Victory at Ostagar

Chapter 127: Alternative Epilogue: Dragonseed

"Her Majesty visits Soldier's Peak every spring, just after the Landsmeet. Everything is going be perfect for her, or I'll know the reason why!"

Cook was raging at the kitchenmaids again. That was always entertaining. Brangaine watched from the shadows, hoping the distraction would allow her to snatch away one of the little cakes on the silver tray.

The girl slipped in among the kitchen barrels, hoping the flour dust would not make her sneeze and give her away. Eavesdroppers learned many useful and important things, which was why she had honed this particular skill. Besides, Mother was looking for her, wanting to find fault with something or other. They had been quarrelling all day long. Brangaine would much rather hear about Queen Bronwyn's arrival. Her godmother never forgot to bring her a present, and it was always something wonderful.

The Queen was coming a little earlier than expected this year. She had dealt with the Landsmeet with great dispatch, since no one cared to contradict her these days. Uncle Carver had been at the Landsmeet, of course, but had gone ahead of the Queen to alert the castle to her arrival. She had other visits to make before coming here.

There was noise upstairs, and Brangaine heard Mother calling for her. She slid back further into the shadows, determined not to answer. Today's lessons had not gone well, not because Brangaine could not do the spells, but because she hated the way Mother always spoke to her.

If she must have lessons — even though she was a tall girl just turned fourteen — she had much rather have them with Father, who always made a game of it, and whose face crinkled up so nicely when he laughed. Mother laughed, all right, but it was always a bad sign. Mother had a rather ugly laugh. Mother laughed when she thought people were being stupid, or when something horrible happened to someone. It had taken some time for the idea to sink in, but Brangaine had now concluded that Mother was a very cruel person.

And when Father was busy teaching the acolytes, Brangaine would much rather go up to the dragon caves and learn from Ostap and Brosca. They would let her help feed the dragonlings and watch while they trained the new teams. The five-year-olds were big enough now to be taken out for aerial training with their Warden partners. How beautiful they were in flight, and how they called to something in Brangaine that she could not yet find words to express.

Mother said it was a second-rate manner of flying, riding on a creature's back, and that when she deemed Brangaine mature enough, she would teach her a proper shape herself. So far, it was always "not yet."

Brangaine grinned fiercely at the bustling kitchen help, her eye on marzipan cakes exquisitely decorated with spun sugar flowers. If she tried hard enough, she would be of the shadows, snatch a treat up, and be hidden before any of the silly mundanes were able to take note of her.

She was magical — very magical — as both Father and Mother agreed. There were mages, and then there were mundanes, but no mage or mundane was exactly the same as every other.

Some mundanes feared magic, which was why Brangaine's family lived at Soldier's Peak now, instead of at the Warden Compound at the Palace in Denerim. More mages were out in public now, due to Queen Bronwyn's wise reforms, but most people, when confronted with a magical child, still thought she belonged at the Circle of Magi, where her magic could be controlled and trained.

Some mundanes had quasi-magical powers themselves, and the line between magical and non-magical was often blurred. Queen Bronwyn herself, after all…

Brangaine narrowed her eyes, gathered her mana, and gave the silly maid Nerila a push, using her magic. If she prepared carefully... it worked, this time! The maid paused, mouth open, looking dazed. In a flash Brangaine was out from cover, and the lovely little cake was captured and carried off to be savored at her leisure. It was dainty and perfect: its delicate glaze perfectly white, but for the exquisite rose at the top.

It was such fun to steal like this, though it was just as easy — and rather safer — just to look in the servitors' eyes and tell them to give her what she wanted. They were so simple, for the most part, and most of them were intimidated by a mage child. If she asked in the right way, they would probably give her the keys to the spice closet and the treasury. Better not to risk it, though… not yet, anyway. Mother was clever at knowing when Brangaine was up to something.

She would tell her so, too, in that old-fashioned, affected, horrid way that Brangaine hated more and more, day by day. And then she would smile — that nasty, mocking smile— as she said it:

"So, Child… do you think I do not know that you are doing mischief? I know what you have done, even before you do it. 'Tis the Mother's Gift."

There were days when Brangaine thought she had had just about enough of Mother.

And then, too, sometimes she did not need magic at all. In the past year or so, boys — and sometimes even grown men — went all silly over her. They would stare, foolish grins on their foolish faces, and gape as she passed. One servant boy had left flowers in front of her door until Mother had caught him at it. She had screamed at him and chased him down the hall. When he tried it again, she had switched him for it, the little willow branch whipping in a storm of hissing blows, scratching his face bloody. Then he had been sent away, which Brangaine thought a great pity, since she was quite fond of flowers.

Mother had called the boy's floral tributes 'trash' and thrown them out the window. Mother only liked beautiful things if they were also costly, and made of gold and jewels. Brangaine was beginning to wonder if Mother had a soul.

If Brangaine could manage to control her magic well enough, the Queen had promised she should come to Denerim and spend some time at Court. She could study ancient languages and lore with Aunt Tara and healing with Uncle Jowan and Aunt Bethany. Not to mention the thrilling life lessons to be gleaned from Uncle Zevran!

She felt very much in command of her magic now. The mages here fussed and coddled her, giving her dire warnings about the temptations of demons in the Fade. Brangaine really had no idea what they were talking about. The Fade was lovely, and Brangaine felt utterly secure there. Now and then she awakened, believing that she must have been dreaming of lovely voices singing in the distance: two perfect voices in harmony, and sometimes, in her dreams, she joined in, in an ecstatic descant octaves above them. Nothing could harm her in the Fade. It was the day-to-day world that was the challenge.

The Queen was a great believer in the virtues of children spending some time in fostering, to learn new ways and to keep noble — or powerful — children from being spoiled. Mother did not like the idea of anyone having control of Brangaine but herself, but even Mother would not be able to defy the Queen of Dragons.

