who cared about Bronwyn.
"Listen," Julian murmured, moving closer. "How did you get out there to them so fast? You weren't on the dragon, were you? 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 not sure what he ought to say about shape-shifting, especially to a Tevinter. Morrigan was right there, in her wyvern form, no doubt hearing the entire conversation. They walked back through the city, and now and then Anders checked Bronwyn and Riordan's condition. The Orlesian was showing signs of responsiveness. His eyelids flickered, and now and then he uttered a soft groan and some unintelligible words. Bronwyn was still profoundly unconscious.
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 could keep kept occasional forays at bay. The darkspawn were leaderless and nearly imbecilic: that did not mean they were not dangerous.
Loghain certainly did not care about cleaning out the entire city. That was a job for the Wardens. More accurately, it was a job for Wardens not from Ferelden. Those had already done their duty. As soon as Bronwyn was fit to travel, they were leaving this foul place. He wondered if he could get away with putting her on one of Isabela's ships. Probably not.
It was a long, long walk to the Place Reville, longer coming back than going out. Soldiers' steps dragged on the cobblestones, and pikes scraped along listlessly. Even those on watch would not be able to function for more than an hour or so at a time.
Loghain insisted that Bronwyn be brought to his own headquarters: a once-splendid mansion facing the open square. A room had been cleared for him that seemed fairly decent. Obviously, the darkspawn had not been in every room in Val Royeaux—nor even every building. Parts of the upstairs here were merely dusty, and an orderly had taken care of that.
Once they reached the Place Reville, the wounded were carefully unloaded from the wyverns, and Riordan taken to the Warden's house and Bronwyn to headquarters. Then they shifted back to human shape. Julian nearly fell down, between the shock of seeing such magic and the curious change in air pressure created by the transformation of so much mass.
"Shape-shifting?" he gabbled, clutching Anders arm. Much was now explained. The Fereldans did have impressive powers of their own.
Anders had no time for magical theory. "We have work to do," he said. "Come on."
Leliana came with them, wanting to help, and among them they managed to unbuckle Bronwyn's armor, unfasten her underpadding, and get her washed. The Orlesian mansion had an inner courtyard, with a fountain that the darkspawn had not yet found and Tainted. In the cellar was a well, too, with good water. Everyone drank thirstily. Julian worked hard and uncomplainingly, awaiting his chance to do a pregnancy scan. Loghain helped where he could, but was too busy with his officers to be able to spend every minute with his injured young wife. Finally, Anders and Leliana were distracted by the sound of heavy footsteps outside on the pavement. Leliana looked out the window.
"It's Shale!"
Anders looked too. In the torchlight, the shape and size of the golem were unmistakeable. So too was the armor worn by the body in its arms.
"And Astrid."
Even at this distance, it was clear that the injuries had been fatal. They ran down the stairs and out into the the square. While they were gone, Julian performed his painstaking scan. A dead Warden was no concern of his, but the living were profoundly interesting.
The murmur of gossip grew to a roar. A crowd gathered, with more and more dwarves. In short order, 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 deeds of the 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 possible. Piotin Aeducan wasted no time in seeking out Loghain and demanding to speak to him.
It had finally occurred to Anders that he had put Morrigan in terrible danger. It had also occurred to him that she had put both herself and him in terrible danger with her schemes. There was no way that Tara was going to think any of this was a good idea, and Tara's lover was a trained assassin...
He had been up a great deal of the night, caring for Bronwyn, but some time after midnight, she began breathing more normally, and fell into a proper sleep. The fractures seemed to be healing quickly, and no pressure was being exerted on her brain.
The Tevinter Julian had done well, too, and had eventually left, saying, "I desperately need sleep. My commander will wonder what I've been up to. May we meet again soon."
He bowed in the old-fashioned Tevinter manner, excited at the prospect of making his report: his very satisfactory report. The Fereldan Queen was not with child. It was possible that she had miscarried in the past — there were signs his magic detected — but she was healing with astonishing rapidity, even for a Warden, and no parasitical life could be detected. She would be waking soon. No doubt she would wish to have familiar faces about her.
Anders was glad to see him go. He must speak to Morrigan. Soon after, the proud shape of a hawk was silhouetted against the red and purple dawn. Morrigan slipped through the window, and stood gazing down at Bronwyn.
"She looks much better."
"I think she'll wake soon. She seems fine. Maybe that dose of Ashes Tara gave her awhile back made the difference. I'm a little worried about all the Archdemon blood she swallowed. I hope it doesn't turn her into a raving berserker!"
"'Twould make her better able to cope with Loghain!" Morrigan said tartly.
