A Father’s Regret: 4. Bitter Truths

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Cyrion was in the marketplace when he heard the first of the news. There was still ill-feeling—you had to be careful to keep quiet and stick to the margins, not attracting anyone’s attention—though so far the alienage had remained untouched. The guard had been doubled, and Valendrian had warned them to take no risks, raise no hackles… everyone knew the shems were just waiting for an excuse.

It was a pleasant enough day, though the city’s general miasma of dust and busy crowds took the edge off the sky’s sharp blue. Tradesmen’s flags flapped in the square, the covered stalls blazoned with bright colours, and the smells of half a dozen different food hawkers’ wares mixing with the distinctive odour of ox dung.

Shianni’s healing was progressing well, and she and Valora were taking in needlework and linens, earning sorely needed coppers… which almost made up for the trouble Soris was having with work. Seemed like, with Merien gone, people were of the opinion he should have either hanged or caught the draft too. Not two nights ago, he’d come home with a black eye and a split lip, and Cyrion had been able to get no names or details out of the boy.

Still, it didn’t matter. They would get by. They always did. He’d bought bread and potatoes, and they would eat, and sit before the fire as they did every evening, and he would not think of his daughter, so far from home and surrounded by strangers.

There was something different, though. Some dark crackle of dissent in the air. Gossip was running rife in the city, and Cyrion stopped in the lee of one of the stores that fronted the stalls, and pretended he wasn’t listening.

The men were large, bleary of eye and fat of face, the smell of ale and tavern floors ingrained in their clothing. They spoke in hushed tones, but he caught enough to understand the importance of the words.

“What? I don’t believe that.”

“It’s true. My wife’s brother’s been in the King’s Fifth for years. She had a letter from him last week, saying how they was all holed up on the edge of the Korcari Wilds.”

“Well, did he say it was…?” the second chimed, and Cyrion wondered what it should be that he was so unwilling to voice.

“Nah. Not as such, anyway. Said they weren’t allowed to talk about details, nor put ’em in letters home. S’got to be somethin’ ’orrible, we knew that, but—”

“Darkspawn, though.” The second man shook his head. “It don’t seem real.”

“They say they’re pushin’ ’em back. That it’ll be over any day soon. S’what Finnal’s letter said, anyway. They’ve got mages and Maker knows what else down there. Grey Wardens, too.”

Cyrion almost dropped his bag, fingers clutching earnestly into the hemp.

“Are there even any of them left? I thought—”

“Nah, King Maric—Maker rest his soul—he let ’em back in, din’t ’e? They’ll sort ’em out. S’posed to be wossname, aren’t they? Warriors of great legend.”

The second man grunted. “Hm. Sound like a shifty load of buggers to me. Anyway, why’d they need a whole army down there? That’s what bothers me. I didn’t think darkspawn were s’posed to break above ground, except in a Blight. ’Ere, you don’t think…?”

“What?” The first human snorted. “Oh, come off it. Don’t talk rubbish, Geraint.”

“Well, it could be, couldn’t it?”

“Nah… s’probably not— well, it wouldn’t be.”

But the damage had already been done, the thought set free and the possibilities beating against the sky with wide, black wings.

Cyrion was no longer guarding his posture, keeping himself set back against the wall. His mind filled with the imagined carnage of war, the heat of blood and battle… and the small figure at the centre of it who he knew could not possibly stand against such odds. She wasn’t a soldier. She was a child. She was too young, too inexperienced, and not ready for the chaos and terror into which she would be flung. He’d thought somehow it would be service, that these Grey Wardens would have her bound to brewing tea and shining boots, and all the other liberties men heavy with the tension of arms might take with a barracks wench—and Maker knew that was bad enough—but this….

He should have minded himself, he supposed. Yet he flinched when the first human glared at him, fat mouth crinkled in offended displeasure.

“What you lookin’ at, knife-ears?” the man demanded, stepping around his companion to loom threateningly at this insolent interloper.

Cyrion dropped his gaze to the ground and let his shoulders slump forwards, hands hanging loosely at his sides, the hemp bag dangling from his fingers.

“Forgive me, ser. Nothing. I merely—”

“Bloody elves!”

He knew the blow was coming, but he didn’t flinch. It was a slack, half-effort of a slap, back-handed and careless. Cyrion rolled with it, took care to make it seem as if the human had more strength in him than he really did. Pain bloomed through his cheek as the man’s knuckles jarred the bone, and his head snapped to the side, his eyes shut against the sudden, nauseating flashes of blue and purple that spotted his vision.

