Chapter 8

The spell melted away as she opened the door, revealing a squat woman with mighty shoulders, and a tall, well-built member of the gentry. The woman was nothing special, but the man's entire bearing proclaimed him to be Fereldan nobility. Arl Eamon, Fiona thought. She lowered her head as she executed an awkward curtsey. "M'lord," she mumbled.

The woman - Gert, Fiona thought - leaned in to squeeze her arm. "Feelin' alright, then?"

"Touch and go." Fiona smiled back at her, elated. The charm worked! "Thanks."

Fiona backed away from the door as Gert bustled into the room. The urge came over her to glance at the bed - no, she scolded herself. Don't draw attention to it! She swallowed the nerves that had risen in her throat. The fact that there were two Myrnas in the room was enough to make her nauseous. If she was found out...

"Um, can we maybe go somewhere?" She took the chance to step out the door. "I've been cooped up in here and I feel like maybe I should walk. And it isn't really right for the arl to be here, where I've just... given birth and all."

The arl blinked at her. "I...suppose?"

"Good. Thanks." Fiona turned briskly and led the way out, praying they would follow. They did, and relief trembled over her bones as she pulled the door shut, leaving the real Myrna's corpse behind.

They stared at her for a moment, and then Arl Eamon cleared his throat. "To my chambers, perhaps?"

"Lead the way." Fiona gestured, then cursed her forward manner. "I mean, whatever pleases m'lord." She dipped another quick curtsey, reminding herself to play the servant. It had been so long since she'd kowtowed to anyone.

Gert gave her a strange look, then fell in beside her as Arl Eamon preceded them through the palace. Fiona's heart hammered as they slipped through the corridors, the unlikely chance that she would see Maric or Loghain or Baltan speeding her pulse. Baltan was still in the servants' quarters, but for the umpteenth time, she wondered where the king was. "Begging your pardon," she murmured to the arl's back. "Is King Maric...?"

"I can have someone sent for him, if you wish." Eamon sent a glance back at her, his eyes full of kindness. "Though Loghain made it sound as though you were eager to get away."

Her mind raced. So Loghain was the one who had arranged whatever Eamon was going to tell her. He'd stolen Alistair from her, delivered him to Myrna... a gasp rose from her lips as her thoughts sped. Taken from his mother, Alistair would have needed a wet-nurse. The commotion in the servants' quarters, she realized. She was having a baby, and she died after...

What had happened to Myrna's baby? There had been only Alistair in the room with her and the little girl... Her heart wept as she realized the truth.

Very convenient for Loghain, though. She gritted her teeth. He gave Myrna my child, then went to Eamon and arranged this meeting. Likely, Maric didn't even know. But where is he? Her worry grew. "I... yes," she murmured. "I would like to see King Maric."

Eamon did not reply, but after a few more minutes he ushered them into a beautiful suite. "I shall send for a guard," he said. "If you're sure you want to involve him? You are under no obligation to the king, my dear. That I can assure you."

She gnawed her lower lip. Maric had been gone for hours. Suppose...

Could he have changed his mind? Realized the embarrassment and difficulty that would come with wedding her, with claiming a half-elf child as his own?

He could have gone to Loghain. Asked his old friend to get him out of this mess. In fact, it made perfect sense that this is exactly what he had done. What else would have kept him away for so long, and led Loghain right to their door?

Muted by her doubts, she gave a bare shake of her head. Whatever this little drama was, she wanted to see it play out. "No. You're right. Let's proceed without him."

Eamon nodded, the look on his face nothing if not understanding. He gestured her to a chair. Gert sat as well, her hands twisting in the bulk of her skirt. Clearly, she was nervous to be part of such an important discussion.

"Myrna." Eamon settled himself into the chair across from her. "Teyrn Loghain approached me this evening. He said Maric had confided in him; this is the king's son."

Fiona tensed in her chair, her heart shattering. Maric had gone to Loghain. It was true, her worst fears realized. Somehow she nodded, murmured something affirmative.

"I wish to offer all three of you a place in my house - you, your daughter, and this child," Eamon continued. "Maric will not feel comfortable with you here, and the child will only make things awkward. People talk. It is best if we remove you both from the palace as soon as possible. Redcliffe is a comfortable home, and you will be welcome there as long as you wish to stay."

"It's good," Gert put in, her voice eager. "We get a silver on feast days, and a new pair of boots every autumn. Clothing, too. Last Midwinter I got a cloak."

"I see my servants are treated well," the arl said. "Gert has said you are a fine cook, and she would welcome you in the kitchens. Or you could work under the housekeeper, if you prefer."

Fiona swallowed. The bundle in her arms stirred, sleepy noises drifting upward. "And I would have him. Right?"

"Of course." Eamon smiled. "Though, I would ask that I be allowed to educate him as he grows. Maric's son should grow up with all the schooling of a prince."