Anders braced himself, and then said, "Loghain is not the most serious problem at the moment. I think Tara might suspect..."
Morrigan glared at him. "What?"
Ander bumbled on, "... I think she might suspect us of performing rituals that caused things not to work out exactly as planned."
Morrigan exploded. "You fool! You told her, didn't you? You talked. You cannot be kept from talking!"
"I was worried!" Anders protested. "I was afraid for you! I wanted a second opinion, and Tara knows lots of exotic magic. She thought it was a terrible idea — for your sake— and told me I should talk you out of it. Obviously," he gave her a weak smile. "I failed."
Very alarmed, Morrigan saw all the dangers in a moment. "And now she will go tattling to the Wardens... to Bronwyn... to our companions... to the assassin! Do you understand what they would do to me?"
"I won't let them!"
"Fool," she muttered again, thinking hard. "I shall defend myself. We must allay their suspicions, and it would be best for me to leave this place as quickly as possible." She bit her lip, and then her eye fell on the bloody mass of the towels that had been used to clean Bronwyn. "I have an idea..."
Loghain came in shortly thereafter to see if Bronwyn was awake. He found Anders and Morrigan in quiet conversation. The witch seemed ill and exhausted.
"Are you all right?"
Morrigan attempted to draw herself up into a simulacrum of her usual haughty self.
"I am perfectly well," she declared. "'Tis only... 'tis only..."
Blood dripped onto the floor from between her legs, and she crumpled into Anders' arms.
The Wardens awakened slowly the following morning, recovering from wounds and overexertion. They were tired and sore, grieving for the dead, but elated at their victory. The first up had managed to make some sort of gruesome porridge, which, being Wardens, everyone gobbled down regardless of how it tasted or smelled.
"The Rivainnis claim they saw another wyvern—a live one — in addition to the mangled corpse near the Gate of the Moon." said Quinn.
Nuala and Steren looked at each other. "The dead wyvern was the shemlen noble's pet. Velanna must be somewhere in the city. We must find her and help her return to her proper form!"
"R-r-r-ight," Quinn said slowly. "Be careful, though. She might turn on you."
The Dalish couple looked briefly miserable. The loss of Danith still grieved them, and now, for Velanna to be trapped in the body of a beast... alone, confused... it was too much. It was truly terrible.
"We shall search for her, nonetheless," Steren affirmed.
Alistair joined the other early risers. "Some of us are supposed to meet with the First Warden this morning. I don't know why they can't wait for Bronwyn to be up. Riordan, too, for that matter. What are they trying to pull?"
Carver yawned. "Maybe they're still trying to figure out what happened. Last night certainly proved a blow to ages of treasured lore."
Alistair spooned up the lumpy porridge. "If the Archdemon were still alive, we'd know it by now. And that light and that explosion... well, it couldn't have happened for anything less than the Archdemon being dead as week-old mutton."
Quinn said, "The dwarves say the Archdemon is gone and the Blight is over. They're pulling out today. I heard Kardol talking to some of his men. They want to take Astrid home to Orzammar for a state funeral. They'd like to take a formal goodbye of Bronwyn, but they're going today whether she wakes or not."
"'Morning, all," Adaia called out, looking half-awake.
"Where's Siofranni?' Carver asked.
"She wants to sleep in a little. She said that when she's ordered to get up, she'll get up."
"The First Warden wants to see some of us," Carver warned her. "Maybe Siofranni doesn't have to be there, though. You should be."
"Ha!" Adaia scoffed. "As if anybody's going to ask my opinion!"
Alistair looked at her across the table. "I'm interested in your opinion."
"That's because you're just too nice. Not like me."
Alistair made a face. Maybe he was too nice. "Anyway, I want you there, if I have to be there. Tara and Anders, too."
"Who's talking about me?" Tara asked, entering the dining room.
She and Zevran had spent the night making love in celebration, and then making plans. Now was not necessarily the time to deal with Morrigan, but it was not too early to look at their options. Failing that, Tara had told Zevran flatly that she did not want to live in Thedas if it was also going to contain Morrigan's Old God baby.
"Fortunately, cara mia," Zevran had pointed out. "We have alternatives, yes?"
Tara was relieved not to see Morrigan at the table. One sight of her smug expression, and she would likely curse her, no matter what the consequences. As soon as Bronwyn was awake, they were going to have to tell her what had happened. Promises were all very well, but this was a terrible danger.
Leliana came through the door, dark circles of weariness under her eyes.
"Maker!" Carver exclaimed. "Were you up all night?"
"For the most part. There was much to do. My friend Silas is dead. He was in the Cathedral with Astrid."
Adaia came forward to hug her. "I'm so sorry!"