Brangaine had saved the spun sugar rose for last, as it was almost too pretty to eat. Almost. It was made of sugar and was therefore ephemeral. Keeping it past its prime would cause it to rot and decay and lose all its transitory beauty. Aunt Leliana had taught her a song about that very thing: that sometimes brief things were more beautiful because they were ephemeral, like her little edible rose. It might be fun to learn to make them, but she had liked her lessons in music and dancing better, if only because they vexed Mother so much. That would be another advantage in going to Denerim. Aunt Leliana was there, and Brangaine could learn from her again. Leliana had told her she was exceptionally gifted and that her voice would be exquisite when it fully matured. The Queen would agree to it, because she was fond of music herself.

Brangaine also loved pictures and statues, and there were few enough of them here, in the Maker-forsaken Coast mountains. Soldier's Peak was not exactly full of fine art. There was a conventionally dull statue of Andraste— though Brangaine liked the way it was made so flames rose from her uplifted hand, fed by a vessel of oil. There was an old statue of Korth the Mountain Father out in the garden, which had a certain rough-hewn sincerity. Sometimes she joined Ostap when he prayed to him, though she liked the Lady of the Skies better. There was the ugly, fly-specked painting of Commander Asturian, so dark and dingy you could hardly make out his face. Of course there was a vivid portrait of the Queen in her dragon armor, looking amused. Brangaine said hello to it every day. Aside from a few crude still-lifes and seascapes, that was all there was to feed a ravenous, ever-increasing hunger for beauty. If she went to Denerim, perhaps she could have drawing lessons with the Queen's court painter, Messere Donati.

There was so much to see, so much to do in Denerim, and even it, everyone knew, was hardly the greatest city in Thedas. Rumor was that Jader was easily its equal, even after the building of the new Cathedral in Denerim, and the improvements to the Palace and the Market District. Brangaine wanted to see the Cathedral. She had heard that the stained-glass windows were a wonder. There was a round one in the front, called a 'rose window' that was made with every color in the rainbow...

Brangaine wondered if the Queen would bring her a new gown, or perhaps some jewelry. Perhaps a lute of her own! That was an exciting thought. If the Queen gave it to her, Mother would not dare to take it away. Of course, if she did go to Denerim, the Queen would give her new garments anyway, since she would not want a fosterling going about in hideous rags of homespun and goathide.

She would certainly not miss any of the other children here. Silly creatures, all of them, except for Rica. Rica understood the dragons even better than her parents. She could practically talk to them, even without any dragon blood to help her along. It was nice that Rica had a useful ability, considering how awfully homely she was. Avvar and dwarf was not a combination tending toward good looks. Brangaine preened a little, admiring the lock of silky black hair hanging down over her shoulder and her long-fingered white hands. Noticing that they were sticky, she hastily licked the last of the sugary crumbs from them and wiped them on her skirt.

Someone was coming. Brangaine knew Mother's impatient footsteps all too well. Mother could not follow her quite as well nowadays, since Brangaine had learned the secret of the little ring of of dragonthorn wood that Mother had made her wear. Mother would simply have to make another, if she wished to track Brangaine like her forest prey. It had been no end of effort and work, but Brangaine had taken off the ring and stared at it, wishing hard, until it was just a little bit smaller— too small for even Mother to force on her finger.

Of course, if Mother grew exasperated, she might shapeshift into a wolf and sniff her out. That was horrible and degrading, especially when she captured Brangaine's wrist in her yellow fangs and dragged her along. She had done it more than once, and heartless people had seen it, and laughed and laughed. Brangaine gritted her teeth, hot with remembered outrage. Someday, she would have her revenge on them all.

"Morrigan!" called a voice, and Brangaine relaxed a little, smiling. She liked Uncle Carver. He was handsome, and not a bit afraid of her. And she knew he thought she was pretty. She had heard him say so to Leliana once.

"Brangaine's going to be a raving beauty. She's already the prettiest girl at Soldier's Peak!"

Brangaine smiled again, basking in the compliment.

"What now?" Mother asked, clicking her tongue with impatience.

Carver was not afraid of Mother, either. He was quick with his big sword, and knew all the Templar tricks.

"The Queen's party has been seen on the road. We need to assemble on the steps to greet her. Could you go fetch Anders and the others from the Mages' Tower?"

"I cannot find Brangaine. The wretched brat has run away again."

Carver laughed. "I'm sure she'll be there to see the Queen. She generally knows what's going on."

Mother huffed, but did as he asked. Brangaine smiled, spitefully pleased. Others might wonder why Mother put up with other people at all, but Brangaine had discovered that the Wardens had their limits. Mother was not a Warden herself, and there had been a time that she quarrelled horribly and constantly with the other inhabitants of the Peak. The Queen tolerated her for old time's sake. Brangaine, hiding in a cupboard, had overheard a certain private conversation. The Queen told Mother that the price of her life of comfort and security and doing whatever she liked when she liked was that she must not insult Father's brother and sister Wardens ever again. Now, instead, Mother made do with insulting Father and Brangaine. She really was quite awful.

I wonder if it's because she's jealous?

Brangaine slipped out of her hiding place and dashed down to the laundry to wash her face and hands, turning this new, interesting idea over in her mind, rubbing mental fingers over it like a smooth bit of marble.

Brangaine looked into the sliver of mirror over the wash basin, wiped away a smudge of sugar on her nose, and admired the reflection. Yes, she was the most beautiful of them all— girl or woman, man or boy— at Soldier's Peak. Mother had once been a great beauty— and Father still pretended she was — but Brangaine was quick to notice the spreading lines at her mother's eyes and brow and the deep creases of bad temper and dissatisfaction at her mouth. Her figure was still slim, but sagged in places where it had once been — what was the word Ketil had used? Yes... where it had once been... perky.

I'm prettier than Mother already, Brangaine realized, with a swell of delight. In a year or two, no one will look at her anymore, when they can look at me instead. Soon everybody will want to look at me. They'll come from everywhere to look at me, and if I'm not here, they'll go home disappointed.