“Spying, were you?” barked the second human. “Or jus’ waitin’ for the opportunity to stick a blade in our ribs?”

Cyrion swayed, catching his balance before his knees bobbed beneath him.

“N-No, ser. I was—”

Stupid. He should have stayed quiet, or run when he had the chance. The second blow—a proper punch this time—caught him in the side of the head and sent him sprawling. The bag fell from his grasp, bread scudding into the dust and potatoes rolling across the ground.

Cyrion folded up on the cobbles. Best thing to do. Let them have their fun. A boot connected with his jaw. He spat, his mouth full of bloody saliva, and thin streaks of it dribbled down his lips and chin. As the darkness closed over him, his heart thudding and his head ringing, he was dimly aware of how ironic it would be to die like this… almost exactly the same way as Adaia.

“All right, boys, enough! Break it up.”

He stayed down, though the blows stopped coming. Another foot met his ribs—a last parting shot, he thought—but then there was gruff muttering, and the sounds of the two men being shoved away by a third.

A large hand grabbed hold of the back of Cyrion’s jerkin, and unceremoniously dragged him to his feet. The man was tall, well-built and clean-shaven, with a weary expression in his blue eyes. His leather armour marked him out as a guardsman, but he wore no helmet, and Cyrion couldn’t help but notice that he hadn’t yet drawn his sword. The man looked him over briskly, apparently satisfied there was no lasting damage, and shook his head.

“Honestly. Sometimes I think you lot are your own worst enemies. Not hurt? Good. I suggest you get yourself back to the alienage, old man. I’ve trouble enough to deal with without this.”

He bowed his head, mumbled a thankful apology, and was aware of a second guardsman drawing up beside the first.

“Sergeant Kylon, ser… Bodric says to come right away, ser. Fight in the Gnawed Noble, sarge—there’s teeth all over the place, and someone said Lord Elren’s youngest son’s been stabbed.”

“Oh, Maker’s cock… all right, I’m coming.” The sergeant sighed wearily, and shot Cyrion a brief glance. “You still here? Go on… I’d move along if I were you.”

He nodded shakily. They strode off in a jangle of harness and roughshod footfalls, leaving Cyrion to kneel, dizzy and light-headed, and try to gather the food he’d bought. Someone laughed and kicked a potato away from his grasp, just before his fingers closed on it.

He let it go and, straightening up, began the slow, unsteady walk home to a house that smelled of laundry soap and dirty water.

~o~O~o~

If the awkward, unpleasant tautness in the city had been difficult, it was nothing compared to what followed.

A little after a week later, news started to filter into Denerim. It came on swift hooves, via mud-speckled guild messengers and breathless, wild-eyed travellers who scarcely seemed to believe it themselves, but the rumours took hold firm and fast.

The king was dead, the army routed at Ostagar… all was devastation and disaster.

Once the news broke, it seemed to crack the city in two. People wept in the streets, an air of aching loss and violent grief slowing the foot traffic, and grinding the whole pace of life to a standstill. He’d been so young, that seemed to be the crux of it. Not yet thirty, and so much the mirror of his father at that age…. Those who were old enough to remember the rebellion, River Dane and Maric the Saviour looked at Cailan though squinted eyes, and glossed him with the remnants of legends. To the rest, he’d been a Theirin, and a Fereldan, and that was good enough. He’d also, by all accounts, been popular with his men, and that counted for a lot. A ready smile, a ready wit… the people liked that in a king.

The mood that seized the city was one of betrayal, of angry hurt and sharp, reflexive violence. As if things in the alienage had not been bad enough already, it lapped up against the walls in furious waves, and Valendrian gave the word that no one was to pass the inner gates, unless it was absolutely necessary.

Outside, one word seared the streets, like a black-tongued flame that ripped from mouth to mouth.

Darkspawn.

The tale changed with every telling. First, it was an ambush—a burst of fury flying out of those barbaric wildlands—and then a full horde, an army, raised by devilry and set against Good King Cailan’s brave men by some impossible, horrific power. A new Blight, people began to whisper. The stuff of legends, the stories used to frighten children… could it be true? Was it even possible? Surely the foul creatures had been beaten back for the last time long ago. Such things didn’t happen anymore, not in this new, united Ferelden. This was a modern age, with no time for myths and superstition.