"Such a terrible night," Leliana murmured, distracted. "At least Bronwyn and Riordan are alive. Morrigan, too... it is very sad."
Tara looked up. "What happened to Morrigan?"
"A heartbreaking disappointment," Leliana told her. "Poor Morrigan. She was standing there speaking to Teyrn Loghain in Bronwyn's room, when she suddenly issued a flow of blood and collapsed. She has miscarried a child!"
"Oh." Alistair did not know what to say. He disliked Morrigan, but this was a baby.
"Has she?" Zevran asked, exchanging a look with Tara. "Such a tragedy! She is at the King's headquarters, then?"
"No," Leliana told them. "She was really very ill, and will need quiet and rest. The King ordered that she be taken to Captain's Isabela's ship and transported to Denerim with some of the other badly wounded. It was agreed that it would be best to get her away from the Taint. She was carried down to the docks not long ago, with the rest. Anders was very distraught."
"I'm sure he was," Tara said, trying not to show how deeply, deeply relieved she was. "Perhaps they can have another child someday."
"Ah," murmured Leliana. "but it will not be the same."
"No, of course not," Zevran agreed.
The loading of the wounded onto Isabela's ships resulted in something of an exchange. The first boat to dock had a pair of passengers: one big and the other small.
"That's Morrigan!" Brosca called out. "Morrigan! Are you hurt?"
"I... am not perfectly well," Morrigan said, staring up at the little dwarf. "We all thought you lost. It is... gratifying to be proved wrong."
"I am a strong swimmer," Ostap said, "I saw Brosca go into the water not far away. It is fortunate that she obeyed me when I told her not to struggle."
Brosca burst out into a loud laugh. "I was too frozen with fear to do anything else. I've never been in deep water before. It's salty. And cold. You won't catch me doing that again. So Big Purple is dead and the Boss is alive, too!" Brosca enthused. "We got the message from shore! Guess she was too tough for the Archdemon after all!"
"It is a great wonder," agreed Ostap. "Many of will sing of her deeds." He drew Brosca along, and bade Morrigan a courteous farewell. "May you have a peaceful voyage, with good health at the end."
"Yeah, take care of yourself," Brosca said.
"I... thank you," Morrigan managed faintly, remembering not to snap at people. She was supposed to be weak.
She was laid down in the boat with the rough tenderness that soldiers feel toward a beautiful woman who has just lost a child; and given halting, sympathetic words and awkward pats that she would not have endured in any other situation.
Even Isabela showed her some sympathy, and arranged from her to have a little box of a private cabin. Morrigan assured her that everything that could be done for her, had been done, and she now only required sleep. The mage on board would have more important work to do with the wounded soldiers. Isabela did not know Morrigan, and thus saw nothing odd about the woman's generous, self-sacrificing words.
Morrigan settled into the narrow bed, her hand on her belly, smiling up at the ceiling, enjoying the gentle rocking of the ship. In a few days, she would up and about, with time to reflect on how she would continue to trick the Wardens. The voyage to Denerim would be a long one, but not as long as the march by land. By the time the rest arrived, she would have managed the feat of magic that would cause the child to be born in Drakonis, instead of Haring. And she would be careful never to confide in Anders, ever again.
Sounds came to Bronwyn dimly, as if she were underwater. The voices came closer, and she began to understand them.
"She's waking up," Anders whispered.
"Speak to her," Loghain said hoarsely.
Anders made a curious sound in his throat. "I think it should be you, King Loghain. It should be you."
"Bronwyn?" Loghain called, his voice low. A moment's silence. "Bronwyn? You've slept long enough!"
Bronwyn tried to open her eyes, and found them disgustingly stuck together. A damp towel passed over her face, and she pushed it away irritably. It had done the job, however, and she blinked up at a lined, anxious face. At her side, a muzzle pressed urgently against her, Scout whimpered, tail fanning the air. She groped out to run her hand over the shining black coat.
"Loghain?" She cleared her throat. "Maker, I'm thirsty. Loghain? I'm alive?"
His expression was beyond description. Bronwyn wondered if he was actually near tears. His fingers, thick and calloused, stroked anxiously at her cheek.
"It would seem so."
She sighed. "Then Riordan died."
"No. The Orlesian is still alive."
She nearly sat up, head spinning, horribly frightened. Scout watched her, twitching. "Then the Archdemon got away!"
"No!" cried Anders, from outside her field of vision. "No! It's dead!"
Loghain sat down on the bed and took her gently in his arms. "The Archdemon is dead. We've won. It's over. The mages think it was the Ashes that kept you alive."
"Or all that Archdemon blood you swallowed," Anders muttered. "It certainly helped you heal a fractured skull faster than anyone I've ever treated."