And she was much nicer than Mother. She had learned manners from watching the Queen and her noble friends. She could speak courteously to people, and thank them properly when they were kind and generous, whereas Mother's tongue stumbled over any attempt to express gratitude.

I'm more interesting than Mother, too. All Mother can do is magic... and she can't even heal! I can do magic and I can play the lute and sing beautifully and embroider better than anyone I know and dance every court dance and tend flowers so they bloom in glory and I've read all the books in the library except for the locked-up ones. And I know Arcanum and Tevene and Orlesian.

But even that was not the heart of the matter.

The last straw for Mother must be that I'm more magically talented than she is. No wonder she won't teach me to shape-shift. She knows I'll be stronger than she is soon, and then she can whistle if she thinks she's going to tell me what to do! She's trying to hold me back.

It must be true. There was a Warden whom Mother had not wanted Brangaine to meet: the terrible old man who never left his rooms in the Mages' Tower; the one that the Queen always paid a courtesy call on every year. Of course, Brangaine had made a point of sneaking in and seeing him anyway. Brosca had taught her how to pick locks ages ago. She did not try to see him often, but when she did, she always learned something new and memorable.

Avernus had found her very interesting. He had sat her down opposite him and asked her all sorts of questions. He had even asked for the date of her birth and had puzzled over it for some time. He had tested her magic and even pricked her finger for her blood. Brangaine, looking back on that was a little uneasy about that, but Avernus had wanted to test it, and had told her that she was going to be—

"Extraordinary."

He had quite the creepy smile, but they had agreed between them that Mother was not to know that they were friends. It was quite impossible to give him a push, and it only made him grin like a skull. He was one of those people, like Mother or the Queen, that Brangaine could not make do as she liked. In his case, it made her like him, as someone who enjoyed her company without being magicked into it. Warden Avernus knew absolutely heaps of magic — even magic that was beyond his own power. He had approved of Brangaine's interest in music and art and told her how important it was to discover one's own talents. If she did not wish to be a Grey Warden — and he agreed that it would be a disaster for her - then it was best that she stake out her own destiny and do things that no one had done before.

"The world can never have too much Beauty," he told her. It confirmed her opinion that Avernus was a very wise man. Brangaine knew in her heart that that was a great truth. If she could, she would make everything ugly and tiresome into something beautiful and interesting. Either that, or erase it altogether.

She fingered her ugly, shapeless, too-short gown of unbleached linen with distaste, wishing she had something worthy to wear to celebrate the Queen's visit. She had been growing out of her clothes at a great rate lately, and nothing she had worn last summer fit her anymore. This horror had belonged to one of the castle maids. Mother was useless with a needle. Brangaine would have to make something herself, once she wheedled worthwhile linen from the housekeeper. It was too bad the Queen would have to look at such an eyesore.

On the other hand, she mused, if Queen Bronwyn sees me in this, she's likely to be sorry for me and give me something nice.

Bronwyn Cousland, the Red Queen of Ferelden, the Dragonslayer, the Hero of Ostagar, Andraste's True Champion, the Victor of the Fifth Blight, was still a beautiful young woman.

Brangaine looked upon her, as she always did, with great pleasure. The Queen was only thirty-four, after all; in her prime and likely to stay there for quite some time. Vitality in her was brimful, like a glittering lamp. She glowed among her retinue like a ruby set in steel. At the moment, the Queen was not in armor, but in a gorgeous crimson riding gown that one longed to touch. Brangaine felt she could never be tired of admiring her. She had always felt connected to the Queen somehow, as if she were her real mother, or the mother she should have had.

She had brought a very large retinue with her this time: much larger than last year's: her maids, her children's maids, and her young private secretary, Mistress Demelza. Though she was disappointed not to see Aunt Leliana, Brangaine's cheeks flushed hot with satisfaction at the sight of the royal children, every one of them healthy and blazing with great good looks. She had not seen them in years, not since she had made that awkward slip with her magic that had banished her to Soldier's Peak.

She remembered Crown Prince Gareth best, of course. They were nearly of an age, and had played together when they were little. There was little resemblance between that pretty little boy and the lad on the cusp of splendid manhood before her. He was already tall and broad-shouldered, though still a beardless youth. His hair was black as her own, and shone like a raven's wing. Turning a little, he glanced her way, looked startled, and gave her a bit of smile. Yes! She had almost forgotten the dimples! Brangaine smiled back. What eyes he had! Like bits of blue mountain ice under strong dark brows. It was a finely modeled face, she knew, remembering what she had learned of sculpture. Good cheekbones, strong jaw, handsome mouth. His nose was high-bridged, but Brangaine thought that made him look more aristocratic. He was a lovely lad, taken altogether. Of course, everyone always said that about princes, but Gareth really looked as princes were supposed to, and very rarely did. A young mabari trotted up the stairs after him, alert and prideful.

Prince Cormac was twelve, and Brangaine remembered him, too. A slender, handsome youth, said to be something of a scholar already. No one was quite sure what to make a scholar prince, but Brangaine was alive to the beauty of books and learning herself, and was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. People discreetly remarked that he looked more like his father than any of the other children. He sat his horse in perfect ease, and had a mabari puppy following him about. By that standard alone, he was a true Ferelden. Brangaine had heard that the party would next stop at Highever, where they were to visit the Teyrna's university. At least a scholar prince would have a proper place to study and clever companions to learn beside. Brangaine remembered that girls were permitted there too, and briefly pictured herself among other young robed scholars. Interesting...

Sliding off their horses amidst giggles and teasing were the princesses, both ten years old. Twins were held to be very unlucky, especially in situations where succession order mattered, but the Queen bore them anyway and had not permitted a well-meaning midwife to put an end to the weaker one. Twins were supposed to look exactly alike, but Princess Eleanor and Princess Maude did not. Both had the same chestnut-brown hair as the Queen, but Eleanor had Gareth's bright blue eyes, while Maude's were a stormy grey. Maude was a bit taller, too, and a great deal more lively. Nonetheless, they were both very pretty, and their clothes were were a delight and a marvel, with Eleanor in cornflower-blue and Maude in a wonderful leaf-green.