Rumour had it the queen was beside herself with grief—or that she was calling a Landsmeet to assess the danger from the south. One of the two.

For Cyrion, every new whisper fomented fresh agony. The alienage’s self-imposed isolation was hot-housing a violent pressure of resentment and anger. Food had become scarce, as virtually no one was working. The whole district seemed to exist under a greasy cloud of tension, and every day it hung heavier, darker, until it felt as if something must happen… some explosive, brutal conclusion.

He no longer cared.

He should, he knew. He had other responsibilities, other concerns… yet his mind was fixed only on her. His little girl, dying in a place so far from home, surrounded by strangers and monsters; thrown into a life for which she was not fitted. A fate from which he had failed to protect her.

He’d tried to avoid thinking of it, ever since she left. Oh, he knew what everyone was saying. The talk of the Grey Wardens—if that’s what the human had truly been—and their role in what had happened did nothing to lend her memory the sheen of respect. Within these walls she’d always be the Tabris girl, who left in shame and ruin, and on whom her people could blame everything. If the order was truly responsible for the defeat in the south… well, that only proved the point, didn’t it?

That night, they sat before the fire—same as every evening, every damn day a repetitive, shapeless thing, drifting past Cyrion as if he had no control over even these few threads of a life that were left to him—and the room was draped in wet laundry. The warm, muggy damp of it made the air hang thick on his skin, and his fingers were curled, knuckles standing proud of his hands like jagged, snow-capped peaks.

“P-perhaps it’s not as bad as it sounds,” Valora suggested timidly, peering up from her needlework. “Perhaps—”

“The king is dead,” Soris said bluntly, from his slumped position closest to the fire, shoulders bowed and hands dangling loosely between his knees. “Everyone’s dead. A whole army, gone. They wouldn’t be saying it if it wasn’t true.”

Her mouth thinned, those big doe-eyes darting nervously to her husband, and then back down to the darning. Everyone was aware Soris had not left the house today. The smell of wet laundry was on his rumpled clothes—same ones as yesterday—and he had done little but sit in that chair and stare at the hearth. His lip was marked by a thick, black-edged cut, though the bruising on his face had worn down to a tight, shiny bloom, and the wound he had taken to his arm on that day had healed well enough to be less noticeable.

If only, Cyrion thought, all hurts were so easily mended.

Shianni sighed. “Poor Meri.”

There was a collective moment of held breath, as if no one could actually believe she’d really said it. The sound of the name reached into Cyrion’s chest like a knife, and twisted there, gouging at the places that should still have been flesh and blood. He’d thought he’d been beyond hurting, but it wasn’t so.

Soris frowned at his sister. “They’re saying it was the Wardens’ fault.”

“Oh, as if anyone believes that!” she retorted and, just for a few seconds, they were almost children again, arguing and teasing in braids and short trousers.

“Just because our cousin, the all-conquering hero, is with them doesn’t mean—”

“Don’t you talk about her like that!” Shianni snapped. “Not in that tone. You watch your damn mouth!”

“—they could still be traitors!” Soris countered, raising his voice over hers, more tired strain than real shouting.

He was like his father, Cyrion thought, remembering with a grimace the way Merenir had turned to the comforts of drink. He did not relish the prospect of doing everything for his nephew that he’d done for his brother… though he would do it, he knew, if it was needed.

Valora set her sewing aside and cleared her throat. “Um… would anyone like tea? I-I could brew some more. I think the pot’s still warm.”

The hard, dark tension in the room slumped to mere discomfort, and Soris flopped back against the wooden chair, glaring at his sister.

“I don’t want any tea,” he muttered.

She met his gaze, chin tilted up, her tone sweet and crisp. “I’d love one, Valora. Thank you.”

Cyrion nodded, mumbled his agreement, and Valora set to brewing and pouring three cups. Soris scoffed, folded his arms, and glowered into the fire, which popped and crackled quietly to itself.

This was his mess to resolve. He knew that. It was his role as elder here, as head of this house. He should take them both in hand, ensure they made peace and that—most of all—they did not break beneath this. They had to endure it, as they had to all things.

And yet, he stayed silent. He sat, waiting in this grim, prickly quiet as Valora made tea, and he thought of his girl, and the day she had left, and the ache of watching her walk away.