Gingerly, Bronwyn reached up to touch her head. "I remember a bright light…"
Loghain snorted and held her closer. "Everyone saw that. I thought I'd lost you."
"I'm alive," she murmured, bewildered. Why should she be surprised? It was not the first time that the Wardens had been wrong. "I'm so hungry. And I'm filthy…"
"A bath is ready," Loghain told her, gesturing at a little hip bath in the corner. A silly Orlesian fancy, enameled in blue with gilded scrolls. He raised his voice, "And a meal is on the way, I believe!"
"Yes, Lord King! Directly!" answered a soldier's voice beyond the door.
Bronwyn managed a smile, looking up at Loghain, touched to see him so moved. Perhaps there was hope for them, after all. He saw her looking, and gave her a gentle kiss.
"You've done well, Dragonslayer."
"And you, Hero of River Dane. Now," she said, readying herself for the worst. "Tell me the butcher's bill."
To everyone's astonishment, within the hour, she stalked out of headquarters to show herself to the cheering troops. Scout and Amber bounded along like puppies. Outside was the dwarven supply wagon, now containing a body wrapped in silk and canvas.
"We are taking our Paragon home, Queen Bronwyn," said Piotin Aeducan. "Our work here is done. We shall go back to Orzammar and do our part to fight the tide of darkspawn there. Perhaps these surface events will give us a few years' respite."
"And we shall not forget our allies, my lord," Bronwyn promised. "Nor our friends in the Legion of the Dead," she added, nodding to the sturdy Kardol. "We shall stand together in the Deep Roads again someday."
"I look forward to it, Warden."
Shale and the golems were going with them.
"I came from the Deep Roads," said the golem. "At least that's where that mage Wilhelm found me. If I want to know more, I don't see I have any options other than going back. The dwarves need us, and if Caridin told you the truth— though most people are born liars —we were all dwarves once. They are not nearly so squishy, too. I think I'll like it there."
"Then my thanks and best wishes to you. Perhaps we, too, will meet again in the Deep Roads."
"Nothing more likely," agreed Shale.
They departed, and after, Bronwyn's Wardens crowded around, wanting to touch her, wanting her to talk to them, everyone happy at her survival, but grieving over those who had not been so lucky. Jowan was shedding tears, embarrassed but unable to stop. Brosca hugged her, wiping her eyes for Astrid. Ostap bowed low. Tara hugged her, too. Zevran kissed her hand.
"The world would be poorer without you, Noble One."
"Too true!" agreed Carver, almost boisterous with joy. "Come over here, Fenris, and join the glad throng. Fenris," he told Bronwyn, "stood with the Qunari, and kept back the darkspawn on the north side of the Compound."
"My thanks," Bronwyn smiled at the tall elf. "You will not find me ungrateful."
Fenris felt himself near to blushing. "I did not do it for reward, but because it needed to be done." He knew he sounded like an ungracious prig, but Bronwyn only laughed and shook his hand.
Sten, too, was due some hearty thanks.
"I've heard," Bronwyn said, smiling, "that you were a tower of strength."
"It was a stimulating battle," Sten agreed, "and I believe that the Qunari played a not unworthy part. However, it was you, Ashkaari, who found a way to destroy the Archdemon."
She tried to find time to speak to everyone, for everyone needed attention. Leliana was very sad about Ser Silas, and many others were grieving for those who would not be going home.
"We're building a special pyre for the Wardens," Alistair told her, after a long embrace that had Loghain glaring at him across the Place Reville. "I'm so glad you'll be there."
Nuala, Steren, and Darach begged permission to search the east side of the city for Velanna.
Bronwyn said, "Of course you may. Don't confront her, though. If you find her, let me know, and we'll try to lure her out and confine her until she can be brought back to reason." She had little expectation of it, herself, but she was grateful to her Dalish comrades, and wished so spare them pain.
"And what's this about Morrigan?" she asked Anders. "I had no idea she was with child. I cannot tell you how sorry I am."
"Well…" Anders' expression was quite odd. "We're both young."
"Still…" Bronwyn pressed his hand. "It's a very sad thing. I owe so much to both of you. Anything in my power…"
"I know." The mage actually grinned. "But you're alive. That makes it all worthwhile."
Tara's lips thinned. She would need to tell Bronwyn the whole story, but not today, when people were trying to celebrate. Then, too, the truth made public would sully Bronwyn's victory and call her honor and courage into question. When they were home and safe, and had time to reflect on the facts of the case, she would make certain Bronwyn knew exactly why she had survived. Ironically, Morrigan, profoundly selfish as she was, had saved Bronwyn while gaining nothing for herself.