There was another girl with them, about Cormac's age: an ethereal young girl in opulent garments who reminded Brangaine of a white mouse. She had plaits of the palest golden hair held back from her face by a sapphire clasp, very white, blue-veined skin, and eyes of aquamarine. A groom helped her down from her horse, addressing her as "Lady Moira." Brangaine made a face at the sight of a girl that age, unable to dismount on her own, and decided that she was a fool. The two princesses dashed up on either side of her, and linked arms with her, pulling her along, as if she were their pet.

In the Queen's retinue were the Teyrn and Teyrna of Highever, with their own children, and quite the mob they were, even after leaving the two youngest at home. Brangaine did not remember them well, but she knew her heraldry, and besides, who else would be joking with the Queen like that? The Teyrn did not much resemble his sister, since he looked like a big scruffy, hugable bear. Silver threaded in his hair and beard, but his smile was like the sun. Brangaine had always heard good things about Teyrn Fergus. Even Mother approved of him. He noticed Brangaine, and turned to his wife, saying, "There's a pretty little girl."

Teyrna Anora, Dowager-Queen of Ferelden, who gave Brangaine a nice smile, was also worth a look. She was a very attractive woman, though years of child-bearing had thickened her figure. Her hair was still a rich dark gold, and arranged in elaborate plaits that were as splendid as her jewelry. Brangaine studied the arrangement carefully, hoping to use some of the elements herself.

Less easy to remember were the names of the horde of young lords and ladies trooping after their parents. She could only remember the eldest two: Bryce and Caradoc, both tall, sturdy boys. The two girls, one blonde and one brunette, and the younger, dark-haired boy were quite unknown to her. She would have to eavesdrop on the servants if she were not to appear ignorant. With their party was a grey-haired Nevarran woman who was supposedly the famous minstrel Zoe Pheronis. Surely she would perform at the feast! With her, carrying her instrument cases, was a well-dressed young elf girl. Probably her apprentice. Brangaine admired her bright garments with a surge of envy. Apprenticing to a minstrel would be fairly good fun.

With the Queen, of course, was her elven bodyguard, Ser Zevran Aranai. Brangaine beamed at the sight of him, exquisite, perfectly groomed, and deadly as the blades he carried. Some people still stared when he was introduced, Brangaine was told, but the scandal of the Queen knighting elves and surface dwarves in the wake of the Blight had died a natural death over the years. Ser Zevran was also her Uncle Zevran, as he was the husband of her clever Aunt Tara. Who, alas, was not here, but back at the Warden Compound with their little girl. Aunt Tara and Father and Mother had once been friends, but apparently the Blight had killed that. Now they avoided each other whenever possible.

Everyone made their reverence to the Queen and the royal children, and Uncle Carver made some sort of speech of welcome. He looked genuinely glad to see the Queen, which was proper and pleasing. The Queen seemed pleased, too, happy to see everyone, speaking to some of them as she swept up the steps and into the Keep. Brangaine edged as close as she dared, listening to the talk.

They had been friends and playmates, so Brangaine saw no harm in having a word with Gareth before tonight's feast. The princes and princesses were being lodged in a suite of grand rooms above the great hall, and it was a simple matter to weave in and out among the bustling servants.

To her delight, Gareth recognized her at once. He gave her a smile and waved her into the sitting room. The dogs sniffed at her, and retreated to the other side of the room. The bigger one growled a little.

"Stop that, Rambler! It's Brangaine, isn't it? Warden Anders' daughter? Maker, it's been years, and now we're almost grown up! Cormac, do you remember Brangaine?"

"Of course I do," replied the younger boy, politely setting his book aside and rising to speak to her, as a gentleman should. "You made me play the part of the darkspawn."

They all laughed at that, and Brangaine remembered it well: poor little Cormac made to go "Arghhhh!" while they smote him with pretend spells and swords...

One of the servants brought in a tray of cider and snacks to hold them until dinner, and Gareth invited Brangaine to join them. She plumped herself down on a low stool by the table, admiring the finger sandwiches. Cook never made those for Wardens, who after all would not have found the whole tray more than a mouthful.

"These are gorgeous," she remarked. "Smoked salmon!"

"They are nice," Gareth agreed. He raised his voice, shouting through one of the doors. "Hurry up, you girls! We'll eat the lot before you're done primping!"

The girls hurried out, laughing, pulling each other's plaits.

"Oh! Look at the lovely cakes!" cried Eleanor, reaching for one.

The white mouse-girl stared at Brangaine, a look of bewildered disgust on her face. Not deigning to speak to Brangaine directly, she turned to Gareth.

"What is that… that…girl doing here? Why are you letting her steal food?" To her maid, she said, "Odette, tell the churl to go away and fetch more water for my bath."

Before the maid could transmit the message, Brangaine jumped to her feet, fists clenched, cheeks flaming.

"Fetch it yourself! I'm not a servant!"

Odette, the maid, tutted in a scandalized way. The white mouse was livid was shock.

"How dare you speak to me like that! I'll have you whipped and turned off for insolence!"

"I'd like to see you try!"

"Stop yelling, both of you!" yelled Gareth. "We invited her, Moira. She's a friend."

"A strange sort of friend!" Moira sneered daintily. "She looks like a beggarmaid in those rags!"

Knowing it was only too horribly true, Brangaine hissed in baffled rage. She wanted to hurt the white mouse: she wanted her to crush her and burn her with magic. She wanted to give the white mouse a push, and make her hit her head against the wall. If she did, Queen Bronwyn would never take her to Denerim. Gareth laid a hand on her arm. The dogs, confused, ran about the room, adding to the noise.