Cyrion hadn’t seen much of the Grey Warden on that day. Just a figure: dark skin and bright plate, a white surcoat and black hair. Oppositions and contrasts, somewhere in the blur of things after the women had been taken, and uproar broke out in the square.

He frowned, and looked at his nephew. Soris seemed to feel his gaze, for he raised his head, pale brows lifted in enquiry.

Valora pressed a warm stoneware cup into his hands, and Cyrion felt a little guilty for the smile he gave her, brief as an afterthought. She wafted away again, curling quietly into her chair, needlework once more in hand.

“What was he like?” Cyrion heard himself say, unsure exactly where the question came from. “The… the human?”

“The Grey Warden?” Soris shrugged. “What are they supposed to be like? He was… just a shem. Armoured. With weapons… a lot of weapons.”

Cyrion nodded slowly. He hadn’t expected much different. Outside of stories, who knew what the order was. Giants bristling with armaments, or shrivelled old priests dwindled to rags and bones while they sifted through the ancient remnants of their relevance. Maybe both, maybe neither. There had been no griffons, and no darkspawn, for centuries. Whatever fallacies of fallen glory the Grey Wardens wanted to chase, Cyrion would have assumed they could draw a better calibre for their ranks than trawling beneath the gallows, dragging the condemned and the desperate to them as last resorts.

Soris shifted uncomfortably, like a child forced to admit an untruth.

“He was very respectful,” he said reluctantly. “I didn’t expect that. He… actually bowed to us. I guess he… seemed all right.”

Shianni let out a short, rather shrill laugh, and Valora looked up from her sewing, eyes wide and lips softly parted.

Soris shrugged again, evidently aware of the attention, and not appreciating it. “Don’t look at me like that. Anyway, the hahren’s the one to ask about him.”

“What?”

He looked at Cyrion with unusually acerbic disbelief. “You didn’t know, Uncle? They’re old friends, Valendrian and the Warden. We heard it from the hahren himself. Known each other for twenty years.”

Cyrion stared. That… couldn’t be true. Valendrian would have said something, surely. Some word or explanation. Twenty years. No. Surely not. He would have—

“Uncle?”

He blinked, and realised how far out of himself he had travelled, how steep the silence had been, and how little he had done to fill it. Shianni was watching him, her head tipped to the side in something that might have been a genuine gesture of enquiry, or might just have been her trying to see out of her bad eye.

It was starting to clear now the swelling had gone down, but the white of it was still a bright pool of red, and he couldn’t look at it without feeling his own eyes start to water.

He shook his head. “I… was unaware of that.”

Soris let out another scoff, a soft, bitter breath of mirthless laughter, and turned his face to the fire.

“Weren’t we all, Uncle? Weren’t we all?”

A spark leapt from the flames, and burned itself out on the stone hearth. The smell of tallow candles painted the air with grease, and Cyrion stared down at the rag rug on the floor between them, the one spot of colour and warmth in the room.

~o~O~o~

He waited until the following evening to visit Valendrian, thinking somehow that the anger he was almost too numb to feel might have abated, instead of hardening into an unyielding, thickened thing, like a callus across his heart.

The hahren was standing in the middle of his parlour when Cyrion arrived, almost as if he’d been expecting him. A fire burned low in the hearth, and the warm glow of candles lit the long, low room. Towards the back of the house, Nera was kneading bread, and the thud of dough made for a comforting, familiar rhythm.

“My friend.” Valendrian inclined his head.

Cyrion couldn’t contain the cynical twist of his mouth.

“You knew,” he said flatly.

If the hahren understood his meaning, he didn’t show it. His expression barely altered at all.

“Did I? Let us sit, and you can tell me what—”

“I did not come for platitudes!” Cyrion snapped. “This… Grey Warden. You knew. You knew what they would be facing, what was happening in the south. You called the human ‘friend’.”

“Ah.”

Valendrian gestured to one of the wooden chairs, and folded slowly into its twin. He was older of the two, yet he moved with less pain, less stiffness… just one more mark of life’s unfairness, Cyrion decided. He shook his head, pride and anger keeping him on his feet, impolite as it was.

“Yes.” The hahren sighed wearily. “If it pleases you to hear it. Duncan wrote to me a little more than a month ago, expressing his concerns over the sightings of darkspawn in the south. I don’t know whether he was aware of how rapidly things would— well, I don’t imagine anyone could have foreseen what we hear of happening. I… am sorry, you know.”