Serves her right, Tara thought, with bitter spite.
And then it was time to face the First Warden and the council he had called.
Riordan would try to make the meeting, but Minjonet was going to represent him until he was able to join them. Visconti and Sainsby approached Bronwyn, almost as if they were a bit afraid of her, which was annoying. Bronwyn kept a smile on her face, however, and let them plague her with questions all the way out the city gate. Scout growled softly when the others crowded her too close.
"I don't remember much after I stabbed the Archdemon," she said. "A bright light, and then I suppose I cracked my head. I really know no more than you."
The rest of the commanders were equally inquisitive. Benches and light, x-shaped chairs were set up under the open sky, not far from the half-stripped corpse of the Archdemon. Eyes like stilettos raked over Bronwyn from head to toe. She felt oddly glad of her dragon armor, even if it fit uncomfortably without much of her usual padding. She could tell them — and Tara could support the story — of how she had ingested the Ashes of Andraste not so long ago, and how extremely vigorous she had been since them.
For that matter, she felt very well indeed, aside for regretting the loss of good friends and brave comrades. The incessant questions irritated her, tempting her to shout at the fools, wondering what they would do if she simply walked away. She must not lose her temper, but it was difficult. She wished that Riordan were here, but in her heart she acknowledged that he would likely be as puzzled and suspicious as everyone else. Indeed, she herself could not account for her own survival.
Warden scribes took copious notes; Warden artists sketched the scene, hoping to paint splendid pictures to adorn the Warden posts through Thedas. If many of them focused on capturing the likeness of Queen Bronwyn, it was only to be expected. Her huge black dog, the artists felt, added a touch of the exotic, the picturesque, to the composition.
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.
"Now that the Blight is over," First Warden Wildauer continued, "it would seem appropriate for Ferelden to have a proper Warden-Commander. You have served admirably as a stopgap, Queen Bronwyn, but perhaps it is time for someone of more experience to step in."
The Fereldans stared at him, holding their collective breath. Bronwyn actually smiled, though it was not a particularly nice smile. She rose to her feet and stared down at the First Warden.
"Someone of more experience?" she drawled.
Pentaghast winced, glancing at the looks on the Fereldans' faces. This kind of condescension was hardly the way to begin. Besides, it was not the argument he would have made himself. The queen of Fereldan surely was too busy to also manage the Wardens, and her input should be sought as to a suitable replacement. This? This was not going to end well. In fact, offending her like this meant that all chance of a prolonged, intensive inquiry was at an end. They had been reassured that the Queen Bronwyn was not gestating an Archdemon. It was a time, surely, to celebrate.
"Someone of more experience…" Bronwyn repeated. Her gaze hardened, and her voice rose to storm of contempt.
"More experience doing what?" she exploded. "Perhaps I have little experience playing politics in Weisshaupt, but killing darkspawn? Slaying dragons? Exploring the Deep Roads? I challenge you, First Warden, to find any Grey Warden in Thedas who can match my experience. Can you?"
An embarrassed silence followed, similar to that at a posh evening party when a guest has emitted a loud fart. The First Warden gaped in surprise at her defiance, and then flushed. Bronwyn was not about to let him answer. Her blood raged in her veins, willing her to strike down this pettifogging bureaucrat.
"Perhaps you think someone has greater experience gathering allies or working with fellow Wardens across borders. Do you? I'll match my experience to his. Perhaps you think other Wardens have more experience piecing together an order with nothing: no help from Weisshaupt, no assistance from other Wardens, while dealing with constant assassination attempts, while being dismissed as a mere 'barbarian' by the ignorant fools of Thedas. Do you think I don't know what you think of me? Do you think I didn't know that you wanted me to fail? That you wanted me dead?
"When I was conscripted, I heard a great many fine words about the brotherhood of all Wardens: how Wardens fought the darkspawn wherever they found them. What a laugh! Not one of you here could trouble himself to come to Ferelden's aid. Not one of you cared what happened until Val Royeaux was destroyed! Only one man in all Thedas stood with us. Let me give all honor to my friend, Riordan of Orlais, who came to me in secret, contrary to orders, at the hazard of his life, to help and advise me, to tell me what needed to be done."
"Your Majesty…" Visconti, terribly embarrassed, tried to soothe her. "Queen Bronwyn…"
"I'm not done yet, Brother Enzo," she said, cheeks as red as her armor, green eyes flashing dangerously. "I'm not done talking about how highly I think of Riordan. He knew. He knew that what mattered was killing the Archdemon. Not playing sad little political games of power and prestige. Not submitting meekly to a man I'll wager has never confronted a dragon or a Broodmother face to face, sword to claw. Functionaries are all very well in peacetime; but when the darkspawn rise it is fighting men who matter."