"She's very pretty, though," Maude said. "I like her hair."

"She's pretty enough to be a maid in the royal apartments," Eleanor agreed generously.

"Brangaine is a Warden's child," Gareth told Moira and his sisters. "We used to play together in the Palace."

"I daresay she wore that exact dress," Moira sniffed. "It looks shabby enough!"

"Ooo!" cried Maude, delighted at the scene. "Fighting words! A fight! A fight!"

"Maude, really!" her sister reproved her. "Not a fight." Her eyes lit with mischief. "A proper duel."

"Don't!" cried the white mouse. "Don't be so hateful. I don't know how to fight! Maman forbids it!"

Brangaine looked her rival up and down. She had seen enough fighting to know how to go about it. For this, she would not even need magic.

"Too bad," she said. "Maybe after I thrash you, you'll know you have to take responsibility for your words."

"I'll tell the Queen! I am her goddaughter!"

"So am I!"

"Liar! You're a lying, raggedy peasant! An ugly, dirty churl!"

They glared at each other, poised for battle, fingers ready to scratch, instinctive enemies. Brangaine knew, in a flash of insight, that they would always, always, be at odds, and perhaps over greater matters than a few spiteful insults.

The princesses squealed with laughter. The dogs barked, jumping and fidgeting. Gareth was backing away, disconcerted by all the fiery girlish emotions on view. He glanced at Cormac for support, but his younger brother had taken up his book again, and was pretending to be oblivious of his surroundings.

"Don't look at me," he muttered. "She's not my betrothed. Too bad Fiona wasn't the eldest."

The maid wrung her hands, unsure what to do. Very likely things would have deteriorated even more. But the door had opened a few moments before, and the quarrel was overheard by someone with the will to act.

"That's enough!" Queen Bronwyn rapped out, stepping in between the girls. She looked angry. A hush fell. Even the dogs crept away, tails between their legs. Bronwyn gave the useless maid a hard look which sent her scurrying back to the girls' bedchamber. That done, she spoke to the children.

"Moira: Soldier's Keep is the home of the Wardens, and thus Brangaine's home. Thus, you are a guest in her home. I never want to hear you use the word 'churl' again. We'll talk later about this." She turned to her crestfallen daughters. "You are guests, too. Not very nice ones at the moment. Unpleasant quarrels are not something to egg on for your own amusement." She glanced briefly at her sons with a hint of disappointment, and then lifted Brangaine's chin up to her with a gentle hand. She smiled. "Growing again, I see. Let's find you something for the feast tonight. I'm sure Mistress Korvath has something in the stores."

They walked downstairs together, the Queen's arm around her. People drew back and bowed to them. Brangaine's heart quickened again, not with anger and shame, but with delighted pride and affection. This was lovely. This how it should be between a mother and a daughter.

"Is that girl Moira really going to marry Gareth?" she asked softly.

"That's the plan," Bronwyn said. "Lady Moira Fitzmaric is the granddaughter of King Maric. The royal lines will be united by the marriage. I'm going to foster Moira for a few years so she can learn our ways, and how to play the part of a Fereldan princess."

Brangaine had just enough sense not to remark that it was rather hard on Gareth to personally unite the royal lines by marrying a stuck-up white mouse. The Queen smiled, seeming to guess what Brangaine was thinking.

"Princes and princesses don't have your freedom, Brangaine. Plans are in the works for Cormac to be betrothed next year to the Arl of West Hills' daughter. Maude will almost certainly marry Lord Padrig Howe, and Eleanor..." she sighed. "Eleanor might have to travel even farther away. The King of Nevarra has asked for an alliance."

"They're not being fostered?"

"Oh, they've visited often at Highever over the years, just as their cousins come and stay with me now and then. Actually, Cormac will be spending quite a bit of this year down in the south, visiting his teyrnir of Gwaren and learning the business of ruling from Arl Corbus Bryland. Gareth is going to Val Orne this summer, to polish his manners at the Orlesian Court. As for the girls, when they turn thirteen... or perhaps fourteen... they will be fostered by the families of their future husbands."

They were soon down in the storage rooms, and one of the female clerks was coming forward, anxiously eager to serve the Queen.

"We need something festive for my goddaughter Brangaine."

Embarrassed, the clerk checked the records and blurted out that Brangaine, daughter of Warden Anders, was not due her clothing allotment until Summersday. The Queen was not inconvenienced by that in the least.

"Oh, this is isn't the allotment. This is something extra. I'll repay the Wardens out of the Privy Purse. We need a festive gown for tonight and something better for day wear, too. She's a long child, but not yet a woman. Let's start looking, shall we?"

They found wonderful things: new boots that actually fit; a green linen gown for everyday, to be girdled by a dark green belt embroidered with a pattern of wild roses.

"I'll embroider roses at the neck and wrists of the gown," said Brangaine. "I've learned to embroider really quickly and well."

"Have you?" Bronwyn asked, surprised. "That's very... ladylike of you. I was never very skilled with a needle myself."

"Look!" said Brangaine. "I did this!" She pulled out a pocket handkerchief that she had covered with a profusion of flowers. Andraste's Grace and embrium ran riot in satin stitches, with their golden hearts executed in neat, uniform Orlesian knots.

"That's very fine work," Bronwyn told her. She smiled oddly. "Very fine indeed. It reminds me of my mother. She embroidered beautifully."

"I made a handkerchief just like it for you," Brangaine told her proudly, "but with red roses. It's up in my room. I'll give it to you before you leave."

"That would be lovely. I have never seen better work."

The dress for the feast was even more wonderful: silk in an unusual, rich shade of lavender, trimmed at the shoulders with a shiny leather that was a little darker in color. The belt was wide, though not a corset, and was decorated with three rows of amethyst studs. It was of the same puce leather as the trim.

Bronwyn ran the belt through her fingers. "Dragonhide. From a dragonling, by the fine texture. Not all of them live, poor things."