Cyrion winced. ‘Sorry’ hardly helped.

Valendrian gestured again to the other chair. “Please… sit.”

From the back of the house, the repetitive thud of bread dough to board thumped like a heartbeat. Cyrion drew himself up, standing as tall as his joints allowed.

“You knew he would be recruiting. This… friend of yours. What order of warriors recruits from an alienage?”

“An order that does not judge by prejudice,” Valendrian replied, meeting his gaze steadily. “Duncan is—was—a good man. He will have treated her kindly, and with respect.”

His words knocked against Cyrion with all the force of a half-curled blow, and the marks they left were no less livid for being invisible. He sat, humbled by necessity and the weakness in his legs. The edge of the hard wooden seat knocked against the backs of his knees as he folded down, and the breath seemed to leach from him like water from a split skin.

“But why… why her?”

He could hear the plaintive note in his voice: an old man’s child-like whine. He hated it, but it was as impossible to curb as the breeze. It choked him, choked him with the vehemence of all the tears and rage and humiliation—none of which would bring her back.

Valendrian tapped his fingers thoughtfully against the arm of the chair.

“Would you rather they’d let her hang?”

“Of course not! But—”

“I did what I could, my friend. That much I swear. And we were fortunate, in a way; Duncan intended to be in Denerim earlier than he in fact arrived. Business called him to Redcliffe, and to the Circle of Magi, and—”

“And you did everything you could to push the wedding ceremony forwards,” Cyrion supplemented, understanding sluicing through him like a sunrise.

He felt small, and guilty, and stupid. Why had he not seen any of this? Why had he not understood? Why, above all things, had he not even asked?

“I did.” Valendrian nodded. “I hoped, if he could see her settled, it might be enough, Blight or no Blight. As it was….”

Cyrion winced, unwilling to let the memories of that day creep up on him afresh. His fingers flexed uselessly against the edge of the chair. He still wanted to hit something… someone; still wanted to let all the rage and pain course out, let it flow until he was a dried, empty husk, unable to feel or think anymore.

“What they’re saying,” he murmured, and the words spun like cinders in the air, settling between the two men but not dying. “This talk of treachery—”

“For what it’s worth, I don’t believe it,” the hahren said flatly. “The Grey Wardens have one interest and one interest only: the darkspawn. They stand apart from the politics of nations. To betray King Cailan would bring them no gain.”

“Then you think it was chaos, not design?”

Cyrion watched the other elf’s face carefully, but if there was any flicker of change in Valendrian’s expression, the shadows hid it from him.

“That is one explanation, yes.”

Cyrion sighed and leaned back against the chair. Occasionally, he’d used to think how frustrating it must be for Valendrian—a man of keen intelligence and ability—to be stuck here among their kind. Had he been born human, he might have gone anywhere, done anything… even if he’d been cursed with magic, he’d have had the education that mages received. Few others who ever left the alienages could claim that, when all that awaited even the elves who made a success of life beyond the walls was an existence reliant on brigandry or servitude in some other form. You saw them, from time to time, in the taverns: travellers arrogant in their comparative finery, with fingers too quick to move to their weapons, their stars always hitched to some thug, smuggler or crime lord.

Looking at him now, it was possible to think Valendrian could have followed such a path. His face had acquired that closed-in, mask-like quality he employed when dealing with the garrison, and Cyrion did not care to be on the receiving end of it. Yet neither did he wish to argue further. Whatever else he was, the hahren was their elder. Their leader, their pillar of strength. His word was, Cyrion supposed, what law would be if there was actually any sense of justice in the world.

He closed his eyes, tension drawing a deep furrow across his forehead. At the rear of the house, Nera had set the bread to prove, and slipped quietly from the back door, leaving the parlour empty and silent, a hollow cocoon of a place where nothing stood between Cyrion and his grief.

“I am sorry,” Valendrian repeated, his voice low and calm. “Your daughter was a fine girl.”

“We don’t know she’s dead,” Cyrion blurted, squeezing his eyes ever tighter shut. “She could have… she could….”

He didn’t believe it, unable to cling to hope when all it did was cut like a string pulled too tight, biting into unguarded flesh.

“We’ll see about a service for her,” Valendrian said quietly. “Perhaps. Once things are—”

“Yes.” The word slipped from him, a resigned murmur.

Cyrion’s forehead stung with the weight of blood rushing to his head. Another funeral, just like Adaia’s, for another woman he had failed to protect.