Anders looked at her in alarm. She was as angry as a dragon herself. Leliana was nervous; remembering all too well the way that Father Kolgrim had sounded: he who drank dragon's blood to make himself bold. Bronwyn had yet more to say.
"How do you think I felt the night the darkspawn destroyed Val Royeaux, the capital of a land that had sent endless assassins against me, that had spun webs to murder my family, that hoped to murder me, that hoped for my country to be raped and ravaged by the darkspawn, that hoped thereby to render Ferelden an empty, nameless wasteland ripe for colonization? I was tempted to let the darkspawn do their worst; I don't deny it.
"But the temptation did not last. Too many innocents would suffer. My enemies were not the merchants and peasants of Orlais, but the proud and powerful; those who thought their actions could never have consequences to them personally. How wrong they were! Further, I knew that if I did not fight the darkspawn here, I might very well have to fight them in Ferelden after all; after the Archdemon had swelled its horde to irresistible numbers.
"But finally, I knew that killing the Archdemon was my duty. I am a Cousland. I don't know if that means anything to any of you here, but it means something to me. 'A Cousland always does his duty.' That is my family's motto, and I would never dishonor my blood by cowardly inaction. So I used the crown of Ferelden to build a force large enough to the challenge the horde. I won the dwarves and elves to my banner. The Archdemon lies slain by me, Bronwyn Cousland, Red Queen of Ferelden. If any man wishes to challenge my tenure as Warden-Commander, then here I stand ready to defend my rights."
Wildauer's eyes bugged out. He sputtered, "We can't choose a Warden-Commander by right of combat!"
Sainsby leaned close to Visconti, and muttered. "Sounds like a good system to me."
Pentaghast, who was no coward, spoke into the tension. "Your Majesty, I hold you in all respect. It may be, in time, that your duties as Queen leave little leisure for the needs of the Grey Wardens."
"Well spoken, Brother Hector," Bronwyn replied. "I heard nothing but good of you from my Wardens. That is a reasonable observation, and as such I will heed it. You may well be right. When that day comes, I shall step down, and my appointed successor will assume those duties. Any Fereldan Warden can now boast a wealth of experience, and I have complete confidence in them all."
"Perhaps," Elagabalus said, oozing a calming influence on the assembly like oil on troubled waters, "perhaps we should turn our attention to sharing out the Archdemon's relics. There is the blood, and the wing membrane, and the scales and bone…"
Riordan arrived, pale and tired, but hailed by all, and took a seat by Bronwyn. He was rather surprised at the brilliance of her smile and her general air of glowing vitality. It was quite extraordinary, considering how badly they had both been wounded.
They turned to the practical aspects of ending the Blight, not daring to bring up the entire issue of unexpected survivals. The spoils were divided among them, with an occasional wary look at Bronwyn, who lounged gracefully in her seat, as splendid and watchful as a dragon lying in wait.
At noon, the Fereldans and Orlesians gathered to say the words for their dead at the Place Reville. Ordinarily, they would have waited for sunset, but this must be completed today, and the army rested, for Loghain wanted to depart first thing in the morning, and leave the Blight Lands behind.
Dead trees and ruined houses had contributed to the pyres. Wearing only his smallclothes, Duke Prosper was laid on one, already among the nameless dead, 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. Kegs of wine were rolled out of cellars to see friends and fellow warriors off in style.
There was a stir in the crowd, and a group or Orlesian chevaliers approached, led by Prince Florestan. He carried a long object wrapped in cloth-of-gold. With some trepidation, the Prince bowed to Loghain and Bronwyn.
"Your Majesties," he said, his scarred face grave. "Nothing can express the gratitude of Orlais for your heroism and generous deeds. I wish to present a token of my regard. I pray you accept it. It was never ours, anyway."
He opened the wrappings, and revealed something remarkable.
Bronwyn's eyes lit, as she recognized, the shape, the symbols, the runes...
Florestan smiled at her, with a nod. " Yes, 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 to her, hilt first.
Loghain was cynically aware that he was being snubbed, but it was not an effective snub if he did not react to it. What did he care for the ancient sword of the Theirins? Maric had had a fine sword, too, but Loghain had never considered using it.
"The Sword of Calenhad," he declared, giving Bronwyn a little wintry smile. "And very right it is that the blood of Calenhad should wield it."
"A splendid, historic weapon," remarked Bronwyn. "I thank you, your Imperial Highness, for your courtesy."