The lump in her throat made swallowing difficult. Tears pricked in her eyes. This was too good to be true. She'd been terrified, sitting in the little room where Myrna had died. She could not go back to the Wardens and expect to keep Alistair. And how could she leave him? It would destroy her to do so.

Here was a solution to her difficulties, dropped from the sky and into her lap.

"But let's be clear about something," Eamon continued. "The boy will never inherit anything from Maric. Cailan is the heir, and that will not change. Any ideas of royalty should be sponged from your mind; you are common, as is he. The child will be educated well, but unless there is no other option, he will never sit the throne." His eyes bored through hers, the kind exterior vanished in the wake of something far more stern. "Is that understood?"

She bobbed her head. Eamon would never know the relief she felt at those words. Her son would not be burdened with the throne. Though she ached with the realization that Maric had abandoned them, this was a far better outcome than she could have hoped for. They would be cared for, they would have a home. She could raise her son... as long as her disguise held out. And why shouldn't it? The spell lasted as long as the charm did, and she would never take the locket off.

It was possible the Wardens would look for her. Baltan will help me, she thought. He can tell them I'm dead. They're far away... no one will even detect me unless they cross Ferelden's borders. Somehow, she would get a message to him...if he didn't find her, first. He knew her signature, he would be able to track her without difficulty. He won't understand, she fretted.

Somehow, she would make him.

"So?" Eamon smiled at her, the open friendliness returned to his face. "Will you consent to come to Redcliffe, Myrna?"

The choice was easy. "Yes, m'lord. And thank you."

Eamon chuckled as he stood, then sighed. "It's no trouble. Maric is my brother-in-law. I don't approve of his choices, but what else is family for? And to speak candidly, I would not see my sister's memory disgraced. It is to the benefit of us all to keep this held close. So, of course, I ask that you keep his lineage quiet. Shall we say... your man died? Would that be agreeable to you?"

A quick nod of her head, her fingers rising to brush tears from her lashes.

"Fine, fine. Gert?"

"I'll say nothin'." The cook clasped her hands, giving Fiona a solemn look. "Redcliffe'll be good for us all."

"We leave in the morning." Eamon indicated the door. "Gather whatever you need, and meet Gert in the kitchens at sunup."

Fiona followed Gert's lead, and the two of them stood in the hall outside the arl's suite. "Shall I help you pack up your daughter?" Gert asked briskly.

The girl. Fiona's mouth fell open. Yes, Eamon had said all three of you. She recalled the urchin's ratty hair, her dirt-smeared face, the way she'd clutched Baltan's tunic and wiped her snotty nose on him.

Nope.

"Actually, she's staying here," she said. "Her father lives in town. She'll have a home with him. She spends much of her time there anyway... I don't want to take her away from him. He's got a wife and a house and... it's better if she stays."

Gert's brow creased. "I knew you and her father weren't together, but... You're sure?"

A sharp nod from Fiona, a bubble of guilt rising within her. There was no father - not that she knew of. The girl would go to the Chantry to be raised by the sisters. It's no different than what would have happened if I hadn't done this, she argued with herself. The real Myrna was dead. Her body would be discovered, and the little girl would be shuttled off into the capable care of those who routinely took in orphans.

Her guilt was short-lived. Fiona bore no particular love for children,aside from the one in her arms.

For that child, she would give her own life.

.oOo.

"I told you, I'm the king!" Maric rattled the bars, unable to believe it. What a ridiculous situation! "I command you to open this cell, immediately!"

"Oh, he's the king, he says!" a cheerful voice catcalled in return. "And did you know - I'm the court jester!" A bright titter followed the amused guard's joke.

Gritting his teeth, Maric slumped against the cell wall and pushed his hair back from his forehead. A nasty lump met his fingers, prompting a sharp breath of pain. From what he could gather, his crashing and banging in the storeroom had woken the tenant who resided next door. The righteous citizen had been certain there was a burglar terrorizing the neighborhood, and had knocked him over the head when he came out. The guard had been summoned, and this well-meaning bumpkin had dragged the unconscious Maric down to the local jail.

In Baltan's worn cloak and his casual clothing, streaked with grime from the tunnel and storeroom, Maric could admit that he didn't look very kingly. But surely, his face was known! This was his own town! Didn't Denerim's guards know their own monarch?

It seemed that at least one did not.

The soldier looked about seventeen, his face still pock-marked and his eyes innocent. Right proud he was, too, to have caught a criminal his first week on the job. He sat at a battered desk across from Maric's cell, a shit-eating grin plastered on his bland face. "They said night duty in this sector is easy," he said conversationally.

Maric eyed the lad wearily, wracking his brains for his next move. When blustering, railing and even pleading had done nothing, Maric had suggested the boy call for his superior. No dice; the guard captain was due in only an hour or so, according to the youngster. "It won't hurt you to wait til then," was the cheerful reply.

