Part 15
She did not dream. There were only moments of vague awareness, separated by darkness. In those moments, she recognized what little she saw of her surroundings, but they fell away again so easily, less real than even the imaginary tableaus of the Fade. Time had no meaning.
So accustomed was she to waking for brief moments before being dragged back into oblivion, it took some time for Bryn to realize she was aware. Fully aware, her eyes open and fixed on the ceiling above her. Candlelight flickered around the room, illuminating little and keeping much in shadows. The air chilled her nose, though the rest of her body was well-covered by a down-filled duvet. The room around her felt large, and empty. She lay still, listening for any indication that she was not alone, but heard nothing.
No guard? Excellent. She would be gone from this place--whatever it was--before anyone was the wiser.
She tried to push herself from the bed, and failed utterly. Her muscles were less responsive than even immediately following the assassination attempt. Her limbs shook with the meagre effort. Maker, what was wrong with her? How long had she been unconscious?
"You'll make yourself ill." A petite woman in a skirt and tunic swept into the room. Bryn subsided, watching her. She wore her dark hair pulled back into a bun, the temples streaked with silver. Delicate, pointed ears extended on each side, matching the porcelain-doll-like features of her face. "Get used to being abed. You won't be leaving it anytime soon."
Bryn opened her mouth to respond, but her voice stuck in her dry throat. Wordlessly, the elf helped her sit up then handed her a mug of water from the table beside the bed. The cool liquid felt good against Bryn's dusty tongue. After a couple of small sips, she handed the cup back to the elf and leaned into the pillows propped behind her.
"Where am I?" Her voice was rough with disuse, and she cleared her throat.
"Weisshaupt." The elf placed the cup back on the table, then looked down at Bryn, her arms crossed. "You should have come when you were summoned."
Bryn closed her eyes, remembering the tersely worded letter that had arrived a month or so after the Siege of Denerim. "I've been busy."
A spark of humor flared in the woman's voice. "So I've heard."
Sighing, Bryn opened her eyes. "You have to realize that taking me by force was a bad idea. The King won't be pleased."
Something flickered in the other woman's gaze, an emotion Bryn struggled to identify. Anger? The elf's eyes narrowed. "I could scarcely believe it when I heard that the new King of Ferelden was a bastard and a Grey Warden as well. Who would have imagined?"
"I know Wardens are supposed to be neutral," Bryn said slowly, unsure of the origin of the woman's ire. "But the situation in Ferelden…"
"Ah, yes, the situation in Ferelden." The elf spun away from Bryn. She strode a few steps away, before turning again. "You're to thank for that, aren't you?"
"Me?" Bryn blinked at the suddenness with which the woman's anger focused on her.
"If the rumors I've heard are true--and I have no reason to doubt them--it was you who crowned Maric's bastard. After setting yourself up as his Queen, yes?" She marched forward and Bryn felt the sudden urge to flee from this slip of a woman. "You wanted power that badly, did you?"
Shock froze the breath in Bryn's throat. "I beg your pardon."
Magic crackled at the woman's fingertips. A mage. Dear Maker, she was trapped in a room with a furious mage. A mage who was raging over Maker-knew-what. The crackling intensified, and Bryn realized that the woman was waiting for an answer.
She swallowed, wondering if her next words would save her or condemn her. "I love him."
"So you shackle him to a life where he'll never know freedom?"
"Why do you care?" Bryn wanted to call the words back as soon as they left her lips, but she didn't.
The elf stared at her for a moment, the only sound the magic resonating around them. "I knew Maric," she said finally. "Being King was never a joy to him, only a burden. I wouldn't wish that life on someone who had another path they could follow."
Bryn took a breath, unsure why she felt the need to explain her decision in detail--but she did. "I may have been arbiter at the Landsmeet, but I didn't force the crown on Alistair. He wanted to be King. Ferelden needed him as King. But I worried that crowning him as sole ruler would not present a strong enough position, since the Bannorn knew nothing of him. However, I was believed to be Teyrna of Highever at the time, since we did not know if my brother yet lived. My family was well known and well respected. Announcing myself as his Queen cemented his claim to the throne." She paused. "Truth be told, I would have married him even if he'd been nothing more than a servant's son. Him being King or me being Queen never mattered." She sank back into the cushions, her energy spent.
The elf's eyes never strayed from Bryn, and the Warden wondered if she'd get around to using the nimbus of magic flickering at her hands. After a few moments, the crackles died away. "Rest," she ordered, her voice brusque. She turned to leave.
Bryn's mouth quirked. "After all that, do you think I might know your name?"
The elf paused at the door. "Fiona," she said simply, then disappeared.
Fiona. Bryn wanted to call after her, but her eyes drooped, and she felt herself pulled reluctantly into sleep.