Yes, a fine weapon, and it would look well hanging on the wall of the Landsmeet. She supposed she must wear it for the time their paths lay together with the Orlesians, but the blade did not sing to her like her Keening Blade. Perhaps this had sung for Calenhad, her ancestor, but he was no more.
That bit of theater complete, it was time to pay tribute to the dead. With her clearest, most ringing tones, Bronwyn led off the speeches before the pyres. Somehow her voice seemed stronger, more resonant. Scout grinned up at her fiercely, proud of his human.
"We gather here to give due honor to our friends; to our brothers and sisters, who gave their lives for all the world..."
Bronwyn and Loghain, Florestan and Riordan, each said a few words before the pyres were lit. Perhaps there would be a time of harmony between the lands, though the estimate of the duration varied among the four leaders present. Loghain's reckoning, unsurprisingly, was the most pessimistic: perhaps a decade at most. Even that would be something, and would permit Ferelden to grow strong in the interim, without the constant menace on its western border.
As their most reliable friend among the Warden on the northern front, Hector Pentaghast saw that the Fereldans received their fair share of the spoils of the Archdemon. Bronwyn did not trust herself to endure another meeting with the First Warden, and he seemed equally glad to avoid her. Kegs of preserved blood and bundles of hide and bone were loaded onto Isabela's ships. A small amount was kept by Bronwyn, for use on the march to Ferelden. An issue niggled at her conscience, and she had decided, if the appropriate moment came, to discuss it with Riordan, at least.
Pentaghast visited the makeshift camp at the Place Reville to coordinate his activities with the Orlesian Wardens. He 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."
"I promised Sten he could have the Tome of Koslun, if he could find it," Bronwyn 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 most likely learn that at first hand. For now, however, let them go in peace."
"We Fereldans, however, will leaving tomorrow as early as possible," Bronwyn told them. "We've got too many people in danger of being Tainted. We'll clear out the darkspawn to the Orne as we go. Besides, we've got to get back home eventually. There are still darkspawn in the south and west of Ferelden."
Merrill had told her that the Dalish would travel with the Fereldans. It was a sensible decision. Though the Keepers had ordered 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. The First Warden had not even troubled himself to speak to them. 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.
"Prince Florestan and his chevaliers are leaving as well," Riordan told them. "I urged the Prince to reduce his chance of contracting the Blight sickness. His plan is to go to Val Foret, and then travel around Lake Celestine to Montsimmard to spread the news of the end of the Blight. Then he will ride to the border to escort the Empress— with your permission —" he said to a smiling Bronwyn "— back home."
"There will be no difficulty with that," said Bronwyn. "I promise you."
Her conscience pricked her again. She took a breath, and said, "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. It is only right that you share in this discovery."
"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…" Bronwyn 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 have Tara write down the formula for your mages."
"That sounds…" Pentaghast gestured his wonder. "like a brilliant idea." He looked at her keenly. Perhaps this new Joining potion was the answer, at least in pasrt, to the mystery of her survival. He vowed to spread the news immediately to the rest of the Wardens, and did so.
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. To Riordan and Bronwyn, Pentaghast confided his suspicion 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.
The idea made him feel very unsettled, and then he asked Bronwyn more about the invention of this potion. She asked that he keep what she was about to tell him to himself, then began to recount the adventures of a very old and terrible Warden by the name of Avernus.
At sunset, Sten and his Qunari made a formal leavetaking of Bronwyn and the Wardens, for they were staying in Val Royeaux, of course, to undertake their search for the Tome of Koslun.
"I certainly hope you find it," Bronwyn told Sten. "You deserve it and more. We say in Fereldan that 'Fortune favors the brave.'"
Sten allowed himself a faint smile. "or 'the foolish,' but sometimes it comes to the same thing. I was not certain at first what words to to use when describing the sight of you flying on a dragon through the air, but you trusted in your abilities, and your faith was justified. I, too, have faith. I shall find the Tome of Koslun and return it to Par Vollen. My report to the Arishok will be long, and much of it will about you, and the worth of the Wardens."
"And about your discoveries in southern lands," said Bronwyn. "Take this little pamphlet with you. A soldier named Tanna assembled it, and it contains recipes — that is, formulas — for every kind of cookie she knows. Share them with your comrades, and think of our days together!"
Other 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 lay in Bronwyn's arms that night, and did not care what his men did here.
First, she gobbled down a supper sufficient for three men, and then could not wait any longer for him. Her blood was up, and she locked the door to their rooms and tore at his armor as if he were a captured enemy. Loghain was amused, surprised, and rather awed at how fiercely, how swiftly she pounced on him, green eyes aglow in the flickering lamplight. She seemed perfectly healed. Even her bruises were gone. With his effulgent consent, he was pinned to the bed and ravished, wishing that he were twenty years younger for her sake.