He'd considered kicking at the door, but it was made of the heaviest weld he'd ever seen. No chance he could break through, and the guard didn't seem like he would care if Maric knocked himself out trying. No chance of creating an attention-getting fuss, either - he was three stories beneath the earth. Real estate was too precious to waste on criminals, and Maric himself had commissioned the construction of these subterranean cells just over five years ago. 'Ironic' didn't begin to cover it.

"I just come from the Bannorn, Vintiver region," the guard went on. "Too near the Brecilian forest for most anyone's liking, but we grew the best turnips in all of Ferelden. Told my folks - Denerim, that's the place for me. Join the guard. They signed me up right-quick."

From what Maric could gather, the sun was already rising over the city. He'd lost the rest of the night to his head injury. Even now a headache bloomed between his temples; though he'd been out for several hours, the crack over his noggin had done nothing to ease his exhaustion.

He dropped his head between his hands as the guard blathered on about how lucky he'd been to gain such a prestigious position. Maric didn't have the heart to tell him that when his superior arrived, he'd likely be demoted for locking up the King of Ferelden.

The wait was killing him. But it was all he could do.

That, and pray.

.oOo.

Fiona wasn't sure how to feel when Maric did not show up to see the caravan off to Redcliffe. What would she have said, if he had? What would she have done? He wouldn't have recognized her anyway... her bruised ego wondered, did he even care that, for all intents and purposes, 'Fiona' had simply vanished?

"We'll never know," she whispered to Alistair. Still swaddled in the blue-edged blanket, her son slept on, unaware of anything but that he was warm and fed. All was as it should be.

Baltan had not shown up, either. His signature was steady within Denerim's castle, had not moved since he'd taken the little girl away the previous evening. Part of her worried for him, but the fact that she could sense him meant that he was alive. If he'd been detained, he would soon work it out - he was a Warden. Legally, they could not hold him, not without facing the wrath of the Order.

This, too, was something to feel guilty over. She should have made sure he wasn't hurt or in trouble. But there had been so few hours before dawn... and Fiona hadn't wanted to tell him that she was running.

Baltan had said it himself, back in the stillroom all those months ago when he'd discovered she was pregnant. "Do what you've always done - push everyone away." His words echoed in her mind, prophetic and sad.

He'd been such a friend to her. And she'd repaid him by leaving him to whatever had befallen.

Her lips brushed Alistair's forehead, her eyes stinging and her stomach all a-roil. There would be plenty of nights for guilt to eat her alive. I did it for him, she told herself as she secured Alistair's blankets. For my son.

Whether or not she'd needed to do such a selfish thing was what she wasn't yet prepared to face.

They rolled out through Denerim's gates long before most folks had eaten breakfast. It was a pleasant surprise when Gert helped her with Alistair's swaddling, and even took a turn holding and cuddling him.

"Never had a little one, myself. Don't expect I ever will, truthily." The hefty woman was homely to a fault, but with Alistair in her arms, she almost looked sweet.

To her surprise, Fiona found she didn't mind sharing her son with Redcliffe's cook, and whatever friendship had begun between Gert and Myrna was easily nurtured between Gert and Fiona.

On the third day from Denerim she had a bad scare. Baltan's Warden signature left the city, but to her surprise, her Warden sense showed him skirting their party and headed for Ferelden's border. He was going back to Weisshaupt... without her. Fiona didn't know how, and her relief at not being pursued dwarfed the why. All that mattered was that she was here, with her son, and had the chance at a new life.

Redcliffe welcomed them home, and Fiona slipped into Myrna's new life. No one suspected her to be anything other than she appeared... a human servant from Denerim with a little fatherless boy. It was sort of interesting, seeing how the humans treated her differently than those whose pointed ears were visible.

It wasn't so hard to be a servant. She joined Gert in the kitchens, spending most of her days chopping and washing and peeling. The cook showed her how to tie the baby to her front with a length of fabric, and Alistair spent most of his time either nursing or sleeping on her chest. He shared her cot every evening, his warm little body a delight to sleep beside. He was a sweet, quiet baby, supremely content to always be near her.

It was amazing to see how he changed, day by day... his first teeth came in that winter, the white-blond fuzz on his head darkened to strawberry gold, and his first steps happened soon before his first birthday.

Maric did not come to see them. She hadn't expected him to, but it hurt all the same. Surely, he knew where Alistair was... Eamon had said Loghain had arranged for his care. Did the ass not care enough even to visit his son?

Too many tears were spent on him, shed mostly in the dark long after she and Alistair had gone to bed. It was easier to remind herself of Maric's flaws, recall how much he irked her, tell herself that it wouldn't have worked out and she was better off. Some days, she even believed it.

Another winter came and went, followed by another summer, and then another winter. Fiona's hands had grown hard and strong, her arms and torso muscled from lifting buckets of water and sacks of potatoes. Her brilliant little boy was nearing his third birthday, and her life had never felt more full and happy. At times, she wondered if she'd fallen into the arms of the Fade, where the demons were kind and wonderful.

The arrival of the Wardens on Ferelden's doorstep, however, was a brutal wake-up from her idyllic dream.