"This is a costly garment, Your Majesty," the clerk dutifully noted, as she helped pin it in a few places. "It was made for the wedding of young Warden Selwyn, but was returned to storage, since she died before it could ever be worn."

"Oh, I think I can somehow afford it," Bronwyn said, her tone sharpening. Brangaine knew she had little patience with fools, even when they were doing their duty. To Brangaine she said, "With your gold locket and earrings, you'll be quite the fine lady."

"I hope Mother lets me wear them," Brangaine said gloomily. "She has all my jewelry locked up in her room until she thinks I'm mature enough to be trusted with it."

"I'll talk to her," said the Queen. "Surely for one night she need not be so cautious."

The green dress would be delivered to her room later. Brangaine begged to be allowed to keep her finery on, since the feast would be called very soon.

"Of course. Let's find your mother."

Back up the steps they went, up and up, the cynosure of all eyes. Brangaine strode proudly, head held high, no longer looking so unworthy to be a Queen's goddaughter. Indeed, some people might take them for mother and daughter by blood. At least she was not as silly as those pretty fools, Eleanor and Maude, and their horrid pet white mouse.

Uncle Carver stepped out of his quarters and wanted a word, and the Queen had Brangaine wait for her by the door. The Queen and the Warden-Commander looked serious, so Brangaine edged closer, wanting to hear what they said, even if she didn't understand it.

"You received my report about the elves, I hope," he said, his voice low.

"Of course. It's hardly surprising that so many have gone to the new homeland, even with the improvements I've made to the Denerim and Gwaren Alienages. I understand there's quite the charming village in the homeland now. You must have heard the talk at the Landsmeet yourself. I hoped I would be invited for a visit, but they prefer to keep to themselves, which is hardly surprising. For Grey Wardens to desert... Perhaps it is not desertion, exactly. Perhaps they are merely scouting the elven homeland. I suggest you send a formal query to Keeper Marethari."

"I did." Uncle Carver looked grim. "I was told they were no longer there. The problem is, I see no way they could be anywhere else. I wrote to Tara about this, too, hoping she had some other sources. She wrote back, and said that Marethari wasn't a liar. I get the feeling that there's something going on; something big, but no elves will talk. Has Zevran said anything to you?"

The Queen bit her lip, hesitating. "I... may... have been told things in confidence. You cannot repeat this to anyone. The fact is that many elves have made the decision to leave Thedas altogether."

Brangaine's eyes widened. This was fascinating. It explained the gradual disappearance of all the elven servants at Soldier's Peak over the past few years.

"Leaving?" Carver rubbed his brow. "Adaia and her ships, of course. I haven't heard from Fenris in over a year. You don't know where they're going?"

Bronwyn hesitated again, and said, "No. They're going to a place where humans will not enslave them, or exploit them, or even condescend to them. I understand, of course. If I were an elf, I'd gladly kill every human in Thedas, starting with the Tevinters. That does not, however, mean that I'm happy when Grey Wardens forswear their oaths."

"You've been pretty lenient with Adaia."

"I have my reasons. Having a force to thwart Tevinter and Qunari incursions at sea is useful in itself. Besides, she became a Grey Warden because a human nobleman behaved in an unspeakable way to her, and the man was beyond the law. Why should the elves trust us, in the end? I can only answer for my own honor. I cannot answer for how my grandchildren may keep my promises."

"You don't think the elven homeland will last forever, then."

"My dear Carver," she said, with a bitter smile. "I know better than anyone that nothing lasts forever." She shrugged. "Keep Darach and the rest on the rolls. They may come back. One never knows. But do not pursue the matter."

She gave him a nod as they parted, and then smiled at Brangaine, gesturing at her to join her.

"I've written to your father about you spending a little time in Denerim. He thinks it would be good for you. It's always important to broaden one's education."

"Would you really take me with you?" Brangaine knew that usually, whatever Father said, it was Mother who would make the decision. But this was different. Surely Mother would have to obey the Queen. Brangaine's spirits danced at the prospect.

The Queen smiled. "Yes, why not? A few months in a new place would be quite educational, don't you think?" The smiled faded. "I can't tell you how much I regret being sequestered at Highever when I was young. I quarreled with my parents when I was about fifteen, and they never took me to the Landsmeet again. I stayed at home for years and years, brooding over my imagined wrongs, holding close to unhealthy obsessions. Seeing more of the world would likely have set me straight. And you, my dear, don't have a mabari to keep you company." She squeezed Brangaine's shoulder, smiling ruefully. "How I miss my poor old Scout."

"I'm no good with most animals," Brangaine confessed. "Dogs and horses don't like me. I get on with the dragonlings all right, though. Ostap says he'll take me up on Melikar soon."

"That sounds like great fun. You must help show me about the caverns before we go. I'm thinking about establishing some of our friends on Dragon's Peak. The name sounds like destiny to me."

"To me, too!"

They stepped out onto the slender walkway connecting the main Keep with the Mages' Tower. The wind was sharp up here, the spring air nipping at them, pulling at their hair. Far below, the footmen and grooms unloaded wagons and carriages and walked out the horses.

"Denerim quiets down considerably after the Landsmeet," said the Queen. "A great many of the nobles go to their lands for the growing season. Some come back to town in the winter if they don't care much for hunting. The only time the city is really crowded is for the Landsmeet... well, beginning two months before — while everyone is getting a new wardrobe — and for a few days after. We have a lot of weddings then, so more people can attend. I'm afraid you'll find Denerim rather dull at the moment."

"Oh, no! I can't wait!" Brangaine told her, her heart pounding at the glory of it. "I need to get away. No one here understands me." She glared at the figure emerging from the tower. "Especially her."

Morrigan stalked toward them, glaring back at her daughter. She had been a horrible mood all day, and was clearly spoiling for a fight.

"I have been looking everywhere for you. Where have you been? And why are you dressed as if for a pantomime? Go to your room and change at once!"