In between their love-making, they could hear the noisy celebrations, barely kept in check by the officers.
Bronwyn laughed softly, tracing Loghain's chest with a teasing finger. "There won't be much plunder left for the rest, after our people are done with the place."
"Good," he said, glad not to have to play the diplomat. "They deserve all the plunder their packs can hold. More coin circulating means prosperity at home. Cauthrien and her men found quite a bit of treasure in the Grand Cathedral."
"And that treasure might well pay for our own new Cathedral in Denerim..."
"Nothing more likely," he agreed, pleasantly distracted. "Our Lady of the Sacred Ashes sounds like a good name to me."
Under the next day's red dawn, the King and Queen of Fereldan, followed by their Wardens, nobles, soldiers, dogs, and Dalish allies, marched out of Val Royeaux through the Gate of the Sun. Irving and Greagoir, baffled by their own survival, gathered their own people and went with them. Going home seemed utterly anticlimactic, but they could think of nothing else to do. Teams of soldiers hauled the ballistae along, their carriages loaded with treasure.
The Dalish Wardens were more downcast than the others. They had searched all over the city for Velanna, and at times they seemed to be on her trail, but the wyvern was cunning and elusive. They would have to leave her to her fate.
Loghain did not look back as the walls of the once-great city shrank into the distance behind them. Val Royeaux was now one with fabled Arlathan: a place were people had lived and were happy, but which was now no more. It would be the preserve of Wardens and plunderers as long as this age lasted, and very likely longer than that.
Bronwyn did look back, and sighed deeply.
"Don't waste your pity on them," Loghain growled.
"Pity? No. I'm ashamed to say I wasn't thinking about the poor slaughtered innocents at all. This adventure is over. The Blight is over. Whatever shall we do with the rest of our lives?"
"Live them, I hope," said Loghain. He glanced at her, a ruby flame of hope burning in him that he hardly dared cherish. "We'll build that Cathedral. Give our promised aid to the dwarves. Bring the nobility into line. See justice done in the kingdom. Maybe... have a child... Bring up a Fereldan prince who will always do his duty." He looked away, not wanting her to see the desperate longing written on his face.
She was not deceived for a moment. She brushed her shoulder against his, their armor briefly clanking, and smiled at him until he was forced to smile back, just a little. The dogs, happy that their people were happy, capered about, glad at the prospect of a long walk.
Aeron strolled behind them, strumming his lute. He lifted his voice, and Leliana, after a brief, internal struggle, joined in. Other voices were heard, and the tune carried them out of the Blight Lands, under the springtime sun.
"When duty calls me, I must go
To stand and face another foe
But part of me will always stray
Over the hills and far away.
O'er the hills and o'er the way
We'll live to fight another day.
The Queen commands and we obey
Over the hills and far away.
When evil stalks upon the land
I'll neither hold nor stay my hand,
But fight to win a better day
Over the hills and far away.
O'er the hills and high and low,
Through Jader, Lydes, and Val Royeaux,
The Queen commands and we obey
Over the hills and far away."
Thanks to my reviewers: silvereagleXI, Josie Lange, DodgeSavage Truck of Bronze, Reploid Avenger, Meatzman2, modeiohem, Nightbrainzz, KnightOfHolyLight, DjinniGenie, RaZoRMandiblez, Melysande, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, Chiara Crawford, Marianne Bennet, Inveleth, JackOfBladesX, imperial queen, Girl-chama, MsBarrows, Guest, riverdaleswhiteflash, Aoi24, Ie-maru, Mike3207, Phygmalion, Sash'Rahaal, Guest, Candle in the Night, Erisian, Tirion I, PSG1John, Rexiselic, Robbie the Phoenix, Casey W, sizuka2, Kamidaze duck, BandGeekNinja, Acaila, Wedger, Tselmegnavchaa, Guile, Halm Vendrella, Herebedragons66, amanda weber, Jenna53, Suna Chunin, Lucy's Echos, dragonmactire, Chandagnac, jnybot, dragonblade3200, Zute, Shadowhawke, and karinfan123.
Inveleth has posted a lovely picture to DeviantArt: "Heroes Die Young." It's quite a good likeness of Bronwyn. Thanks, Inveleth!
JOdel continues to create thrilling illustrations for the upcoming version of VaO at her Red Hen site. See my profile page for a link to her wonderful work. It will be some time before the story is edited and posted, but I will certainly announce it both on my profile page and here with a short bonus drabble.
All we have left is the second epilogue! I'll include some musical notes with that, especially concerning the soundtrack of Alexander.