It would have been so different, had she been there. He knew it. She would have incited a riot in the street, risen up in her magnificent anger and struck them all down. It would have been a disaster, but a completely different kind of disaster. His wild Marcher rascal, with her knives and her bright, black eyes, and that way she had of curving her mouth, teeth bared, like a challenge to the whole damn world.

A merchant’s servant, the matchmaker had said, all those years ago. When Adaia confessed the rest—yes, the merchant had been rich, but also dishonest, and yes, she had been his servant, but also his mistress, his bodyguard, his watchdog—Cyrion had already been too in love with her to care. He’d kept her secrets, her shame and her dishonour, and he kept them still. Maker knew he had little enough left of her.

At least, with Merien’s body abandoned on the battlefield at Ostagar, he would not have to face carrying her to the paupers’ field, the way they’d had to do for her mother.

He glanced up, aware of Valendrian’s gaze on him. There was compassion in the hahren’s face; no empty gesture, either, but the true sympathy of one who had shared this loss. His son, dead from fever twelve years ago, his wife lost to a wasting sickness three years later. Was there a reason they should all suffer so? If there was, Cyrion couldn’t fathom it. He inclined his head, and accepted the hand Valendrian placed on his arm.

“The… the Grey Warden,” he said softly, searching the hahren’s face for the glimmer of a reaction. “How did you know him?”

Valendrian pulled back then, though the movement was calm and controlled, like everything he did… as if he was neither surprised nor shamed by the question.

“I think,” he said, after a moment, “you already have an idea.”

Cyrion’s jaw tightened. “Twenty years,” he murmured. “It… was a long time ago.”

Another world, maybe. Another wedding, and the threshold of something bright and wonderful.

“Yes.” Valendrian smiled mirthlessly. “You’re right. Duncan was a younger man then, in Denerim with his mentor. Maric had just rescinded the decree that banned their order from these shores, and they were desperate to swell their numbers. They wanted Adaia.”

A tired kind of regret washed over Cyrion, and he nodded slowly. So much that made sense, and so many things he could have understood, if only he’d bothered to look. She smiled at him from the recesses of distant memory, with their baby daughter on her hip and her hair spilling down her back and, Maker guide him, he felt so very old.

“I see.”

“The offer was never made,” Valendrian said quietly. “They came to me. Duncan and I spoke at great length, and I asked him to consider you, and the family that she would have here. You were both so young… so well-matched.” A small, grim smile curled the edge of his wide mouth. “I thought I was saving her.”

Cyrion winced. “Did she know?”

“No.” Valendrian shook his head. “Duncan always asked after Adaia in his letters. I suppose there may have been a hope that, one day, she would want to join them… but I never told her.”

“Why not?”

The hahren shrugged. “I was worried she might just do it.”

After a beat of silence, Cyrion lifted his head and looked the elder full in the face. Slowly, a smile spread across his lips: an awkward, stiff thing at first, as if he’d forgotten how. Valendrian echoed the expression, and then they were laughing—actually laughing—and it tumbled from Cyrion as a wild, desperate catharsis.

It stopped just as suddenly, and he was heaving for breath, eyes damp and chest sore. She would have. Oh, yes. Like a shot, instead of with all that reticence and fear of Merien’s. The smile died on Cyrion’s face as he recalled the way his little girl had clung to him for the last time, the moment they’d said their final farewell.

You were brave, weren’t you?

Her face, already blooming with bruises, and the glassy terror in her eyes… things he wanted to forget, but couldn’t bear to let go. He’d wanted to protect her from so much—had tried to keep her safe, her whole life—and yet, in his failure, she had shown just how much stronger she was than he’d ever allowed himself to believe.

The truth was a bitter thing, Cyrion supposed, but he couldn’t begrudge it. If she truly was gone, then he must remember her as the woman she had been. Not just his little girl, but someone who’d lent her aid without being asked, who had given everything to defend those she loved, and accepted the price for it, even when Fate had towed her in a different direction.

He would remember that. He would remember her.

Eventually, he bade Valendrian goodnight. There was more to discuss, of course: a funeral to plan, of sorts, and the question hanging over them all of what would happen now that Arl Urien was gone. Their king and their arl, both dead. The alienage would mourn, Cyrion imagined, only once they were sure of who their new lord would be. No sense spilling tears in grief when they might need them for hardship.

After all, tomorrow was always another day.

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