"Hello to you, too, Morrigan," the Queen said coldly, clearly displeased at this rudeness. "The gown is a gift from me to my goddaughter. It should do nicely for tonight's feast."

"She will dirty it. I trust it did not come out of our allotment?"

"It is a gift," the Queen repeated, her voice sharpening. "And if she dirties it I shall give her another! We were just off to get her jewelry."

"So she can be fine for your grand event? She is already vain enough!"

Brangaine blushed at the sneer. Yes, she wanted to be fine. She wanted Gareth to see how much prettier she was than the white mouse. The Queen, Andraste bless her, backed her up.

"I seem to recall that her mother is not averse to wearing jewelry, either."

"As you wish. If she loses her trinkets from carelessness, she had best not come crying to me!"

Brangaine wondered what would happen to an ordinary commoner who spoke to the Queen in such a way. She was ashamed of her mother's bad temper and bad manners. It was an ugly scene, and Brangaine hated ugly scenes. Clearly, the Queen did, too, and she flushed with anger.

"In my opinion, Brangaine would benefit by some time away from home. When I leave, I shall take her along with me for a visit to Denerim —"

Mother went white. "You would not dare! You would take my child... my only child from me..."

"For a visit, Morrigan! It's plain that the two of you are at odds. A holiday for Brangaine would allow a breathing space for both of you and a chance to adjust to the fact that she is growing up."

"And you think yourself better able to raise my child?" Brangaine had never seen her mother so furious. "Better than her own mother? You would take her away from her father? Is this a piece of spite because your own children no longer have a father of their own?"

Brangaine blinked. Mother must be really angry if she brought up Father, because she generally behaved as if Father was of no importance at all. She had even tried to take Brangaine with her and run away from Father. Twice. Brangaine had screamed too loudly the first time for her to make a clean escape. The second time, Brangaine had simply refused to go. Mother could have gone if she had left Brangaine behind, but she would not do that.

The Queen was holding firm, unimpressed by Mother's scolding tongue. "Anders agrees that a change of scene would do Brangaine good."

That stopped Mother for just a moment, and then she was even angrier.

"You went to Anders," she fumed, "behind my back, and talked him into this! You would have done better to be so persuasive with Loghain!" Her eyes narrowed in malice, "It is not I," she drawled, "whose husband left me for another man."

A silence, while the Queen's green eyes flashed. Brangaine held her breath. No one ever mentioned King Loghain. No one, because everyone knew how he had left the Queen and his children to look for King Maric, who was rumored to be alive and a prisoner somewhere in the north. He broke the Queen's heart doing it, as all the world knew, and he had not been heard of since. Mother had really gone too far this time. Perhaps Mother knew it too, for she stepped back a pace, and her smirk faded. The Queen simply stared at her.

"And you know what I said to him then," Bronwyn said, with deadly calm. "I said that if he tried to depose me and dispossess my children, he and his friend had better come with swords in their hands and an army at their back. I do not endure insolence and treachery... from anyone. Now, if you please, Brangaine requires her jewelry for the feast. There is no need to pack for her journey, of course, until the day after tomorrow. She will be leaving with me."

"I forbid it! 'Tis an outrage! You steal from others, not satisfied with four of your own spawning —"

Brangaine's shame burst from her lips. She struck out at her mother, in full cry.

"Stop it! Just stop it! You spoil everything! Everything you touch, everything you say is ugly! I hate you! I hate you!"

Her mother's ringing slap knocked her back, and Brangaine stumbled. perilously close to the edge of the walkway. Mother grasped at her, the strong fingers digging in like talons. Brangaine shoved her away, stumbled again —

—And fell from the bridge, screaming, tumbling over and over in midair. Dissolving into the wind were Mother's screams and the Queen's screams, blended like the strange song Brangaine heard in the Fade.

She stretched out her arms to slow her fall, her gown snapping like the tail of a kite. Something unfolded from deep within her, layer upon layer, and molten peace flowed throughout her body. Her arms stretched, and stretched, and caught the cool, invisible currents.

—And she was flying.

Soaring really, low over the castle courtyard, with men and horses in miniature, like the view from the High Tower. People pointed and called out, children ran out to stare. Brangaine saw Rica far below, shading her eyes with her hand, her straw-colored hair catching the light. Brangaine wanted to wave at her, but she needed her wings for flying.

Wait.

Wings?

Her lovely lavender sleeve was now.. somehow... a broad lavender wing. A very distinctive sort of wing: the kind she knew from the dragon caverns.

She almost panicked, which would have been fatal. Instead, she kept her eyes on the horizon, and began a careful banking turn. The Queen must be in a state. It was easy to explain though. She had shape-shifted out of self-preservation. Her unconscious mind — the part that worked hardest when she was in the Fade — had made the connection between the color of her gown and the dragon hide on it, and had caused her to take the form of a dragon, rather than of a bird or a bat. It was... obvious, really. The fact that she had dragonhide on her clothing had eased the change.

A whoop of triumph escaped her, and it came out as a roar that echoed through the mountains. She flapped her wings, rejoicing in her power, and rose up into the burning blue of springtime. Mother was a hawk, chasing her, scolding her, uttering a frantic "Cree, cree, cree!" Brangaine turned her head on her magnificently long neck and roared back, coughing out a sputter of flame that surprised them both. The hawk darted away to avoid a singeing, and returned to the bridge, changing back into her human form. The next time Brangaine looked, she saw the Queen and Mother engaged in a furious quarrel. She flew closer, and zoomed over their heads and back, unable to catch more than a few words.

"—Liar!" the Queen raged. "You've lied to us for years. You've lied about everything. How smug you've been, knowing you tricked us all! Even the name was a mockery! I suppose Anders—"

"— hadn't, you'd be dead! All your great plans —"

"—You did it for yourself! You did it for your own selfish reasons, the only reasons you've ever done anything! Get out of my sight! I don't want—"

She was tall and terrible, and Mother must have been truly frightened, for she ran back to the Mages' Tower. Brangaine knew that there would be trouble later, but for now, she only knew glorious freedom.

The Queen was still on the bridge, and her posture radiated fury and alarm. Brangain felt the link between them more strongly than ever before, and glided in, backwinging clumsily, but managing a safe landing. The Queen was still watching her, terribly upset. Her green eyes were absolutely wild.

Oh, Maker. How do I change back now?

She had overheard her share of lessons, but it was one thing to eavesdrop, and another to put the teaching to the proof. She steadied herself on the walkway, assumed the humble posture adopted by imprinted young dragons to reassure the Queen, and then concentrated hard. And then concentrated again.

It was like a full-body sneeze in reverse. Brangaine swayed, but did not fall. She gave Queen Bronwyn a tremulous smile.

She wondered why the Queen looked so very, very sad.

"Urthemiel," Bronwyn whispered mournfully. "How could I not have known?"

"I'm sorry?" Brangaine asked, not understanding. Still, the name thrilled her, like a great line from a poem. She wondered what caused the Queen to think of the Archdemon at this moment. She approached her nervously, hoping the Queen was not angry.

"I thought I was going to die."

Were those tears in the Queen's eyes? Queen Bronwyn never cried. But now she was, and she put out her arms to Brangaine, and held her close. Brangaine wondered if the Queen felt that powerful bond, as strong as blood, surging between them now, the way Brangaine did.

"I turned into a dragon!" Brangaine whispered, trembling with excitement.

"I saw you," the Queen whispered back, her voice oddly choked. "A splendid dragon."

"Can I still come to Denerim?"

"Oh, yes. Yes, I think that's best. Yes." She wiped her eyes. "Maker's Breath! You need to be as far from Soldier's Peak as possible. We shall travel to Denerim, and you shall study music and magic and art all you like. And we shall go together to the Cathedral to pray to Andraste for strength and courage. Perhaps we shall go even farther than that, and make a pilgrimage to her shrine in the Frostbacks."

Brangaine saw it all, like the kingdoms of the earth spread out before her. "When I'm big enough, we can fly there together."

"And so we shall."

A horn sounded below in the valley, summoning them to the feast.

The End

A final, heart-felt thank you to my reviewers, both of the last chapter, and of any and all previous: Nemrut, DjinniGenie, Casey W, sizuka2, Tirion I, Nightbrainzz, Chiara Crawford, Costin, riverdaleswhiteflash, Ellyanah, Lucy's Echos, skycomv2, kirbter676, New Zealand 5, Phygmalion, FaeRakhasa, karinfan123, Ie-maru, Mike3207, Imharold, Robbie the Phoenix, MsBarrows, JackOfBladesX, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, Kyren, MemoriesoftheForgottenGuardian, Cjonwalrus, The Warrior of the Light, Lehni, Lyssa Terald, ThorShared, Superstar Kid, dragonmactir, Jenna53, jnybot, BlackScyther, Marianne Bennet, mille libri, olivegbg, Suna Chunin, Candle in the Night, AD Lewis, KnightOfHolyLight, SilverEagleXI, Isala Uthenera, gullwing13, Josie Lange, Zute, and imperial queen.

An Old God has absolutely nothing to fear from any being in the Fade. They're top predator there. Urthemiel is, of course, the God of Beauty. Did anyone in the Dragon Age (and I include Flemeth, who might well make an appearance some day, and Morrigan) ever stop to think what that meant, or had the lore of the Old Gods faded so completely that they were all lumped together as identical?

It's one thing for Flemeth to rear and control Morrigan. For Morrigan to think she could control an Old God in the same way was foolish hubris. By the time that Morrigan realized that she needed to isolate Brangaine to better control her, it was too late.

Zevran was saved from the Taint by the last dose of Ashes. Thus, he is here a knight rather than a Warden.

For Loghain, Maric will always come first: before Rowan, before Celia, before Anora, before anyone. Much of it no doubt is due to the trauma of his father's death, and Gareth abjuring him to protect his king. And I think Loghain has a martyr complex and a streak of masochism. He would absolutely glory in doing what he would consider not only a right thing, but something that would cause him personal misery. He may return: one never knows.

Some of you might not think that a cheery guy like Alistair and a sweet young princess like Eglantine could produce a priggish little madam like Moira. Guess again. And Moira has plenty of good traits, too: she's not like Habren at all. She's quite capable of being a nice friend to the princesses and falling in love with Gareth. Nonetheless, she's been raised to be intensely aware and proud of her lineage. As a corollary, it's only natural for her to look upon others as lesser beings and to expect them to know their place.

I spelled Urthemiel's mortal name as Brangaine rather than Brongaine, because Brangaine is an actual name.

JOdel's illustrated version is progressing splendidly, and Bioware has agreed to allow her to use some of their concept art. When it's ready, I'll let you know!

In the course of thinking about and writing this epic, I listened often to some of Vangelis' music for the film Alexander. If you want to follow my mental soundtrack, here are my titles, followed by the soundtrack designations: Tracks 1, 13, and 17 had a huge impact on the development of the story.

Track 1: Dawn over Ostagar (Introduction)

Track 2: Bronwyn Cousland (Young Alexander)

Track 3: The Warden Treaties (Titans)

Track 4: The Deep Roads (The Drums of Gaugamela)

Track 5: Anora's Garden (One Morning in Pella)

Track 7: The Brecilian Forest (Eastern Path)

Track 11: Shieldwalls and Siege Engines (The Charge)

Track 12: Climbing the Rock (Preparation)

Track 13: Along the Imperial Highway (Across the Mountains)

Track 14: The Shrine of the Ashes (Chant)

Track 15: Blight Lands (Immortality)

Track 16: The Flight of the Archdemon (Dreams of Babylon)

Track 17: Bronwyn's Pyre, or, if you prefer, The Wardens' Pyre (Eternal Alexander)